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THE $30,000 BEQUEST
and Other Stories
by Mark Twain
(Samuel L. Clemens)
THE $30,000 BEQUEST
CHAPTER I
Lakeside was a pleasant little town of five or six thousand inhabitants, and a rather pretty one, too, as towns go in the Far West. It had church accommodations for thirty-five thousand, which is the way of the Far West and the South, where everybody is religious, and where each of the Protestant sects is represented and has a plant of its own. Rank was unknown in Lakeside—unconfessed, anyway; everybody knew everybody and his dog, and a sociable friendliness was the prevailing atmosphere.
Lakeside was a charming little town with about five or six thousand residents, and it was quite nice compared to other towns in the Far West. It had church facilities that could accommodate thirty-five thousand, which is typical in the Far West and the South, where everyone is religious and each Protestant denomination has its own church. Status didn’t really exist in Lakeside—at least not openly; everyone knew each other and their pets, creating a welcoming and friendly vibe throughout the town.
Saladin Foster was book-keeper in the principal store, and the only high-salaried man of his profession in Lakeside. He was thirty-five years old, now; he had served that store for fourteen years; he had begun in his marriage-week at four hundred dollars a year, and had climbed steadily up, a hundred dollars a year, for four years; from that time forth his wage had remained eight hundred—a handsome figure indeed, and everybody conceded that he was worth it.
Saladin Foster was the bookkeeper at the main store and the only high-paid person in his field in Lakeside. He was now thirty-five years old and had worked at that store for fourteen years. He started during his wedding week with a salary of four hundred dollars a year and steadily increased his pay by a hundred dollars each year for four years. Since then, his salary had remained at eight hundred dollars, which was quite a good amount, and everyone agreed that he deserved it.
His wife, Electra, was a capable helpmeet, although—like himself—a dreamer of dreams and a private dabbler in romance. The first thing she did, after her marriage—child as she was, aged only nineteen—was to buy an acre of ground on the edge of the town, and pay down the cash for it—twenty-five dollars, all her fortune. Saladin had less, by fifteen. She instituted a vegetable garden there, got it farmed on shares by the nearest neighbor, and made it pay her a hundred per cent. a year. Out of Saladin's first year's wage she put thirty dollars in the savings-bank, sixty out of his second, a hundred out of his third, a hundred and fifty out of his fourth. His wage went to eight hundred a year, then, and meantime two children had arrived and increased the expenses, but she banked two hundred a year from the salary, nevertheless, thenceforth. When she had been married seven years she built and furnished a pretty and comfortable two-thousand-dollar house in the midst of her garden-acre, paid half of the money down and moved her family in. Seven years later she was out of debt and had several hundred dollars out earning its living.
His wife, Electra, was a capable partner, although—like him—she was a dreamer and a private romantic. The first thing she did after their wedding—at just nineteen—was buy an acre of land on the edge of town and pay cash for it—twenty-five dollars, her entire savings. Saladin had even less, by fifteen dollars. She started a vegetable garden there, had a nearby neighbor farm it for her, and managed to make a hundred percent profit each year. From Saladin's first year's salary, she saved thirty dollars, sixty from his second, a hundred from his third, and a hundred fifty from his fourth. His salary then increased to eight hundred a year, and by that time, they had two children, which raised their expenses, but she still managed to save two hundred a year from his paycheck. After seven years of marriage, she built and furnished a charming, comfortable house worth two thousand dollars in the middle of her garden acre, paid half upfront, and moved her family in. Seven years later, she was debt-free and had several hundred dollars earning a living for her.
Earning it by the rise in landed estate; for she had long ago bought another acre or two and sold the most of it at a profit to pleasant people who were willing to build, and would be good neighbors and furnish a general comradeship for herself and her growing family. She had an independent income from safe investments of about a hundred dollars a year; her children were growing in years and grace; and she was a pleased and happy woman. Happy in her husband, happy in her children, and the husband and the children were happy in her. It is at this point that this history begins.
Earning it through the increase in her land; she had long ago purchased another acre or two and sold most of it at a profit to nice people who were eager to build and would be good neighbors, providing a sense of community for herself and her growing family. She had a steady income from safe investments of about a hundred dollars a year; her children were growing older and more graceful; and she was a content and joyful woman. She was happy with her husband, happy with her children, and her husband and children were happy because of her. This is where this story begins.
The youngest girl, Clytemnestra—called Clytie for short—was eleven; her sister, Gwendolen—called Gwen for short—was thirteen; nice girls, and comely. The names betray the latent romance-tinge in the parental blood, the parents' names indicate that the tinge was an inheritance. It was an affectionate family, hence all four of its members had pet names, Saladin's was a curious and unsexing one—Sally; and so was Electra's—Aleck. All day long Sally was a good and diligent book-keeper and salesman; all day long Aleck was a good and faithful mother and housewife, and thoughtful and calculating business woman; but in the cozy living-room at night they put the plodding world away, and lived in another and a fairer, reading romances to each other, dreaming dreams, comrading with kings and princes and stately lords and ladies in the flash and stir and splendor of noble palaces and grim and ancient castles.
The youngest girl, Clytemnestra—shortened to Clytie—was eleven; her sister, Gwendolen—shortened to Gwen—was thirteen; both were sweet and pretty. Their names hint at the romantic flair inherited from their parents. The parent's names show that this romantic touch was passed down. It was a loving family, so all four members had nicknames; Saladin's was a peculiar and gender-neutral one—Sally; and Electra's—Aleck. All day long, Sally was a diligent bookkeeper and salesperson; all day long, Aleck was a devoted mother and homemaker, as well as a thoughtful and shrewd businesswoman. But in the cozy living room at night, they set aside the mundane world and entered another, more beautiful one, reading romances to each other, dreaming, and mingling with kings, princes, and noble lords and ladies amid the glamour and excitement of splendid palaces and ancient castles.
CHAPTER II
Now came great news! Stunning news—joyous news, in fact. It came from a neighboring state, where the family's only surviving relative lived. It was Sally's relative—a sort of vague and indefinite uncle or second or third cousin by the name of Tilbury Foster, seventy and a bachelor, reputed well off and corresponding sour and crusty. Sally had tried to make up to him once, by letter, in a bygone time, and had not made that mistake again. Tilbury now wrote to Sally, saying he should shortly die, and should leave him thirty thousand dollars, cash; not for love, but because money had given him most of his troubles and exasperations, and he wished to place it where there was good hope that it would continue its malignant work. The bequest would be found in his will, and would be paid over. PROVIDED, that Sally should be able to prove to the executors that he had Taken no notice of the gift by spoken word or by letter, had made no inquiries concerning the moribund's progress toward the everlasting tropics, and had not attended the funeral.
Now came great news! Stunning news—joyous news, in fact. It came from a neighboring state, where the family's only surviving relative lived. It was Sally's relative—a somewhat distant uncle or second or third cousin named Tilbury Foster, who was seventy and a bachelor, reputed to be wealthy but known to be sour and grumpy. Sally had once tried to connect with him by letter in the past and never made that mistake again. Tilbury now wrote to Sally, saying that he would soon die and promised to leave her thirty thousand dollars in cash; not out of affection, but because money had caused him most of his troubles and frustrations, and he wanted to place it where there was a good chance it would continue to cause chaos. The bequest would be outlined in his will and would be paid out, PROVIDED that Sally could prove to the executors that he had Taken no notice of the gift by spoken word or by letter, had made no inquiries concerning the moribund's progress toward the everlasting tropics, and had not attended the funeral.
As soon as Aleck had partially recovered from the tremendous emotions created by the letter, she sent to the relative's habitat and subscribed for the local paper.
As soon as Aleck had partially recovered from the intense emotions brought on by the letter, she sent to her relative's place and subscribed to the local newspaper.
Man and wife entered into a solemn compact, now, to never mention the great news to any one while the relative lived, lest some ignorant person carry the fact to the death-bed and distort it and make it appear that they were disobediently thankful for the bequest, and just the same as confessing it and publishing it, right in the face of the prohibition.
The husband and wife made a serious agreement to never say anything about the big news to anyone while the relative was still alive, so that no one would mistakenly share it with the dying person and twist the situation, making it seem like they were ungratefully happy about the inheritance, which would be the same as admitting it publicly and directly going against the rules.
For the rest of the day Sally made havoc and confusion with his books, and Aleck could not keep her mind on her affairs, not even take up a flower-pot or book or a stick of wood without forgetting what she had intended to do with it. For both were dreaming.
For the rest of the day, Sally created chaos and confusion with her books, and Aleck couldn’t focus on her tasks; she couldn’t even pick up a flower pot, a book, or a stick of wood without losing track of what she meant to do with it. Both of them were daydreaming.
“Thir-ty thousand dollars!”
"Thirty thousand dollars!"
All day long the music of those inspiring words sang through those people's heads.
All day long, the music of those inspiring words played in those people's minds.
From his marriage-day forth, Aleck's grip had been upon the purse, and Sally had seldom known what it was to be privileged to squander a dime on non-necessities.
From the day of his marriage, Aleck had control over the money, and Sally had rarely experienced the luxury of spending a dime on anything that wasn't necessary.
“Thir-ty thousand dollars!” the song went on and on. A vast sum, an unthinkable sum!
“Thirty thousand dollars!” the song kept repeating. A huge amount, an unbelievable amount!
All day long Aleck was absorbed in planning how to invest it, Sally in planning how to spend it.
All day, Aleck was focused on figuring out how to invest it, while Sally was busy planning how to spend it.
There was no romance-reading that night. The children took themselves away early, for their parents were silent, distraught, and strangely unentertaining. The good-night kisses might as well have been impressed upon vacancy, for all the response they got; the parents were not aware of the kisses, and the children had been gone an hour before their absence was noticed. Two pencils had been busy during that hour—note-making; in the way of plans. It was Sally who broke the stillness at last. He said, with exultation:
There was no reading romance that night. The kids went to bed early because their parents were quiet, upset, and oddly uninteresting. The good-night kisses might as well have been given to thin air, as the parents didn’t even notice them; the kids had been gone for an hour before anyone realized they were missing. Two pencils had been working away during that hour—taking notes and making plans. It was Sally who finally broke the silence. He said, with excitement:
“Ah, it'll be grand, Aleck! Out of the first thousand we'll have a horse and a buggy for summer, and a cutter and a skin lap-robe for winter.”
“Ah, it’s going to be great, Aleck! From the first thousand, we’ll get a horse and a buggy for summer, and a sled and a nice fur robe for winter.”
Aleck responded with decision and composure—
Aleck responded with certainty and calm—
“Out of the capital? Nothing of the kind. Not if it was a million!”
“Out of the capital? Nothing like that. Not even for a million!”
Sally was deeply disappointed; the glow went out of his face.
Sally was really disappointed; the light left his face.
“Oh, Aleck!” he said, reproachfully. “We've always worked so hard and been so scrimped: and now that we are rich, it does seem—”
“Oh, Aleck!” he said, disappointed. “We've always worked so hard and been so frugal, and now that we’re wealthy, it really seems—”
He did not finish, for he saw her eye soften; his supplication had touched her. She said, with gentle persuasiveness:
He didn't finish because he noticed her expression change; his plea had affected her. She said, with a gentle tone:
“We must not spend the capital, dear, it would not be wise. Out of the income from it—”
“We shouldn’t spend the capital, dear, that wouldn’t be smart. From the income generated from it—”
“That will answer, that will answer, Aleck! How dear and good you are! There will be a noble income and if we can spend that—”
“That will work, that will work, Aleck! How kind and wonderful you are! There will be a great income and if we can use that—”
“Not all of it, dear, not all of it, but you can spend a part of it. That is, a reasonable part. But the whole of the capital—every penny of it—must be put right to work, and kept at it. You see the reasonableness of that, don't you?”
“Not all of it, dear, not all of it, but you can spend some of it. That is, a reasonable amount. But the entire capital—every penny—must be put to work and kept working. You understand why that's reasonable, right?”
“Why, ye-s. Yes, of course. But we'll have to wait so long. Six months before the first interest falls due.”
“Why, yes. Yes, of course. But we'll have to wait a long time. Six months before the first interest is due.”
“Yes—maybe longer.”
“Yes—possibly longer.”
“Longer, Aleck? Why? Don't they pay half-yearly?”
“Longer, Aleck? Why? Don't they pay every six months?”
“That kind of an investment—yes; but I sha'n't invest in that way.”
“That kind of investment—yes; but I won't invest that way.”
“What way, then?”
"Which way, then?"
“For big returns.”
"For significant returns."
“Big. That's good. Go on, Aleck. What is it?”
“Great. That’s good. Go ahead, Aleck. What is it?”
“Coal. The new mines. Cannel. I mean to put in ten thousand. Ground floor. When we organize, we'll get three shares for one.”
“Coal. The new mines. Cannel. I plan to invest ten thousand. Ground floor. Once we organize, we'll get three shares for one.”
“By George, but it sounds good, Aleck! Then the shares will be worth—how much? And when?”
“Wow, that sounds great, Aleck! So how much will the shares be worth—and when?”
“About a year. They'll pay ten per cent. half yearly, and be worth thirty thousand. I know all about it; the advertisement is in the Cincinnati paper here.”
“About a year. They’ll pay ten percent, every six months, and be worth thirty thousand. I know all about it; the ad is in the Cincinnati paper here.”
“Land, thirty thousand for ten—in a year! Let's jam in the whole capital and pull out ninety! I'll write and subscribe right now—tomorrow it maybe too late.”
“Land, thirty thousand for ten—in a year! Let’s throw in all the money and take out ninety! I’ll write and sign up right now—tomorrow it might be too late.”
He was flying to the writing-desk, but Aleck stopped him and put him back in his chair. She said:
He was rushing to the writing desk, but Aleck stopped him and put him back in his chair. She said:
“Don't lose your head so. We mustn't subscribe till we've got the money; don't you know that?”
“Don't freak out like that. We shouldn't commit until we have the money; don't you know that?”
Sally's excitement went down a degree or two, but he was not wholly appeased.
Sally's excitement dropped a bit, but he wasn't completely satisfied.
“Why, Aleck, we'll have it, you know—and so soon, too. He's probably out of his troubles before this; it's a hundred to nothing he's selecting his brimstone-shovel this very minute. Now, I think—”
“Why, Aleck, we'll have it, you know—and so soon, too. He's probably out of his troubles by now; it's a sure thing he's picking out his brimstone-shovel this very minute. Now, I think—”
Aleck shuddered, and said:
Aleck shivered and said:
“How can you, Sally! Don't talk in that way, it is perfectly scandalous.”
“How can you, Sally! Don't speak like that; it's absolutely scandalous.”
“Oh, well, make it a halo, if you like, I don't care for his outfit, I was only just talking. Can't you let a person talk?”
“Oh, fine, call it a halo if you want. I don’t care about his outfit; I was just chatting. Can’t you let someone speak?”
“But why should you want to talk in that dreadful way? How would you like to have people talk so about you, and you not cold yet?”
“But why would you want to talk like that? How would you feel if people spoke about you like that, and you weren’t even cold yet?”
“Not likely to be, for one while, I reckon, if my last act was giving away money for the sake of doing somebody a harm with it. But never mind about Tilbury, Aleck, let's talk about something worldly. It does seem to me that that mine is the place for the whole thirty. What's the objection?”
“Not likely to happen for a while, I guess, if my last move was giving away money just to hurt someone with it. But forget about Tilbury, Aleck, let’s discuss something practical. It seems to me that mine is the place for the whole thirty. What’s the problem?”
“All the eggs in one basket—that's the objection.”
“All your eggs in one basket—that's the concern.”
“All right, if you say so. What about the other twenty? What do you mean to do with that?”
“All right, if you say so. What about the other twenty? What are you planning to do with that?”
“There is no hurry; I am going to look around before I do anything with it.”
“There’s no rush; I’m going to check things out before I do anything with it.”
“All right, if your mind's made up,” sighed Sally. He was deep in thought awhile, then he said:
“All right, if you’re sure about this,” sighed Sally. He was lost in thought for a bit, then he said:
“There'll be twenty thousand profit coming from the ten a year from now. We can spend that, can't we, Aleck?”
“There will be twenty thousand in profit coming from the ten a year from now. We can spend that, right, Aleck?”
Aleck shook her head.
Aleck shook her head.
“No, dear,” she said, “it won't sell high till we've had the first semi-annual dividend. You can spend part of that.”
“No, dear,” she said, “it won't sell for a high price until we've gotten the first semi-annual dividend. You can spend part of that.”
“Shucks, only that—and a whole year to wait! Confound it, I—”
“Wow, just that—and a whole year to wait! Ugh, I—”
“Oh, do be patient! It might even be declared in three months—it's quite within the possibilities.”
“Oh, please be patient! It could even be announced in three months—it's totally possible.”
“Oh, jolly! oh, thanks!” and Sally jumped up and kissed his wife in gratitude. “It'll be three thousand—three whole thousand! how much of it can we spend, Aleck? Make it liberal!—do, dear, that's a good fellow.”
“Oh, awesome! oh, thank you!” and Sally jumped up and kissed his wife in gratitude. “It'll be three thousand—three whole thousand! how much of it can we spend, Aleck? Make it generous!—please, sweetheart, that's a great guy.”
Aleck was pleased; so pleased that she yielded to the pressure and conceded a sum which her judgment told her was a foolish extravagance—a thousand dollars. Sally kissed her half a dozen times and even in that way could not express all his joy and thankfulness. This new access of gratitude and affection carried Aleck quite beyond the bounds of prudence, and before she could restrain herself she had made her darling another grant—a couple of thousand out of the fifty or sixty which she meant to clear within a year of the twenty which still remained of the bequest. The happy tears sprang to Sally's eyes, and he said:
Aleck was thrilled; so thrilled that she gave in to the pressure and agreed to an amount that her instincts told her was a silly extravagance—one thousand dollars. Sally kissed her half a dozen times, and even then, he couldn't fully convey his joy and gratitude. This surge of appreciation and affection pushed Aleck well beyond her sensible limits, and before she could stop herself, she had given her beloved another grant—an additional couple of thousand from the fifty or sixty she planned to clear within a year from the twenty that still remained from the inheritance. Tears of happiness filled Sally’s eyes, and he said:
“Oh, I want to hug you!” And he did it. Then he got his notes and sat down and began to check off, for first purchase, the luxuries which he should earliest wish to secure. “Horse—buggy—cutter—lap-robe—patent-leathers—dog—plug-hat— church-pew—stem-winder—new teeth—say, Aleck!”
“Oh, I want to hug you!” And he did. Then he grabbed his notes, sat down, and started to check off, for the first purchase, the luxuries he hoped to get soon. “Horse—buggy—cutter—lap robe—patent leather shoes—dog—top hat—church pew—stem-winder—new teeth—hey, Aleck!”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“Ciphering away, aren't you? That's right. Have you got the twenty thousand invested yet?”
“Are you busy figuring things out? That’s right. Have you already invested the twenty thousand?”
“No, there's no hurry about that; I must look around first, and think.”
“No, there’s no rush on that; I need to check things out first and think it over.”
“But you are ciphering; what's it about?”
"But you’re calculating; what's it about?"
“Why, I have to find work for the thirty thousand that comes out of the coal, haven't I?”
“Why, I need to find work for the thirty thousand that come from the coal, don’t I?”
“Scott, what a head! I never thought of that. How are you getting along? Where have you arrived?”
“Scott, what a great idea! I never thought of that. How’s everything going for you? Where are you now?”
“Not very far—two years or three. I've turned it over twice; once in oil and once in wheat.”
“Not too far—maybe two or three years. I've flipped it twice; once in oil and once in wheat.”
“Why, Aleck, it's splendid! How does it aggregate?”
“Why, Aleck, it’s awesome! How does it add up?”
“I think—well, to be on the safe side, about a hundred and eighty thousand clear, though it will probably be more.”
“I think—well, to be safe, about a hundred and eighty thousand clear, though it’ll probably be more.”
“My! isn't it wonderful? By gracious! luck has come our way at last, after all the hard sledding. Aleck!”
“My! Isn’t it amazing? Wow! Luck has finally come our way after all the tough times. Aleck!”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“I'm going to cash in a whole three hundred on the missionaries—what real right have we care for expenses!”
“I'm going to put down three hundred for the missionaries—what real right do we have to worry about expenses!”
“You couldn't do a nobler thing, dear; and it's just like your generous nature, you unselfish boy.”
“You couldn't do anything nobler, my dear; it’s just like your generous nature, you selfless guy.”
The praise made Sally poignantly happy, but he was fair and just enough to say it was rightfully due to Aleck rather than to himself, since but for her he should never have had the money.
The praise made Sally genuinely happy, but he was fair and just enough to say it was rightly deserved by Aleck instead of himself, because without her, he would never have had the money.
Then they went up to bed, and in their delirium of bliss they forgot and left the candle burning in the parlor. They did not remember until they were undressed; then Sally was for letting it burn; he said they could afford it, if it was a thousand. But Aleck went down and put it out.
Then they went to bed, and in their state of happiness, they forgot and left the candle burning in the living room. They didn’t remember until they were undressed; then Sally wanted to let it burn, saying they could afford it, even if it cost a thousand. But Aleck went downstairs and put it out.
A good job, too; for on her way back she hit on a scheme that would turn the hundred and eighty thousand into half a million before it had had time to get cold.
A great plan, too; because on her way back she came up with an idea that would turn the hundred and eighty thousand into half a million before it even had a chance to cool down.
CHAPTER III
The little newspaper which Aleck had subscribed for was a Thursday sheet; it would make the trip of five hundred miles from Tilbury's village and arrive on Saturday. Tilbury's letter had started on Friday, more than a day too late for the benefactor to die and get into that week's issue, but in plenty of time to make connection for the next output. Thus the Fosters had to wait almost a complete week to find out whether anything of a satisfactory nature had happened to him or not. It was a long, long week, and the strain was a heavy one. The pair could hardly have borne it if their minds had not had the relief of wholesome diversion. We have seen that they had that. The woman was piling up fortunes right along, the man was spending them—spending all his wife would give him a chance at, at any rate.
The small newspaper that Aleck had subscribed to came out on Thursdays; it traveled five hundred miles from Tilbury's village and arrived on Saturdays. Tilbury's letter had been sent on Friday, more than a day too late for the benefactor to pass away and make it into that week's issue, but just in time to connect with the next edition. So, the Fosters had to wait almost an entire week to find out whether anything good had happened to him or not. It felt like an incredibly long week, and the tension was intense. They could barely handle it if it weren’t for the distraction of some healthy diversions. We know they had those. The woman was accumulating wealth steadily, while the man was spending it—all that his wife would let him, at least.
At last the Saturday came, and the Weekly Sagamore arrived. Mrs. Eversly Bennett was present. She was the Presbyterian parson's wife, and was working the Fosters for a charity. Talk now died a sudden death—on the Foster side. Mrs. Bennett presently discovered that her hosts were not hearing a word she was saying; so she got up, wondering and indignant, and went away. The moment she was out of the house, Aleck eagerly tore the wrapper from the paper, and her eyes and Sally's swept the columns for the death-notices. Disappointment! Tilbury was not anywhere mentioned. Aleck was a Christian from the cradle, and duty and the force of habit required her to go through the motions. She pulled herself together and said, with a pious two-per-cent. trade joyousness:
At last, Saturday arrived, and the Weekly Sagamore was here. Mrs. Eversly Bennett was there too. She was the wife of the Presbyterian minister and was working the Fosters for a charity. Conversation suddenly came to a halt on the Foster side. Mrs. Bennett soon realized that her hosts weren’t paying attention to anything she was saying, so she got up, feeling puzzled and irritated, and left. The moment she stepped outside, Aleck eagerly tore open the paper, and she and Sally quickly scanned the columns for the death notices. Disappointment! Tilbury wasn’t mentioned at all. Aleck had been a Christian from birth, so she felt obligated to go through the motions. She gathered herself and said, with a pious, forced cheerfulness:
“Let us be humbly thankful that he has been spared; and—”
“Let’s be humbly thankful that he has been spared; and—”
“Damn his treacherous hide, I wish—”
“Damn his treacherous hide, I wish—”
“Sally! For shame!”
"Sally! That's shameful!"
“I don't care!” retorted the angry man. “It's the way you feel, and if you weren't so immorally pious you'd be honest and say so.”
“I don't care!” the angry man shot back. “It's how you feel, and if you weren't so self-righteously moral, you'd be honest and admit it.”
Aleck said, with wounded dignity:
Aleck said, with hurt pride:
“I do not see how you can say such unkind and unjust things. There is no such thing as immoral piety.”
"I don't understand how you can say such cruel and unfair things. There's no such thing as immoral devotion."
Sally felt a pang, but tried to conceal it under a shuffling attempt to save his case by changing the form of it—as if changing the form while retaining the juice could deceive the expert he was trying to placate. He said:
Sally felt a sharp twinge, but tried to hide it by awkwardly reshaping his argument—as if altering the presentation while keeping the substance could fool the expert he was trying to appease. He said:
“I didn't mean so bad as that, Aleck; I didn't really mean immoral piety, I only meant—meant—well, conventional piety, you know; er—shop piety; the—the—why, you know what I mean. Aleck—the—well, where you put up that plated article and play it for solid, you know, without intending anything improper, but just out of trade habit, ancient policy, petrified custom, loyalty to—to—hang it, I can't find the right words, but you know what I mean, Aleck, and that there isn't any harm in it. I'll try again. You see, it's this way. If a person—”
“I didn't mean it that way, Aleck; I didn't really mean fake piety, I just meant—meant—well, conventional piety, you know; um—business piety; the—the—well, you know what I mean. Aleck—the—well, it’s like you put up that superficial façade and act like it’s the real deal, you know, without intending anything wrong, but just out of habit from doing business, old traditions, rigid customs, loyalty to—to—ugh, I can't find the right words, but you know what I mean, Aleck, and that there isn’t any harm in it. Let me try again. You see, it’s like this. If a person—”
“You have said quite enough,” said Aleck, coldly; “let the subject be dropped.”
"You've said more than enough," Aleck said coolly. "Let's drop the subject."
“I'm willing,” fervently responded Sally, wiping the sweat from his forehead and looking the thankfulness he had no words for. Then, musingly, he apologized to himself. “I certainly held threes—I know it—but I drew and didn't fill. That's where I'm so often weak in the game. If I had stood pat—but I didn't. I never do. I don't know enough.”
“I’m willing,” Sally responded passionately, wiping the sweat from his forehead and showing a gratitude he couldn’t express in words. Then, reflecting, he apologized to himself. “I definitely had three of a kind—I know that—but I drew cards and didn’t make a full hand. That’s where I often struggle in the game. If I had just stood with what I had—but I didn’t. I never do. I just don’t know enough.”
Confessedly defeated, he was properly tame now and subdued. Aleck forgave him with her eyes.
Confessedly defeated, he was now properly meek and subdued. Aleck forgave him with her gaze.
The grand interest, the supreme interest, came instantly to the front again; nothing could keep it in the background many minutes on a stretch. The couple took up the puzzle of the absence of Tilbury's death-notice. They discussed it every which way, more or less hopefully, but they had to finish where they began, and concede that the only really sane explanation of the absence of the notice must be—and without doubt was—that Tilbury was not dead. There was something sad about it, something even a little unfair, maybe, but there it was, and had to be put up with. They were agreed as to that. To Sally it seemed a strangely inscrutable dispensation; more inscrutable than usual, he thought; one of the most unnecessary inscrutable he could call to mind, in fact—and said so, with some feeling; but if he was hoping to draw Aleck he failed; she reserved her opinion, if she had one; she had not the habit of taking injudicious risks in any market, worldly or other.
The main concern quickly came to the forefront again; nothing could keep it away for long. The couple started to figure out why Tilbury's death notice was missing. They talked about it from every angle, feeling hopeful to some extent, but ultimately they had to conclude that the only reasonable explanation for the missing notice must be—and definitely was—that Tilbury wasn’t dead. There was something sad about it, maybe even a bit unfair, but that was the reality they had to accept. They were in agreement on that. To Sally, it felt like a strangely mysterious situation; more mysterious than usual, he thought; one of the most pointless mysteries he could remember, in fact—and he expressed that with some emotion; however, if he was trying to get Aleck to open up, he didn’t succeed; she kept her thoughts to herself, if she even had any; she wasn’t someone who took unnecessary risks in any situation, whether in life or otherwise.
The pair must wait for next week's paper—Tilbury had evidently postponed. That was their thought and their decision. So they put the subject away and went about their affairs again with as good heart as they could.
The pair had to wait for next week's paper—Tilbury had clearly postponed. That was what they thought and decided. So they set the topic aside and went back to their business with as positive an attitude as they could muster.
Now, if they had but known it, they had been wronging Tilbury all the time. Tilbury had kept faith, kept it to the letter; he was dead, he had died to schedule. He was dead more than four days now and used to it; entirely dead, perfectly dead, as dead as any other new person in the cemetery; dead in abundant time to get into that week's Sagamore, too, and only shut out by an accident; an accident which could not happen to a metropolitan journal, but which happens easily to a poor little village rag like the Sagamore. On this occasion, just as the editorial page was being locked up, a gratis quart of strawberry ice-water arrived from Hostetter's Ladies and Gents Ice-Cream Parlors, and the stickful of rather chilly regret over Tilbury's translation got crowded out to make room for the editor's frantic gratitude.
Now, if they had only known it, they had been mistreating Tilbury the whole time. Tilbury had stayed true to his word, right to the end; he was dead, he had died on time. He had been dead for more than four days now and was completely used to it; entirely dead, perfectly dead, as dead as any other new person in the cemetery; dead in plenty of time to make it into that week's Sagamore, too, and only left out by chance; a chance that wouldn’t happen to a big city newspaper, but easily occurs to a small village paper like the Sagamore. On this occasion, just as the editorial page was being finalized, a free quart of strawberry ice-water arrived from Hostetter's Ladies and Gents Ice-Cream Parlors, and the bit of chilly regret over Tilbury's passing got pushed aside to make room for the editor's frantic gratitude.
On its way to the standing-galley Tilbury's notice got pied. Otherwise it would have gone into some future edition, for weekly Sagamores do not waste “live” matter, and in their galleys “live” matter is immortal, unless a pi accident intervenes. But a thing that gets pied is dead, and for such there is no resurrection; its chance of seeing print is gone, forever and ever. And so, let Tilbury like it or not, let him rave in his grave to his fill, no matter—no mention of his death would ever see the light in the Weekly Sagamore.
On its way to the standing-galley, Tilbury's notice got cut. Otherwise, it would have been included in a future edition, because weekly Sagamores don’t waste “live” content, and in their galleys, “live” content is immortal unless an accident happens. But something that gets cut is dead, and there's no coming back from that; its chance of being published is gone forever. So, whether Tilbury likes it or not, and no matter how much he rants in his grave, his death will never be mentioned in the Weekly Sagamore.
CHAPTER IV
Five weeks drifted tediously along. The Sagamore arrived regularly on the Saturdays, but never once contained a mention of Tilbury Foster. Sally's patience broke down at this point, and he said, resentfully:
Five weeks dragged on. The Sagamore came every Saturday, but never once mentioned Tilbury Foster. Sally finally lost his patience and said, resentfully:
“Damn his livers, he's immortal!”
"Curse his liver, he's immortal!"
Aleck give him a very severe rebuke, and added with icy solemnity:
Aleck gave him a harsh reprimand and added with cold seriousness:
“How would you feel if you were suddenly cut off just after such an awful remark had escaped out of you?”
“How would you feel if you were suddenly shut down right after you said something so awful?”
Without sufficient reflection Sally responded:
Sally responded without thinking:
“I'd feel I was lucky I hadn't got caught with it in me.”
“I'd feel lucky I hadn't been caught with it in me.”
Pride had forced him to say something, and as he could not think of any rational thing to say he flung that out. Then he stole a base—as he called it—that is, slipped from the presence, to keep from being brayed in his wife's discussion-mortar.
Pride made him say something, and since he couldn't think of a logical response, he just blurted that out. Then he made a quick exit—as he put it—slipping away from the conversation to avoid getting crushed in his wife's argument.
Six months came and went. The Sagamore was still silent about Tilbury. Meantime, Sally had several times thrown out a feeler—that is, a hint that he would like to know. Aleck had ignored the hints. Sally now resolved to brace up and risk a frontal attack. So he squarely proposed to disguise himself and go to Tilbury's village and surreptitiously find out as to the prospects. Aleck put her foot on the dangerous project with energy and decision. She said:
Six months passed by. The Sagamore was still quiet about Tilbury. In the meantime, Sally had tried a few times to hint that she wanted to know. Aleck had ignored those hints. Sally now decided to gather courage and make a direct approach. So, she boldly suggested disguising herself and going to Tilbury's village to secretly find out the situation. Aleck firmly put her foot down on this risky plan. She said:
“What can you be thinking of? You do keep my hands full! You have to be watched all the time, like a little child, to keep you from walking into the fire. You'll stay right where you are!”
“What are you thinking? You really keep me busy! I have to watch you all the time, like a small child, to stop you from getting into trouble. You're staying right where you are!”
“Why, Aleck, I could do it and not be found out—I'm certain of it.”
“Why, Aleck, I could totally pull it off and no one would find out—I'm sure of it.”
“Sally Foster, don't you know you would have to inquire around?”
“Sally Foster, don’t you know you need to ask around?”
“Of course, but what of it? Nobody would suspect who I was.”
"Sure, but so what? No one would guess who I really was."
“Oh, listen to the man! Some day you've got to prove to the executors that you never inquired. What then?”
“Oh, listen to him! Someday you've got to show the executors that you never asked. What happens then?”
He had forgotten that detail. He didn't reply; there wasn't anything to say. Aleck added:
He had forgotten that detail. He didn’t reply; there was nothing to say. Aleck added:
“Now then, drop that notion out of your mind, and don't ever meddle with it again. Tilbury set that trap for you. Don't you know it's a trap? He is on the watch, and fully expecting you to blunder into it. Well, he is going to be disappointed—at least while I am on deck. Sally!”
“Now, forget that idea, and don’t ever get involved with it again. Tilbury set that trap for you. Don’t you realize it’s a trap? He’s watching and totally expecting you to walk right into it. Well, he’s going to be let down—at least while I’m around. Sally!”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“As long as you live, if it's a hundred years, don't you ever make an inquiry. Promise!”
“As long as you live, even if it’s a hundred years, don’t ever ask about it. Promise!”
“All right,” with a sigh and reluctantly.
“All right,” with a sigh and some hesitation.
Then Aleck softened and said:
Then Aleck relaxed and said:
“Don't be impatient. We are prospering; we can wait; there is no hurry. Our small dead-certain income increases all the time; and as to futures, I have not made a mistake yet—they are piling up by the thousands and tens of thousands. There is not another family in the state with such prospects as ours. Already we are beginning to roll in eventual wealth. You know that, don't you?”
“Don't rush. We're doing well; we can wait; there's no need to hurry. Our small but reliable income keeps growing all the time, and I haven't made a mistake regarding the future—they're stacking up by the thousands and tens of thousands. There's no other family in the state with prospects like ours. We're already starting to accumulate future wealth. You know that, right?”
“Yes, Aleck, it's certainly so.”
"Yes, Aleck, that's definitely true."
“Then be grateful for what God is doing for us and stop worrying. You do not believe we could have achieved these prodigious results without His special help and guidance, do you?”
“Then be thankful for what God is doing for us and stop stressing. You don’t think we could have achieved these amazing results without His special help and guidance, do you?”
Hesitatingly, “N-no, I suppose not.” Then, with feeling and admiration, “And yet, when it comes to judiciousness in watering a stock or putting up a hand to skin Wall Street I don't give in that you need any outside amateur help, if I do wish I—”
Hesitantly, “N-no, I guess not.” Then, with emotion and admiration, “And yet, when it comes to being smart about investing or dealing with Wall Street, I don’t think you need any outside help, even though I wish I—”
“Oh, do shut up! I know you do not mean any harm or any irreverence, poor boy, but you can't seem to open your mouth without letting out things to make a person shudder. You keep me in constant dread. For you and for all of us. Once I had no fear of the thunder, but now when I hear it I—”
“Oh, please be quiet! I know you don’t mean any harm or disrespect, poor guy, but you can’t seem to say anything without making someone cringe. You keep me in a state of constant fear. For you and for all of us. I used to have no fear of thunder, but now when I hear it I—”
Her voice broke, and she began to cry, and could not finish. The sight of this smote Sally to the heart and he took her in his arms and petted her and comforted her and promised better conduct, and upbraided himself and remorsefully pleaded for forgiveness. And he was in earnest, and sorry for what he had done and ready for any sacrifice that could make up for it.
Her voice cracked, and she started to cry, unable to finish her thought. The sight of this hit Sally hard, and he wrapped his arms around her, soothing and comforting her while promising to do better. He scolded himself and genuinely asked for her forgiveness. He meant it, feeling truly sorry for what he had done and willing to make any sacrifice to make it right.
And so, in privacy, he thought long and deeply over the matter, resolving to do what should seem best. It was easy to promise reform; indeed he had already promised it. But would that do any real good, any permanent good? No, it would be but temporary—he knew his weakness, and confessed it to himself with sorrow—he could not keep the promise. Something surer and better must be devised; and he devised it. At cost of precious money which he had long been saving up, shilling by shilling, he put a lightning-rod on the house.
And so, in private, he thought long and hard about the situation, deciding to do what seemed best. It was easy to promise change; in fact, he had already promised it. But would that really help, any lasting benefit? No, it would only be temporary—he knew his weaknesses and admitted it to himself with regret—he couldn't keep the promise. Something more reliable and effective needed to be created, and he came up with a plan. Using the precious money he had been saving up, piece by piece, he installed a lightning rod on the house.
At a subsequent time he relapsed.
At a later time, he fell back into his old habits.
What miracles habit can do! and how quickly and how easily habits are acquired—both trifling habits and habits which profoundly change us. If by accident we wake at two in the morning a couple of nights in succession, we have need to be uneasy, for another repetition can turn the accident into a habit; and a month's dallying with whiskey—but we all know these commonplace facts.
What miracles habits can do! And how quickly and easily we can pick up habits—both minor ones and those that deeply change us. If we happen to wake up at two in the morning for a few nights in a row, we should be concerned, because if it happens again, it can become a habit; and a month of messing around with whiskey—but we all know these everyday truths.
The castle-building habit, the day-dreaming habit—how it grows! what a luxury it becomes; how we fly to its enchantments at every idle moment, how we revel in them, steep our souls in them, intoxicate ourselves with their beguiling fantasies—oh yes, and how soon and how easily our dream life and our material life become so intermingled and so fused together that we can't quite tell which is which, any more.
The habit of building castles in the air, of daydreaming—how it thrives! What a luxury it turns into; how we escape into its allure during every free moment, how we indulge in it, immerse ourselves in it, and get lost in its captivating fantasies—oh yes, and how quickly and effortlessly our dream life and our real life blend together until we can hardly tell one from the other anymore.
By and by Aleck subscribed to a Chicago daily and for the Wall Street Pointer. With an eye single to finance she studied these as diligently all the week as she studied her Bible Sundays. Sally was lost in admiration, to note with what swift and sure strides her genius and judgment developed and expanded in the forecasting and handling of the securities of both the material and spiritual markets. He was proud of her nerve and daring in exploiting worldly stocks, and just as proud of her conservative caution in working her spiritual deals. He noted that she never lost her head in either case; that with a splendid courage she often went short on worldly futures, but heedfully drew the line there—she was always long on the others. Her policy was quite sane and simple, as she explained it to him: what she put into earthly futures was for speculation, what she put into spiritual futures was for investment; she was willing to go into the one on a margin, and take chances, but in the case of the other, “margin her no margins”—she wanted to cash in a hundred cents per dollar's worth, and have the stock transferred on the books.
Eventually, Aleck subscribed to a daily newspaper in Chicago and to the Wall Street Pointer. With a focus on finance, she studied them as diligently all week as she studied her Bible on Sundays. Sally admired how quickly and confidently her genius and judgment grew in predicting and managing both material and spiritual securities. He felt proud of her boldness and daring in navigating worldly stocks, and just as proud of her cautious approach in handling spiritual investments. He noticed that she never lost her composure in either scenario; she would sometimes take risks on worldly futures with great courage but was careful to draw the line there—she always invested significantly in the spiritual ones. Her strategy was quite clear and straightforward, as she explained to him: what she invested in earthly futures was for speculation, while what she invested in spiritual futures was for investment; she was willing to take risks with the former but wanted to ensure complete returns on the latter, seeking to cash in at a hundred cents on the dollar and have the asset recorded in her name.
It took but a very few months to educate Aleck's imagination and Sally's. Each day's training added something to the spread and effectiveness of the two machines. As a consequence, Aleck made imaginary money much faster than at first she had dreamed of making it, and Sally's competency in spending the overflow of it kept pace with the strain put upon it, right along. In the beginning, Aleck had given the coal speculation a twelvemonth in which to materialize, and had been loath to grant that this term might possibly be shortened by nine months. But that was the feeble work, the nursery work, of a financial fancy that had had no teaching, no experience, no practice. These aids soon came, then that nine months vanished, and the imaginary ten-thousand-dollar investment came marching home with three hundred per cent. profit on its back!
It took just a few months to fuel Aleck's and Sally's imaginations. Each day's training contributed to the growth and effectiveness of the two machines. As a result, Aleck generated imaginary money much faster than she had initially thought possible, and Sally's ability to spend that overflow kept pace with the demands placed on it. At first, Aleck had given the coal speculation a year to become profitable and was hesitant to accept that this timeframe could be shortened by nine months. But that was the tentative thinking of someone new to finance, without any teaching, experience, or practice. Those aids soon arrived, the nine months disappeared, and the imaginary ten-thousand-dollar investment returned home with a three hundred percent profit!
It was a great day for the pair of Fosters. They were speechless for joy. Also speechless for another reason: after much watching of the market, Aleck had lately, with fear and trembling, made her first flyer on a “margin,” using the remaining twenty thousand of the bequest in this risk. In her mind's eye she had seen it climb, point by point—always with a chance that the market would break—until at last her anxieties were too great for further endurance—she being new to the margin business and unhardened, as yet—and she gave her imaginary broker an imaginary order by imaginary telegraph to sell. She said forty thousand dollars' profit was enough. The sale was made on the very day that the coal venture had returned with its rich freight. As I have said, the couple were speechless, they sat dazed and blissful that night, trying to realize that they were actually worth a hundred thousand dollars in clean, imaginary cash. Yet so it was.
It was a fantastic day for the Fosters. They were overwhelmed with joy. They were also overwhelmed for another reason: after watching the market closely, Aleck had recently, with fear and hesitation, made her first trade on margin, using the remaining twenty thousand from the inheritance to make this risky move. In her mind, she envisioned her investment rising, point by point—always worried that the market might crash—until finally her anxieties became too much to bear—being new to the margin game and still inexperienced—and she instructed her imaginary broker via imaginary telegraph to sell. She thought that a forty thousand dollar profit was enough. The sale happened on the very day the coal venture returned with its rich haul. As I mentioned, the couple was speechless; they sat stunned and happy that night, trying to grasp that they were actually worth a hundred thousand dollars in real, albeit imaginary, cash. But that’s how it was.
It was the last time that ever Aleck was afraid of a margin; at least afraid enough to let it break her sleep and pale her cheek to the extent that this first experience in that line had done.
It was the last time that Aleck was ever afraid of a margin; at least afraid enough to lose sleep over it and turn pale like this first experience had done.
Indeed it was a memorable night. Gradually the realization that they were rich sank securely home into the souls of the pair, then they began to place the money. If we could have looked out through the eyes of these dreamers, we should have seen their tidy little wooden house disappear, and two-story brick with a cast-iron fence in front of it take its place; we should have seen a three-globed gas-chandelier grow down from the parlor ceiling; we should have seen the homely rag carpet turn to noble Brussels, a dollar and a half a yard; we should have seen the plebeian fireplace vanish away and a recherche, big base-burner with isinglass windows take position and spread awe around. And we should have seen other things, too; among them the buggy, the lap-robe, the stove-pipe hat, and so on.
It was definitely a night to remember. Slowly, the realization that they were rich set in for the couple, and they started to envision what to do with the money. If we could have seen through the eyes of these dreamers, we would have watched their cozy little wooden house vanish, replaced by a two-story brick home with an iron fence out front; we would have seen a three-light gas chandelier drop down from the parlor ceiling; we would have watched the simple rag carpet transform into luxurious Brussels carpet at a dollar and a half per yard; we would have seen the ordinary fireplace disappear and be replaced by an elegant, large base-burner with glass windows that radiated grandeur. And we would have imagined other things too, like the buggy, the lap robe, the stove-pipe hat, and so on.
From that time forth, although the daughters and the neighbors saw only the same old wooden house there, it was a two-story brick to Aleck and Sally and not a night went by that Aleck did not worry about the imaginary gas-bills, and get for all comfort Sally's reckless retort: “What of it? We can afford it.”
From that time on, even though the daughters and the neighbors only saw the same old wooden house, to Aleck and Sally it was a two-story brick house. Not a night went by without Aleck worrying about the imaginary gas bills, and for all his comfort, he got Sally's carefree response: “So what? We can handle it.”
Before the couple went to bed, that first night that they were rich, they had decided that they must celebrate. They must give a party—that was the idea. But how to explain it—to the daughters and the neighbors? They could not expose the fact that they were rich. Sally was willing, even anxious, to do it; but Aleck kept her head and would not allow it. She said that although the money was as good as in, it would be as well to wait until it was actually in. On that policy she took her stand, and would not budge. The great secret must be kept, she said—kept from the daughters and everybody else.
Before the couple went to bed that first night after they became rich, they decided they needed to celebrate. They wanted to throw a party—that was the plan. But how could they explain it to their daughters and the neighbors? They couldn’t let anyone know they were wealthy. Sally was eager, even excited, to do it; but Aleck stayed level-headed and wouldn’t allow it. She insisted that even though the money was as good as here, it was better to wait until it actually arrived. That was her stance, and she wouldn’t change it. The big secret had to be kept, she said—kept from the daughters and everyone else.
The pair were puzzled. They must celebrate, they were determined to celebrate, but since the secret must be kept, what could they celebrate? No birthdays were due for three months. Tilbury wasn't available, evidently he was going to live forever; what the nation could they celebrate? That was Sally's way of putting it; and he was getting impatient, too, and harassed. But at last he hit it—just by sheer inspiration, as it seemed to him—and all their troubles were gone in a moment; they would celebrate the Discovery of America. A splendid idea!
The two were confused. They knew they needed to celebrate, and they were determined to do so, but since the secret had to be kept, what could they actually celebrate? There were no birthdays coming up for three months. Tilbury was unavailable; it seemed like he was going to live forever. What on earth could they celebrate? That was Sally's way of putting it, and he was starting to feel frustrated and stressed out, too. But then, out of nowhere, he had an idea—at least that's how it felt to him—and suddenly all their worries disappeared; they would celebrate the Discovery of America. What a great idea!
Aleck was almost too proud of Sally for words—she said she never would have thought of it. But Sally, although he was bursting with delight in the compliment and with wonder at himself, tried not to let on, and said it wasn't really anything, anybody could have done it. Whereat Aleck, with a prideful toss of her happy head, said:
Aleck was almost too proud of Sally to express it—she said she never would have thought of it. But Sally, even though he was thrilled by the compliment and amazed at himself, tried not to show it and said it wasn't really anything; anyone could have done it. At that, Aleck, with a proud toss of her happy head, said:
“Oh, certainly! Anybody could—oh, anybody! Hosannah Dilkins, for instance! Or maybe Adelbert Peanut—oh, dear—yes! Well, I'd like to see them try it, that's all. Dear-me-suz, if they could think of the discovery of a forty-acre island it's more than I believe they could; and as for the whole continent, why, Sally Foster, you know perfectly well it would strain the livers and lights out of them and then they couldn't!”
“Oh, absolutely! Anyone could—oh, anyone! Hosannah Dilkins, for example! Or maybe Adelbert Peanut—oh, wow—yes! Well, I’d love to see them give it a shot, that’s all. Honestly, if they could even think about discovering a forty-acre island, it’s more than I believe they could manage; and as for the whole continent, come on, Sally Foster, you know perfectly well it would be too much for them and then they couldn't do it!”
The dear woman, she knew he had talent; and if affection made her over-estimate the size of it a little, surely it was a sweet and gentle crime, and forgivable for its source's sake.
The dear woman knew he had talent; and if love made her overestimate it a bit, it was surely a sweet and gentle flaw, forgivable because of where it came from.
CHAPTER V
The celebration went off well. The friends were all present, both the young and the old. Among the young were Flossie and Gracie Peanut and their brother Adelbert, who was a rising young journeyman tinner, also Hosannah Dilkins, Jr., journeyman plasterer, just out of his apprenticeship. For many months Adelbert and Hosannah had been showing interest in Gwendolen and Clytemnestra Foster, and the parents of the girls had noticed this with private satisfaction. But they suddenly realized now that that feeling had passed. They recognized that the changed financial conditions had raised up a social bar between their daughters and the young mechanics. The daughters could now look higher—and must. Yes, must. They need marry nothing below the grade of lawyer or merchant; poppa and momma would take care of this; there must be no mesalliances.
The celebration went well. All the friends were there, both young and old. Among the young were Flossie and Gracie Peanut and their brother Adelbert, who was an up-and-coming tinsmith. Also present was Hosannah Dilkins, Jr., a journeyman plasterer, just out of his apprenticeship. For months, Adelbert and Hosannah had shown interest in Gwendolen and Clytemnestra Foster, and the girls' parents had noticed this with quiet satisfaction. But they suddenly realized that this feeling had faded. They recognized that the changing financial situation had created a social barrier between their daughters and the young tradesmen. The daughters could now aim higher—and they had to. Yes, they had to. They needed to marry nothing less than a lawyer or a merchant; Mom and Dad would make sure of that; there could be no marrying beneath their station.
However, these thinkings and projects of theirs were private, and did not show on the surface, and therefore threw no shadow upon the celebration. What showed upon the surface was a serene and lofty contentment and a dignity of carriage and gravity of deportment which compelled the admiration and likewise the wonder of the company. All noticed it and all commented upon it, but none was able to divine the secret of it. It was a marvel and a mystery. Three several persons remarked, without suspecting what clever shots they were making:
However, their thoughts and plans were private, and didn’t show on the surface, so they didn’t cast any shadow on the celebration. What was visible was a calm and elevated sense of fulfillment, along with a dignified presence and serious demeanor that earned the admiration and curiosity of everyone present. Everyone noticed it and commented on it, but no one could figure out the secret behind it. It was both a wonder and a mystery. Three different people remarked, without realizing how insightful their comments were:
“It's as if they'd come into property.”
“It's like they've come into some assets.”
That was just it, indeed.
That was it, indeed.
Most mothers would have taken hold of the matrimonial matter in the old regulation way; they would have given the girls a talking to, of a solemn sort and untactful—a lecture calculated to defeat its own purpose, by producing tears and secret rebellion; and the said mothers would have further damaged the business by requesting the young mechanics to discontinue their attentions. But this mother was different. She was practical. She said nothing to any of the young people concerned, nor to any one else except Sally. He listened to her and understood; understood and admired. He said:
Most mothers would have handled the marriage issue the traditional way; they would have lectured the girls seriously and clumsily—a talk likely to backfire by causing tears and hidden rebellion. Plus, these mothers would have made things worse by telling the young men to back off. But this mother was different. She was practical. She didn’t say anything to any of the young people involved, nor to anyone else except Sally. He listened to her and understood; he understood and admired. He said:
“I get the idea. Instead of finding fault with the samples on view, thus hurting feelings and obstructing trade without occasion, you merely offer a higher class of goods for the money, and leave nature to take her course. It's wisdom, Aleck, solid wisdom, and sound as a nut. Who's your fish? Have you nominated him yet?”
"I understand your point. Instead of criticizing the samples on display and potentially hurting feelings or hindering business without a reason, you just provide better quality goods for the price and let things unfold naturally. It’s smart thinking, Aleck, really smart and as reliable as can be. Who's your candidate? Have you chosen him yet?"
No, she hadn't. They must look the market over—which they did. To start with, they considered and discussed Brandish, rising young lawyer, and Fulton, rising young dentist. Sally must invite them to dinner. But not right away; there was no hurry, Aleck said. Keep an eye on the pair, and wait; nothing would be lost by going slowly in so important a matter.
No, she hadn't. They needed to check out their options—which they did. To start, they thought about and talked over Brandish, the up-and-coming lawyer, and Fulton, the emerging dentist. Sally should invite them to dinner. But not just yet; there was no rush, Aleck said. Keep an eye on the two of them and take it slow; nothing would be gained by rushing such an important decision.
It turned out that this was wisdom, too; for inside of three weeks Aleck made a wonderful strike which swelled her imaginary hundred thousand to four hundred thousand of the same quality. She and Sally were in the clouds that evening. For the first time they introduced champagne at dinner. Not real champagne, but plenty real enough for the amount of imagination expended on it. It was Sally that did it, and Aleck weakly submitted. At bottom both were troubled and ashamed, for he was a high-up Son of Temperance, and at funerals wore an apron which no dog could look upon and retain his reason and his opinion; and she was a W. C. T. U., with all that that implies of boiler-iron virtue and unendurable holiness. But there it was; the pride of riches was beginning its disintegrating work. They had lived to prove, once more, a sad truth which had been proven many times before in the world: that whereas principle is a great and noble protection against showy and degrading vanities and vices, poverty is worth six of it. More than four hundred thousand dollars to the good. They took up the matrimonial matter again. Neither the dentist nor the lawyer was mentioned; there was no occasion, they were out of the running. Disqualified. They discussed the son of the pork-packer and the son of the village banker. But finally, as in the previous case, they concluded to wait and think, and go cautiously and sure.
It turned out this was wisdom, too; within three weeks, Aleck hit it big, making her imaginary hundred thousand grow to four hundred thousand of the same kind. That evening, she and Sally were on cloud nine. For the first time, they brought out champagne at dinner. Not real champagne, but close enough for how much imagination they put into it. It was Sally’s idea, and Aleck went along with it. Deep down, both felt uneasy and ashamed because he was a high-ranking Son of Temperance, and at funerals, he wore an apron that would make any dog lose its mind. She was part of the W.C.T.U., embodying all that comes with steadfast virtue and unbearable holiness. But there it was; the pride of wealth was starting its destructive work. They had lived to prove, once again, a sad truth that had been demonstrated many times before: while principles provide great and noble protection against flashy and degrading vanities and vices, poverty is worth six of them. More than four hundred thousand dollars to the good. They revisited the topic of marriage. Neither the dentist nor the lawyer was mentioned; there was no need, they were out of the picture. Disqualified. They talked about the son of the pork packer and the son of the village banker. But in the end, like before, they decided to wait, think it over, and proceed carefully and confidently.
Luck came their way again. Aleck, ever watchful saw a great and risky chance, and took a daring flyer. A time of trembling, of doubt, of awful uneasiness followed, for non-success meant absolute ruin and nothing short of it. Then came the result, and Aleck, faint with joy, could hardly control her voice when she said:
Luck smiled on them once more. Aleck, always on the lookout, spotted a big and risky opportunity and took a bold leap. It was a time filled with anxiety, uncertainty, and deep unease, as failure would mean complete disaster. Then came the outcome, and Aleck, overwhelmed with happiness, could barely keep her voice steady when she said:
“The suspense is over, Sally—and we are worth a cold million!”
“The suspense is over, Sally—and we are worth a cool million!”
Sally wept for gratitude, and said:
Sally cried tears of gratitude and said:
“Oh, Electra, jewel of women, darling of my heart, we are free at last, we roll in wealth, we need never scrimp again. It's a case for Veuve Cliquot!” and he got out a pint of spruce-beer and made sacrifice, he saying “Damn the expense,” and she rebuking him gently with reproachful but humid and happy eyes.
“Oh, Electra, the gem of women, the love of my life, we are finally free, we’re rolling in wealth, and we never have to hold back again. It calls for Veuve Cliquot!” He pulled out a pint of spruce beer and celebrated, saying, “Forget the cost,” while she gently corrected him with eyes that were both reproachful and filled with joy.
They shelved the pork-packer's son and the banker's son, and sat down to consider the Governor's son and the son of the Congressman.
They set aside the pork-packer's son and the banker's son, and sat down to think about the Governor's son and the Congressman’s son.
CHAPTER VI
It were a weariness to follow in detail the leaps and bounds the Foster fictitious finances took from this time forth. It was marvelous, it was dizzying, it was dazzling. Everything Aleck touched turned to fairy gold, and heaped itself glittering toward the firmament. Millions upon millions poured in, and still the mighty stream flowed thundering along, still its vast volume increased. Five millions—ten millions—twenty—thirty—was there never to be an end?
It would be exhausting to go into detail about the wild ups and downs in Foster's made-up finances from this point on. It was incredible, it was overwhelming, it was stunning. Everything Aleck touched turned to gold, piling up and shining like crazy. Millions upon millions kept coming in, and the massive flow just kept roaring along, its vast amount growing even more. Five million—ten million—twenty—thirty—would it ever stop?
Two years swept by in a splendid delirium, the intoxicated Fosters scarcely noticing the flight of time. They were now worth three hundred million dollars; they were in every board of directors of every prodigious combine in the country; and still as time drifted along, the millions went on piling up, five at a time, ten at a time, as fast as they could tally them off, almost. The three hundred double itself—then doubled again—and yet again—and yet once more.
Two years flew by in a thrilling haze, the ecstatic Fosters hardly aware of how quickly time was passing. They were now worth three hundred million dollars; they held positions on the boards of directors for every major company in the country; and even as time continued to pass, their wealth kept accumulating, five thousand at a time, ten thousand at a time, almost faster than they could count it. The three hundred million doubled—then doubled again—and again—and one more time.
Twenty-four hundred millions!
2.4 billion!
The business was getting a little confused. It was necessary to take an account of stock, and straighten it out. The Fosters knew it, they felt it, they realized that it was imperative; but they also knew that to do it properly and perfectly the task must be carried to a finish without a break when once it was begun. A ten-hours' job; and where could they find ten leisure hours in a bunch? Sally was selling pins and sugar and calico all day and every day; Aleck was cooking and washing dishes and sweeping and making beds all day and every day, with none to help, for the daughters were being saved up for high society. The Fosters knew there was one way to get the ten hours, and only one. Both were ashamed to name it; each waited for the other to do it. Finally Sally said:
The business was becoming a bit chaotic. It was important to take stock and sort things out. The Fosters understood this, felt it deeply, and realized it was crucial; however, they also knew that to do it properly and completely, the task needed to be finished in one go once it started. It was a ten-hour job, and where could they find ten free hours all at once? Sally was busy selling pins, sugar, and fabric all day, every day; Aleck was cooking, washing dishes, sweeping, and making beds all day, every day, with no one to help, since the daughters were being saved for high society events. The Fosters recognized there was only one way to find those ten hours, and just one. Both felt embarrassed to bring it up; each waited for the other to say it. Finally, Sally spoke up:
“Somebody's got to give in. It's up to me. Consider that I've named it—never mind pronouncing it out aloud.”
“Someone has to back down. It’s on me. Just keep in mind that I’ve named it—don’t worry about saying it out loud.”
Aleck colored, but was grateful. Without further remark, they fell. Fell, and—broke the Sabbath. For that was their only free ten-hour stretch. It was but another step in the downward path. Others would follow. Vast wealth has temptations which fatally and surely undermine the moral structure of persons not habituated to its possession.
Aleck flushed but felt thankful. Without saying anything more, they fell. Fell, and—broke the Sabbath. That was their only ten-hour stretch of freedom. It was just another step down a slippery slope. Others would follow. Great wealth brings temptations that inevitably and completely weaken the moral fabric of those not used to having it.
They pulled down the shades and broke the Sabbath. With hard and patient labor they overhauled their holdings and listed them. And a long-drawn procession of formidable names it was! Starting with the Railway Systems, Steamer Lines, Standard Oil, Ocean Cables, Diluted Telegraph, and all the rest, and winding up with Klondike, De Beers, Tammany Graft, and Shady Privileges in the Post-office Department.
They closed the blinds and disregarded the Sabbath. With intense and careful effort, they evaluated their assets and created a list. It was a lengthy lineup of impressive names! Beginning with the Railway Systems, Steamer Lines, Standard Oil, Ocean Cables, Diluted Telegraph, and everything else, and finishing with Klondike, De Beers, Tammany Graft, and questionable privileges in the Post Office Department.
Twenty-four hundred millions, and all safely planted in Good Things, gilt-edged and interest-bearing. Income, $120,000,000 a year. Aleck fetched a long purr of soft delight, and said:
Twenty-four hundred million, all securely invested in Good Things, guaranteed and earning interest. Income, $120,000,000 a year. Aleck let out a long, satisfied purr and said:
“Is it enough?”
"Is that sufficient?"
“It is, Aleck.”
"It is, Aleck."
“What shall we do?”
"What should we do?"
“Stand pat.”
"Stay put."
“Retire from business?”
“Quit the business?”
“That's it.”
"That's all."
“I am agreed. The good work is finished; we will take a long rest and enjoy the money.”
“I agree. The good work is done; we’ll take a long break and enjoy the money.”
“Good! Aleck!”
“Awesome! Aleck!”
“Yes, dear?”
"Yes, honey?"
“How much of the income can we spend?”
“How much of the income can we use?”
“The whole of it.”
"The whole thing."
It seemed to her husband that a ton of chains fell from his limbs. He did not say a word; he was happy beyond the power of speech.
It felt to her husband like a ton of chains fell from his body. He didn’t say anything; he was so happy he couldn’t put it into words.
After that, they broke the Sabbaths right along as fast as they turned up. It is the first wrong step that counts. Every Sunday they put in the whole day, after morning service, on inventions—inventions of ways to spend the money. They got to continuing this delicious dissipation until past midnight; and at every seance Aleck lavished millions upon great charities and religious enterprises, and Sally lavished like sums upon matters to which (at first) he gave definite names. Only at first. Later the names gradually lost sharpness of outline, and eventually faded into “sundries,” thus becoming entirely—but safely—undescriptive. For Sally was crumbling. The placing of these millions added seriously and most uncomfortably to the family expenses—in tallow candles. For a while Aleck was worried. Then, after a little, she ceased to worry, for the occasion of it was gone. She was pained, she was grieved, she was ashamed; but she said nothing, and so became an accessory. Sally was taking candles; he was robbing the store. It is ever thus. Vast wealth, to the person unaccustomed to it, is a bane; it eats into the flesh and bone of his morals. When the Fosters were poor, they could have been trusted with untold candles. But now they—but let us not dwell upon it. From candles to apples is but a step: Sally got to taking apples; then soap; then maple-sugar; then canned goods; then crockery. How easy it is to go from bad to worse, when once we have started upon a downward course!
After that, they broke the Sabbaths as quickly as they came around. It’s the first wrong step that matters. Every Sunday, they spent the whole day after morning service on finding ways to spend money. They continued this indulgent lifestyle until past midnight; and at every gathering, Aleck donated millions to great charities and religious projects, while Sally splurged similar amounts on matters that (at first) he named specifically. Only at first. Eventually, those names lost their clarity and blended into “sundries,” becoming completely—but safely—vague. For Sally was unraveling. The amount of these millions added significantly and uncomfortably to the family expenses—in candles. For a while, Aleck was worried. Then, after a bit, she stopped worrying because the reason for it was gone. She was hurt, she was upset, she was embarrassed; but she said nothing, and thus became an accomplice. Sally was taking candles; he was stealing from the store. It always happens like this. Great wealth, to someone unaccustomed to it, is a curse; it gnaws at the very core of one’s morals. When the Fosters were poor, they could have been trusted with endless candles. But now they—but let’s not dwell on that. Moving from candles to apples is just a small step: Sally started taking apples; then soap; then maple sugar; then canned goods; then dishes. It’s so easy to slide from bad to worse once we start on a downward path!
Meantime, other effects had been milestoning the course of the Fosters' splendid financial march. The fictitious brick dwelling had given place to an imaginary granite one with a checker-board mansard roof; in time this one disappeared and gave place to a still grander home—and so on and so on. Mansion after mansion, made of air, rose, higher, broader, finer, and each in its turn vanished away; until now in these latter great days, our dreamers were in fancy housed, in a distant region, in a sumptuous vast palace which looked out from a leafy summit upon a noble prospect of vale and river and receding hills steeped in tinted mists—and all private, all the property of the dreamers; a palace swarming with liveried servants, and populous with guests of fame and power, hailing from all the world's capitals, foreign and domestic.
Meanwhile, other effects had been marking the Fosters' impressive financial journey. The imaginary brick house was replaced by a fictional granite one with a checkered mansard roof; eventually, this one vanished and was replaced by an even grander home—and so on. Mansion after mansion, made of nothing but dreams, rose higher, wider, and fancier, each one disappearing in turn; until now, in these recent prosperous days, our dreamers were envisioning themselves living in a lavish expansive palace located on a leafy hill, overlooking a beautiful view of valleys and rivers and distant hills shrouded in colorful mists—and it was all private, all the property of the dreamers; a palace bustling with uniformed staff and filled with guests of fame and power from all the world's capitals, both foreign and domestic.
This palace was far, far away toward the rising sun, immeasurably remote, astronomically remote, in Newport, Rhode Island, Holy Land of High Society, ineffable Domain of the American Aristocracy. As a rule they spent a part of every Sabbath—after morning service—in this sumptuous home, the rest of it they spent in Europe, or in dawdling around in their private yacht. Six days of sordid and plodding fact life at home on the ragged edge of Lakeside and straitened means, the seventh in Fairyland—such had been their program and their habit.
This palace was very far away, toward the rising sun, incredibly distant, in Newport, Rhode Island, the Holy Land of High Society, the indescribable Domain of the American Aristocracy. Typically, they spent part of every Sunday—after morning service—at this lavish home, while the rest of the time was spent in Europe or lounging on their private yacht. Six days of grueling reality at home on the edge of Lakeside and limited means, the seventh in Fairyland—this had been their routine and their lifestyle.
In their sternly restricted fact life they remained as of old—plodding, diligent, careful, practical, economical. They stuck loyally to the little Presbyterian Church, and labored faithfully in its interests and stood by its high and tough doctrines with all their mental and spiritual energies. But in their dream life they obeyed the invitations of their fancies, whatever they might be, and howsoever the fancies might change. Aleck's fancies were not very capricious, and not frequent, but Sally's scattered a good deal. Aleck, in her dream life, went over to the Episcopal camp, on account of its large official titles; next she became High-church on account of the candles and shows; and next she naturally changed to Rome, where there were cardinals and more candles. But these excursions were a nothing to Sally's. His dream life was a glowing and continuous and persistent excitement, and he kept every part of it fresh and sparkling by frequent changes, the religious part along with the rest. He worked his religions hard, and changed them with his shirt.
In their strictly limited real lives, they were just like before—hardworking, diligent, careful, practical, and thrifty. They remained loyal to their small Presbyterian Church, committed to its interests, and defended its strong, challenging beliefs with all their mental and spiritual energies. But in their dream lives, they followed the whims of their imaginations, no matter how those whims shifted. Aleck’s fantasies weren’t very wild or frequent, but Sally’s varied a lot. In her dreams, Aleck switched to the Episcopal Church because of its grand official titles; then she became High Church for the candles and rituals; and eventually she moved to Catholicism for the cardinals and even more candles. But these changes were minor compared to Sally's. His dream life was a vibrant, ongoing, and thrilling adventure, and he kept it fresh and exciting with constant shifts, including in his religious beliefs. He worked at his faith like it was a job, changing it as effortlessly as he changed his shirt.
The liberal spendings of the Fosters upon their fancies began early in their prosperities, and grew in prodigality step by step with their advancing fortunes. In time they became truly enormous. Aleck built a university or two per Sunday; also a hospital or two; also a Rowton hotel or so; also a batch of churches; now and then a cathedral; and once, with untimely and ill-chosen playfulness, Sally said, “It was a cold day when she didn't ship a cargo of missionaries to persuade unreflecting Chinamen to trade off twenty-four carat Confucianism for counterfeit Christianity.”
The Fosters started spending lavishly on their interests early in their success, and as their wealth grew, so did their extravagance. Eventually, it became truly enormous. Aleck built a university or two every Sunday, along with a couple of hospitals, several Rowton hotels, and a few churches; occasionally, he even added a cathedral. Once, in a poorly timed and ill-considered joke, Sally remarked, “It was a cold day when she didn't send a shipment of missionaries to convince unsuspecting Chinese people to trade their pure Confucianism for fake Christianity.”
This rude and unfeeling language hurt Aleck to the heart, and she went from the presence crying. That spectacle went to his own heart, and in his pain and shame he would have given worlds to have those unkind words back. She had uttered no syllable of reproach—and that cut him. Not one suggestion that he look at his own record—and she could have made, oh, so many, and such blistering ones! Her generous silence brought a swift revenge, for it turned his thoughts upon himself, it summoned before him a spectral procession, a moving vision of his life as he had been leading it these past few years of limitless prosperity, and as he sat there reviewing it his cheeks burned and his soul was steeped in humiliation. Look at her life—how fair it was, and tending ever upward; and look at his own—how frivolous, how charged with mean vanities, how selfish, how empty, how ignoble! And its trend—never upward, but downward, ever downward!
This rude and unfeeling language hurt Aleck deeply, and she left, crying. That sight struck him hard, and in his pain and shame, he would have given anything to take back those unkind words. She didn’t say a single word of reproach—and that hurt him even more. Not one hint for him to reflect on his own behavior—and she could have made so many, and they would have been so cutting! Her generous silence brought swift revenge, for it turned his thoughts inward, bringing forth a haunting procession, a vivid vision of his life as he had been living it these past few years of unlimited success. As he sat there reflecting, his cheeks burned, and he was filled with humiliation. Look at her life—how beautiful it was, always striving upward; and look at his own—how superficial, how filled with petty vanities, how selfish, how hollow, how dishonorable! And its direction—never upward, but downward, always downward!
He instituted comparisons between her record and his own. He had found fault with her—so he mused—he! And what could he say for himself? When she built her first church what was he doing? Gathering other blase multimillionaires into a Poker Club; defiling his own palace with it; losing hundreds of thousands to it at every sitting, and sillily vain of the admiring notoriety it made for him. When she was building her first university, what was he doing? Polluting himself with a gay and dissipated secret life in the company of other fast bloods, multimillionaires in money and paupers in character. When she was building her first foundling asylum, what was he doing? Alas! When she was projecting her noble Society for the Purifying of the Sex, what was he doing? Ah, what, indeed! When she and the W. C. T. U. and the Woman with the Hatchet, moving with resistless march, were sweeping the fatal bottle from the land, what was he doing? Getting drunk three times a day. When she, builder of a hundred cathedrals, was being gratefully welcomed and blest in papal Rome and decorated with the Golden Rose which she had so honorably earned, what was he doing? Breaking the bank at Monte Carlo.
He started comparing her accomplishments to his own. He criticized her—how ironic it was that he did! And what could he say about himself? When she was building her first church, what was he up to? He was busy getting other indifferent millionaires together for a Poker Club; ruining his own mansion with it; losing hundreds of thousands every time, all while enjoying the attention it brought him. When she was establishing her first university, what was he doing? He was living a reckless, wild life with other wealthy yet morally bankrupt individuals. When she was creating her first foundling home, where was he? Unfortunately, when she was launching her admirable Society for the Purifying of the Sex, what was he engaged in? Oh, what, indeed! While she and the W.C.T.U. and the Woman with the Hatchet marched on, tackling the destructive alcohol issue, what was he doing? Drinking three times a day. When she, the builder of a hundred cathedrals, was being honored in papal Rome and awarded the Golden Rose she had rightfully earned, what was he doing? Winning big at Monte Carlo.
He stopped. He could go no farther; he could not bear the rest. He rose up, with a great resolution upon his lips: this secret life should be revealed, and confessed; no longer would he live it clandestinely, he would go and tell her All.
He stopped. He couldn't go any further; he couldn't handle it anymore. He stood up, determined: this hidden life needed to be revealed and confessed; he wouldn't live it in secret anymore, he would go and tell her everything.
And that is what he did. He told her All; and wept upon her bosom; wept, and moaned, and begged for her forgiveness. It was a profound shock, and she staggered under the blow, but he was her own, the core of her heart, the blessing of her eyes, her all in all, she could deny him nothing, and she forgave him. She felt that he could never again be quite to her what he had been before; she knew that he could only repent, and not reform; yet all morally defaced and decayed as he was, was he not her own, her very own, the idol of her deathless worship? She said she was his serf, his slave, and she opened her yearning heart and took him in.
And that's exactly what he did. He told her everything and cried on her chest; he cried, moaned, and pleaded for her forgiveness. It was a huge shock, and she struggled to handle it, but he was hers, the center of her heart, the light of her life, her everything. She couldn't deny him anything, so she forgave him. She realized he could never be exactly who he was before; she knew he could only feel sorry but not truly change. Still, despite all his flaws and failures, wasn't he hers, her very own, the object of her everlasting admiration? She said she was his servant, his slave, and she opened her aching heart and took him back in.
CHAPTER VII
One Sunday afternoon some time after this they were sailing the summer seas in their dream yacht, and reclining in lazy luxury under the awning of the after-deck. There was silence, for each was busy with his own thoughts. These seasons of silence had insensibly been growing more and more frequent of late; the old nearness and cordiality were waning. Sally's terrible revelation had done its work; Aleck had tried hard to drive the memory of it out of her mind, but it would not go, and the shame and bitterness of it were poisoning her gracious dream life. She could see now (on Sundays) that her husband was becoming a bloated and repulsive Thing. She could not close her eyes to this, and in these days she no longer looked at him, Sundays, when she could help it.
One Sunday afternoon a while later, they were sailing the summer seas on their dream yacht, lounging in relaxed luxury under the awning of the back deck. There was silence, as each was preoccupied with their own thoughts. These quiet moments had quietly become more and more common lately; the old closeness and warmth were fading. Sally's devastating revelation had taken its toll; Aleck had tried hard to help her forget it, but it didn't fade, and the shame and bitterness were poisoning her beautiful dream life. Now, on Sundays, she could see that her husband was becoming a bloated and repulsive figure. She couldn't ignore this, and these days, she tried not to look at him on Sundays whenever she could.
But she—was she herself without blemish? Alas, she knew she was not. She was keeping a secret from him, she was acting dishonorably toward him, and many a pang it was costing her. She was breaking the compact, and concealing it from him. Under strong temptation she had gone into business again; she had risked their whole fortune in a purchase of all the railway systems and coal and steel companies in the country on a margin, and she was now trembling, every Sabbath hour, lest through some chance word of hers he find it out. In her misery and remorse for this treachery she could not keep her heart from going out to him in pity; she was filled with compunctions to see him lying there, drunk and contented, and never suspecting. Never suspecting—trusting her with a perfect and pathetic trust, and she holding over him by a thread a possible calamity of so devastating a—
But she—was she really without fault? Unfortunately, she knew she wasn't. She was keeping a secret from him, acting dishonestly towards him, and it was causing her a lot of pain. She was breaking their agreement and hiding it from him. Under intense temptation, she had returned to business; she had risked their entire fortune by buying up all the railway systems and coal and steel companies in the country on credit, and now she was trembling every Sunday, afraid that some slip of the tongue would reveal the truth to him. In her anguish and guilt over this betrayal, she couldn't help but feel pity for him; she was filled with remorse at the sight of him lying there, drunk and content, completely unaware. Completely unaware—trusting her with an innocent and heartbreaking trust, while she held over him the potential for a disaster so devastating—
“Say—Aleck?”
“Hey—Aleck?”
The interrupting words brought her suddenly to herself. She was grateful to have that persecuting subject from her thoughts, and she answered, with much of the old-time tenderness in her tone:
The sudden interruption snapped her back to reality. She felt relieved to have that troubling topic out of her mind, and she replied with a lot of the old tenderness in her voice:
“Yes, dear.”
"Sure, honey."
“Do you know, Aleck, I think we are making a mistake—that is, you are. I mean about the marriage business.” He sat up, fat and froggy and benevolent, like a bronze Buddha, and grew earnest. “Consider—it's more than five years. You've continued the same policy from the start: with every rise, always holding on for five points higher. Always when I think we are going to have some weddings, you see a bigger thing ahead, and I undergo another disappointment. I think you are too hard to please. Some day we'll get left. First, we turned down the dentist and the lawyer. That was all right—it was sound. Next, we turned down the banker's son and the pork-butcher's heir—right again, and sound. Next, we turned down the Congressman's son and the Governor's—right as a trivet, I confess it. Next the Senator's son and the son of the Vice-President of the United States—perfectly right, there's no permanency about those little distinctions. Then you went for the aristocracy; and I thought we had struck oil at last—yes. We would make a plunge at the Four Hundred, and pull in some ancient lineage, venerable, holy, ineffable, mellow with the antiquity of a hundred and fifty years, disinfected of the ancestral odors of salt-cod and pelts all of a century ago, and unsmirched by a day's work since, and then! why, then the marriages, of course. But no, along comes a pair of real aristocrats from Europe, and straightway you throw over the half-breeds. It was awfully discouraging, Aleck! Since then, what a procession! You turned down the baronets for a pair of barons; you turned down the barons for a pair of viscounts; the viscounts for a pair of earls; the earls for a pair of marquises; the marquises for a brace of dukes. Now, Aleck, cash in!—you've played the limit. You've got a job lot of four dukes under the hammer; of four nationalities; all sound in the wind and limb and pedigree, all bankrupt and in debt up to the ears. They come high, but we can afford it. Come, Aleck, don't delay any longer, don't keep up the suspense: take the whole lay-out, and leave the girls to choose!”
“Do you know, Aleck, I think we’re making a mistake—actually, you are. I mean with the whole marriage thing.” He straightened up, plump and looking like a friendly frog, almost like a bronze Buddha, and got serious. “Think about it—it’s been more than five years. You’ve stuck to the same plan from the beginning: with every increase, always waiting for five points more. Every time I think we’re about to have some weddings, you see something bigger on the horizon, and I end up disappointed again. I think you’re too hard to satisfy. One of these days, we'll miss out. First, we passed on the dentist and the lawyer. That was okay—it made sense. Next, we turned down the banker’s son and the pork-butcher’s heir—right again, that was sound. Then we passed on the Congressman’s son and the Governor’s—perfectly right, I admit that. Next it was the Senator’s son and the son of the Vice-President of the United States—totally right, those little distinctions don’t hold up. Then you aimed for the aristocracy; I thought we finally struck gold—yes. We were going to make a leap into the Four Hundred and secure some old lineage, venerable and holy, rich with the heritage of a hundred and fifty years, cleansed of the ancestral smells of salt cod and furs from a century ago, and untouched by any day’s work since, and then! Well, then the marriages would happen, of course. But no, then a couple of real aristocrats from Europe show up, and just like that you ditch the half-breeds. It was so discouraging, Aleck! Since then, what a lineup! You turned down the baronets for a couple of barons; you turned down the barons for a couple of viscounts; the viscounts for a pair of earls; the earls for a pair of marquises; the marquises for a couple of dukes. Now, Aleck, it’s time to cash in!—you’ve reached the limit. You’ve got a deal lined up with four dukes on the market; from four different nationalities; all healthy in body and background, yet totally broke and drowning in debt. They’re pricey, but we can swing it. Come on, Aleck, don’t wait any longer, don’t keep us in suspense: take the whole arrangement, and let the girls choose!”
Aleck had been smiling blandly and contentedly all through this arraignment of her marriage policy, a pleasant light, as of triumph with perhaps a nice surprise peeping out through it, rose in her eyes, and she said, as calmly as she could:
Aleck had been smiling blandly and contentedly all through this arraignment of her marriage policy, a pleasant light, as of triumph with perhaps a nice surprise peeking out through it, rose in her eyes, and she said, as calmly as she could:
“Sally, what would you say to—royalty?”
“Sally, what would you say to—royalty?”
Prodigious! Poor man, it knocked him silly, and he fell over the garboard-strake and barked his shin on the cat-heads. He was dizzy for a moment, then he gathered himself up and limped over and sat down by his wife and beamed his old-time admiration and affection upon her in floods, out of his bleary eyes.
Amazing! The poor guy got knocked for a loop and toppled over the edge, scraping his shin on the cat-heads. He was a bit dizzy at first, but then he pulled himself together, hobbled over, and sat down beside his wife, showering her with the same admiration and love he always had, coming from his bleary eyes.
“By George!” he said, fervently, “Aleck, you are great—the greatest woman in the whole earth! I can't ever learn the whole size of you. I can't ever learn the immeasurable deeps of you. Here I've been considering myself qualified to criticize your game. I! Why, if I had stopped to think, I'd have known you had a lone hand up your sleeve. Now, dear heart, I'm all red-hot impatience—tell me about it!”
“By George!” he said passionately, “Aleck, you are amazing—the greatest woman on the entire planet! I can never fully grasp who you really are. I can never understand the vast depths of you. Here I was thinking I had the right to judge your game. Me! If I had taken a moment to think, I would have realized you had a trick up your sleeve. Now, my dear, I'm filled with impatient excitement—tell me about it!”
The flattered and happy woman put her lips to his ear and whispered a princely name. It made him catch his breath, it lit his face with exultation.
The flattered and happy woman leaned in closer and whispered a royal name in his ear. It took his breath away and brought a look of joy to his face.
“Land!” he said, “it's a stunning catch! He's got a gambling-hall, and a graveyard, and a bishop, and a cathedral—all his very own. And all gilt-edged five-hundred-per-cent. stock, every detail of it; the tidiest little property in Europe; and that graveyard—it's the selectest in the world: none but suicides admitted; yes, sir, and the free-list suspended, too, all the time. There isn't much land in the principality, but there's enough: eight hundred acres in the graveyard and forty-two outside. It's a sovereignty—that's the main thing; land's nothing. There's plenty land, Sahara's drugged with it.”
“Land!” he said, “it's an amazing find! He owns a casino, a cemetery, a bishop, and a cathedral—all his very own. And it's all high-yield, five-hundred-percent stock, every bit of it; the neatest little property in Europe; and that cemetery—it's the most exclusive in the world: only suicides allowed; yes, sir, and the free-list is always closed, too, all the time. There isn’t much land in the principality, but there's enough: eight hundred acres in the cemetery and forty-two outside. It's a sovereignty—that's the important thing; land is nothing. There's plenty of land; the Sahara is full of it.”
Aleck glowed; she was profoundly happy. She said:
Aleck beamed; she was truly happy. She said:
“Think of it, Sally—it is a family that has never married outside the Royal and Imperial Houses of Europe: our grandchildren will sit upon thrones!”
“Just think about it, Sally—this is a family that has never married outside the Royal and Imperial Houses of Europe: our grandkids will be sitting on thrones!”
“True as you live, Aleck—and bear scepters, too; and handle them as naturally and nonchantly as I handle a yardstick. It's a grand catch, Aleck. He's corralled, is he? Can't get away? You didn't take him on a margin?”
“True as you live, Aleck—and hold scepters, too; and deal with them as casually and easily as I handle a yardstick. It's a great catch, Aleck. He's secured, is he? Can't escape? You didn't take him on a margin?”
“No. Trust me for that. He's not a liability, he's an asset. So is the other one.”
“No. Trust me on this. He's not a liability, he's an asset. So is the other one.”
“Who is it, Aleck?”
"Who is it, Aleck?"
“His Royal Highness Sigismund-Siegfried-Lauenfeld-Dinkelspiel-Schwartzenberg Blutwurst, Hereditary Grand Duke of Katzenyammer.”
“His Royal Highness Sigismund-Siegfried-Lauenfeld-Dinkelspiel-Schwartzenberg Blutwurst, Hereditary Grand Duke of Katzenyammer.”
“No! You can't mean it!”
“No way! You can’t mean it!”
“It's as true as I'm sitting here, I give you my word,” she answered.
“It's as true as I'm sitting here, I promise you,” she replied.
His cup was full, and he hugged her to his heart with rapture, saying:
His cup was full, and he embraced her with joy, saying:
“How wonderful it all seems, and how beautiful! It's one of the oldest and noblest of the three hundred and sixty-four ancient German principalities, and one of the few that was allowed to retain its royal estate when Bismarck got done trimming them. I know that farm, I've been there. It's got a rope-walk and a candle-factory and an army. Standing army. Infantry and cavalry. Three soldier and a horse. Aleck, it's been a long wait, and full of heartbreak and hope deferred, but God knows I am happy now. Happy, and grateful to you, my own, who have done it all. When is it to be?”
“How amazing it all seems, and how beautiful! It's one of the oldest and noblest of the three hundred sixty-four ancient German principalities, and one of the few that was allowed to keep its royal estate when Bismarck finished making cuts. I know that farm; I've been there. It has a rope-walk, a candle factory, and an army. A standing army. Infantry and cavalry. Three soldiers and a horse. Aleck, it's been a long wait, full of heartbreak and unfulfilled hopes, but God knows I am happy now. Happy, and grateful to you, my dear, who have made it all happen. When is it going to be?”
“Next Sunday.”
“Next Sunday.”
“Good. And we'll want to do these weddings up in the very regalest style that's going. It's properly due to the royal quality of the parties of the first part. Now as I understand it, there is only one kind of marriage that is sacred to royalty, exclusive to royalty: it's the morganatic.”
“Great. And we should plan these weddings in the most royal style possible. It’s only fitting for the noble status of the main parties involved. From what I gather, there’s only one type of marriage that’s sacred and exclusive to royalty: it’s the morganatic.”
“What do they call it that for, Sally?”
“What do they call it that for, Sally?”
“I don't know; but anyway it's royal, and royal only.”
"I don't know; but anyway, it's royal, and only royal."
“Then we will insist upon it. More—I will compel it. It is morganatic marriage or none.”
“Then we will demand it. More—I will force it. It’s a morganatic marriage or nothing.”
“That settles it!” said Sally, rubbing his hands with delight. “And it will be the very first in America. Aleck, it will make Newport sick.”
“That's it!” said Sally, rubbing his hands with excitement. “And it will be the very first in America. Aleck, it's going to make Newport jealous.”
Then they fell silent, and drifted away upon their dream wings to the far regions of the earth to invite all the crowned heads and their families and provide gratis transportation to them.
Then they fell quiet and floated away on their dream wings to distant parts of the world to invite all the royal families and their relatives and offer free transportation to them.
CHAPTER VIII
During three days the couple walked upon air, with their heads in the clouds. They were but vaguely conscious of their surroundings; they saw all things dimly, as through a veil; they were steeped in dreams, often they did not hear when they were spoken to; they often did not understand when they heard; they answered confusedly or at random; Sally sold molasses by weight, sugar by the yard, and furnished soap when asked for candles, and Aleck put the cat in the wash and fed milk to the soiled linen. Everybody was stunned and amazed, and went about muttering, “What can be the matter with the Fosters?”
For three days, the couple was on cloud nine, completely lost in their own world. They only vaguely noticed what was happening around them; everything appeared blurry, as if seen through a fog. They were wrapped up in dreams, often not hearing when someone spoke to them, and when they did, they often didn't grasp what was said. Their responses were confused or random; Sally sold molasses by weight, sugar by the yard, and when asked for candles, she'd provide soap, while Aleck tossed the cat into the wash and fed milk to the dirty laundry. Everyone was shocked and bewildered, whispering to each other, “What can be going on with the Fosters?”
Three days. Then came events! Things had taken a happy turn, and for forty-eight hours Aleck's imaginary corner had been booming. Up—up—still up! Cost point was passed. Still up—and up—and up! Five points above cost—then ten—fifteen—twenty! Twenty points cold profit on the vast venture, now, and Aleck's imaginary brokers were shouting frantically by imaginary long-distance, “Sell! sell! for Heaven's sake sell!”
Three days. Then things happened! Everything took a positive turn, and for two days, Aleck's imaginary corner was thriving. Up—up—still up! The cost point was surpassed. Still up—and up—and up! Five points above cost—then ten—fifteen—twenty! Twenty points pure profit on the huge investment now, and Aleck's imaginary brokers were frantically shouting over imaginary long-distance, “Sell! sell! for Heaven's sake sell!”
She broke the splendid news to Sally, and he, too, said, “Sell! sell—oh, don't make a blunder, now, you own the earth!—sell, sell!” But she set her iron will and lashed it amidships, and said she would hold on for five points more if she died for it.
She shared the amazing news with Sally, who also said, “Sell! Sell—oh, don’t mess this up, you’ve got it all!—sell, sell!” But she stood her ground and firmly resolved to hold on for five more points, even if it killed her.
It was a fatal resolve. The very next day came the historic crash, the record crash, the devastating crash, when the bottom fell out of Wall Street, and the whole body of gilt-edged stocks dropped ninety-five points in five hours, and the multimillionaire was seen begging his bread in the Bowery. Aleck sternly held her grip and “put up” as long as she could, but at last there came a call which she was powerless to meet, and her imaginary brokers sold her out. Then, and not till then, the man in her was vanished, and the woman in her resumed sway. She put her arms about her husband's neck and wept, saying:
It was a deadly decision. The very next day came the historic crash, the record crash, the devastating crash, when Wall Street collapsed, and the entire set of blue-chip stocks plummeted ninety-five points in five hours. A multimillionaire was seen begging for food in the Bowery. Aleck firmly held on and “held out” as long as she could, but eventually, there came a call she couldn’t meet, and her imaginary brokers sold her out. Then, and only then, the man in her disappeared, and the woman in her took over. She wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and cried, saying:
“I am to blame, do not forgive me, I cannot bear it. We are paupers! Paupers, and I am so miserable. The weddings will never come off; all that is past; we could not even buy the dentist, now.”
“I’m to blame, please don’t forgive me, I can’t handle it. We’re broke! Broke, and I’m so hopeless. The weddings will never happen; that’s all over now; we couldn’t even pay the dentist, either.”
A bitter reproach was on Sally's tongue: “I begged you to sell, but you—” He did not say it; he had not the heart to add a hurt to that broken and repentant spirit. A nobler thought came to him and he said:
A bitter complaint was on Sally's lips: “I begged you to sell, but you—” He didn’t say it; he couldn’t bring himself to add more pain to that broken and remorseful heart. A better thought crossed his mind and he said:
“Bear up, my Aleck, all is not lost! You really never invested a penny of my uncle's bequest, but only its unmaterialized future; what we have lost was only the incremented harvest from that future by your incomparable financial judgment and sagacity. Cheer up, banish these griefs; we still have the thirty thousand untouched; and with the experience which you have acquired, think what you will be able to do with it in a couple years! The marriages are not off, they are only postponed.”
“Hang in there, Aleck, all is not lost! You didn't actually invest any of my uncle's inheritance, just the potential it had; what we've lost is just the extra gains that could have come from your amazing financial insight. Stay positive, let go of these worries; we still have the thirty thousand intact; and with the experience you've gained, just think about what you could do with it in a couple of years! The weddings aren't canceled, they're just delayed.”
These were blessed words. Aleck saw how true they were, and their influence was electric; her tears ceased to flow, and her great spirit rose to its full stature again. With flashing eye and grateful heart, and with hand uplifted in pledge and prophecy, she said:
These were powerful words. Aleck realized how true they were, and their impact was electric; her tears stopped, and her strong spirit returned to its full height. With bright eyes and a thankful heart, and with her hand raised in promise and vision, she said:
“Now and here I proclaim—”
"Here and now I declare—"
But she was interrupted by a visitor. It was the editor and proprietor of the Sagamore. He had happened into Lakeside to pay a duty-call upon an obscure grandmother of his who was nearing the end of her pilgrimage, and with the idea of combining business with grief he had looked up the Fosters, who had been so absorbed in other things for the past four years that they neglected to pay up their subscription. Six dollars due. No visitor could have been more welcome. He would know all about Uncle Tilbury and what his chances might be getting to be, cemeterywards. They could, of course, ask no questions, for that would squelch the bequest, but they could nibble around on the edge of the subject and hope for results. The scheme did not work. The obtuse editor did not know he was being nibbled at; but at last, chance accomplished what art had failed in. In illustration of something under discussion which required the help of metaphor, the editor said:
But she was interrupted by a visitor. It was the editor and owner of the Sagamore. He had come to Lakeside to pay a condolence visit to an elderly grandmother of his who was nearing the end of her life, and he thought to combine business with his sadness by checking in on the Fosters, who had been so wrapped up in other matters for the past four years that they had forgotten to pay their subscription. Six dollars owed. No visitor could have been more welcome. He would definitely know all about Uncle Tilbury and what his chances were of heading toward the cemetery. They couldn't, of course, ask any direct questions, since that would jeopardize the inheritance, but they could dance around the topic and hope to get some answers. The plan didn't work. The oblivious editor didn't realize he was being subtly probed, but eventually, luck led to what strategy had failed to achieve. While discussing something that needed a metaphor, the editor said:
“Land, it's as tough as Tilbury Foster!—as we say.”
“Land, it's as tough as Tilbury Foster!—just like we say.”
It was sudden, and it made the Fosters jump. The editor noticed, and said, apologetically:
It came out of nowhere, and it startled the Fosters. The editor saw this and said, apologetically:
“No harm intended, I assure you. It's just a saying; just a joke, you know—nothing in it. Relation of yours?”
“No harm intended, I promise. It's just a saying; just a joke, you know—nothing serious. Is this person related to you?”
Sally crowded his burning eagerness down, and answered with all the indifference he could assume:
Sally pushed his intense excitement aside and replied with as much indifference as he could muster:
“I—well, not that I know of, but we've heard of him.” The editor was thankful, and resumed his composure. Sally added: “Is he—is he—well?”
“I—well, not that I know of, but we've heard of him.” The editor was grateful and regained his composure. Sally added: “Is he—is he—okay?”
“Is he well? Why, bless you he's in Sheol these five years!”
“Is he okay? Well, bless you, he's been in Sheol for five years!”
The Fosters were trembling with grief, though it felt like joy. Sally said, non-committally—and tentatively:
The Fosters were shaking with grief, even though it felt like joy. Sally said, uncertainly and cautiously:
“Ah, well, such is life, and none can escape—not even the rich are spared.”
“Ah, well, that's life, and no one can escape it—not even the wealthy are spared.”
The editor laughed.
The editor chuckled.
“If you are including Tilbury,” said he, “it don't apply. He hadn't a cent; the town had to bury him.”
“If you’re including Tilbury,” he said, “that doesn’t count. He didn’t have a penny; the town had to bury him.”
The Fosters sat petrified for two minutes; petrified and cold. Then, white-faced and weak-voiced, Sally asked:
The Fosters sat frozen for two minutes; frozen and cold. Then, looking pale and with a shaky voice, Sally asked:
“Is it true? Do you know it to be true?”
“Is it true? Do you really know it’s true?”
“Well, I should say! I was one of the executors. He hadn't anything to leave but a wheelbarrow, and he left that to me. It hadn't any wheel, and wasn't any good. Still, it was something, and so, to square up, I scribbled off a sort of a little obituarial send-off for him, but it got crowded out.”
“Well, I have to say! I was one of the executors. He didn’t leave anything except a wheelbarrow, and he left that to me. It didn’t have a wheel and was useless. Still, it was something, so to be fair, I quickly wrote a small obituary for him, but it got left out.”
The Fosters were not listening—their cup was full, it could contain no more. They sat with bowed heads, dead to all things but the ache at their hearts.
The Fosters weren't paying attention—their hearts were full, they couldn't take in any more. They sat with heads lowered, numb to everything except the pain in their hearts.
An hour later. Still they sat there, bowed, motionless, silent, the visitor long ago gone, they unaware.
An hour later. They still sat there, hunched over, unmoving, silent, completely unaware that the visitor had left long ago.
Then they stirred, and lifted their heads wearily, and gazed at each other wistfully, dreamily, dazed; then presently began to twaddle to each other in a wandering and childish way. At intervals they lapsed into silences, leaving a sentence unfinished, seemingly either unaware of it or losing their way. Sometimes, when they woke out of these silences they had a dim and transient consciousness that something had happened to their minds; then with a dumb and yearning solicitude they would softly caress each other's hands in mutual compassion and support, as if they would say: “I am near you, I will not forsake you, we will bear it together; somewhere there is release and forgetfulness, somewhere there is a grave and peace; be patient, it will not be long.”
Then they stirred, lifted their heads tiredly, and looked at each other with a mix of longing and dazed wonder; eventually, they started to chat in a meandering and childlike manner. Every now and then, they fell into silence, leaving sentences unfinished, seemingly either unaware of it or struggling to continue. Sometimes, when they snapped out of these silences, they had a vague and fleeting sense that something had changed in their minds; then, with a quiet and yearning concern, they would gently hold each other's hands in a shared gesture of compassion and support, as if to say: “I’m here for you, I won't leave you, we’ll get through this together; somewhere, there’s freedom and forgetfulness, somewhere there’s rest and peace; hang in there, it won’t be long.”
They lived yet two years, in mental night, always brooding, steeped in vague regrets and melancholy dreams, never speaking; then release came to both on the same day.
They lived for another two years, in a state of mental darkness, always deep in thought, filled with unclear regrets and sad dreams, never talking to each other; then, on the same day, they both found their release.
Toward the end the darkness lifted from Sally's ruined mind for a moment, and he said:
Toward the end, the darkness lifted from Sally's shattered mind for a moment, and he said:
“Vast wealth, acquired by sudden and unwholesome means, is a snare. It did us no good, transient were its feverish pleasures; yet for its sake we threw away our sweet and simple and happy life—let others take warning by us.”
“Great wealth, gained through sudden and questionable means, is a trap. It brought us no real benefit, and its fleeting pleasures were short-lived; yet for its sake, we sacrificed our sweet, simple, and happy life—let others learn from our mistakes.”
He lay silent awhile, with closed eyes; then as the chill of death crept upward toward his heart, and consciousness was fading from his brain, he muttered:
He lay quietly for a while, with his eyes closed; then, as the coldness of death crept up toward his heart, and his awareness started to slip away, he muttered:
“Money had brought him misery, and he took his revenge upon us, who had done him no harm. He had his desire: with base and cunning calculation he left us but thirty thousand, knowing we would try to increase it, and ruin our life and break our hearts. Without added expense he could have left us far above desire of increase, far above the temptation to speculate, and a kinder soul would have done it; but in him was no generous spirit, no pity, no—”
“Money had brought him misery, and he took his revenge on us, who had done him no harm. He got what he wanted: with selfish and clever planning, he left us with only thirty thousand, knowing we would try to grow it, and it would ruin our lives and break our hearts. Without any extra cost, he could have left us with way more than we needed, far above the temptation to gamble, and a kinder person would have done that; but in him, there was no generous spirit, no compassion, no—”
A DOG'S TALE
CHAPTER I
My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me, I do not know these nice distinctions myself. To me they are only fine large words meaning nothing. My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say them, and see other dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering how she got so much education. But, indeed, it was not real education; it was only show: she got the words by listening in the dining-room and drawing-room when there was company, and by going with the children to Sunday-school and listening there; and whenever she heard a large word she said it over to herself many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood, then she would get it off, and surprise and distress them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff, which rewarded her for all her trouble. If there was a stranger he was nearly sure to be suspicious, and when he got his breath again he would ask her what it meant. And she always told him. He was never expecting this but thought he would catch her; so when she told him, he was the one that looked ashamed, whereas he had thought it was going to be she. The others were always waiting for this, and glad of it and proud of her, for they knew what was going to happen, because they had had experience. When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up with admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it was the right one; and that was natural, because, for one thing, she answered up so promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking, and for another thing, where could they find out whether it was right or not? for she was the only cultivated dog there was. By and by, when I was older, she brought home the word Unintellectual, one time, and worked it pretty hard all the week at different gatherings, making much unhappiness and despondency; and it was at this time that I noticed that during that week she was asked for the meaning at eight different assemblages, and flashed out a fresh definition every time, which showed me that she had more presence of mind than culture, though I said nothing, of course. She had one word which she always kept on hand, and ready, like a life-preserver, a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was likely to get washed overboard in a sudden way—that was the word Synonymous. When she happened to fetch out a long word which had had its day weeks before and its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile, if there was a stranger there of course it knocked him groggy for a couple of minutes, then he would come to, and by that time she would be away down wind on another tack, and not expecting anything; so when he'd hail and ask her to cash in, I (the only dog on the inside of her game) could see her canvas flicker a moment—but only just a moment—then it would belly out taut and full, and she would say, as calm as a summer's day, “It's synonymous with supererogation,” or some godless long reptile of a word like that, and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack, perfectly comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger looking profane and embarrassed, and the initiated slatting the floor with their tails in unison and their faces transfigured with a holy joy.
My dad was a St. Bernard, my mom was a collie, but I’m a Presbyterian. That’s what my mom told me; I don’t really understand these fancy distinctions myself. To me, they’re just big words that mean nothing. My mom liked using them; she enjoyed seeing other dogs look surprised and jealous, as if wondering how she got so educated. But honestly, it wasn’t real education; it was just for show. She picked up the words by listening in the dining room and living room when there were guests, and by going to Sunday school with the kids. Whenever she heard a big word, she repeated it to herself many times, so she could use it when there was a dog gathering nearby. Then she’d pull it out and surprise everyone—from little pups to big mastiffs—who would reward her for her efforts. If there was a stranger, he would almost always look suspicious, and once he caught his breath, he’d ask her what it meant. And she always told him. He never expected that and thought he could catch her out, so when she explained it, he was the one who ended up looking ashamed, not her. The other dogs were always ready for this and proud of her because they knew what was coming—they had experience. When she explained a big word, they were so impressed that it never occurred to any of them to doubt if she was right; and that made sense, because for one, she answered so quickly that it seemed like a dictionary talking, and for another, how could they check if it was right? She was the only educated dog around. Eventually, when I got older, she brought home the word “Unintellectual” one time, and used it a lot that week at various gatherings, causing quite a bit of unhappiness and gloom. I noticed that during that week she was asked for the meaning eight different times and came up with a new definition each time, which made me realize she had more quick thinking than knowledge, though I didn’t say anything, of course. She had one word she always kept ready, like a lifeline—a kind of emergency word to pull out if she found herself in a tough spot—that was “Synonymous.” When she happened to pull out a long word that hadn’t been used in a while and didn’t have its definitions fresh in her mind, if there was a stranger present, it would throw him for a couple of minutes before he got his bearings back. By then, she’d be off on another topic, not expecting anything. So when he called out and asked for an explanation, I (the only dog who knew what she was up to) could see her hesitate for a moment—but just a moment—then she’d stand tall and say, calm as a sunny day, “It’s synonymous with supererogation,” or some other complicated word like that, and carry on comfortably to the next topic, leaving that stranger looking confused and embarrassed, while the other dogs wagged their tails in unison, their faces filled with pure joy.
And it was the same with phrases. She would drag home a whole phrase, if it had a grand sound, and play it six nights and two matinees, and explain it a new way every time—which she had to, for all she cared for was the phrase; she wasn't interested in what it meant, and knew those dogs hadn't wit enough to catch her, anyway. Yes, she was a daisy! She got so she wasn't afraid of anything, she had such confidence in the ignorance of those creatures. She even brought anecdotes that she had heard the family and the dinner-guests laugh and shout over; and as a rule she got the nub of one chestnut hitched onto another chestnut, where, of course, it didn't fit and hadn't any point; and when she delivered the nub she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and barked in the most insane way, while I could see that she was wondering to herself why it didn't seem as funny as it did when she first heard it. But no harm was done; the others rolled and barked too, privately ashamed of themselves for not seeing the point, and never suspecting that the fault was not with them and there wasn't any to see.
And it was the same with phrases. She would bring home an entire phrase if it sounded impressive and use it for six nights and two matinees, explaining it in a different way each time—which she had to, because all she cared about was the phrase; she wasn’t interested in its meaning, and knew those idiots didn’t have the wit to catch her anyway. Yeah, she was something else! She got to the point where she wasn’t afraid of anything, having such confidence in the ignorance of those people. She even brought up stories that she’d heard the family and the dinner guests laugh and yell about; usually, she would get the core of one old joke attached to another old joke, where it obviously didn’t fit and had no relevance; and when she delivered the punchline, she would fall over and roll on the floor, laughing and barking in the most ridiculous way, all while I could see she was wondering why it didn’t seem as funny as it did when she first heard it. But no harm was done; the others laughed and barked too, secretly embarrassed for not getting the point, and never realizing that the problem wasn’t with them and there was nothing to get.
You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and frivolous character; still, she had virtues, and enough to make up, I think. She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harbored resentments for injuries done her, but put them easily out of her mind and forgot them; and she taught her children her kindly way, and from her we learned also to be brave and prompt in time of danger, and not to run away, but face the peril that threatened friend or stranger, and help him the best we could without stopping to think what the cost might be to us. And she taught us not by words only, but by example, and that is the best way and the surest and the most lasting. Why, the brave things she did, the splendid things! she was just a soldier; and so modest about it—well, you couldn't help admiring her, and you couldn't help imitating her; not even a King Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society. So, as you see, there was more to her than her education.
You can tell from these things that she had a pretty vain and frivolous personality; still, she had enough good qualities, I think, to balance it out. She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and she never held grudges for the wrongs done to her, easily putting them out of her mind and forgetting them. She taught her children her kind approach, and from her, we also learned to be brave and act quickly in danger, not to run away but to face the threat to friends or strangers and help them as best we could without worrying about the cost to ourselves. And she taught us not just with words, but through her actions, which is the best, most reliable, and lasting way to learn. The brave things she did, the amazing things! She was like a soldier, and so humble about it—honestly, you couldn’t help but admire her, and you couldn’t help but want to be like her; not even a King Charles spaniel could manage to be completely unlikable in her presence. So, as you can see, there was more to her than just her background.
CHAPTER II
When I was well grown, at last, I was sold and taken away, and I never saw her again. She was broken-hearted, and so was I, and we cried; but she comforted me as well as she could, and said we were sent into this world for a wise and good purpose, and must do our duties without repining, take our life as we might find it, live it for the best good of others, and never mind about the results; they were not our affair. She said men who did like this would have a noble and beautiful reward by and by in another world, and although we animals would not go there, to do well and right without reward would give to our brief lives a worthiness and dignity which in itself would be a reward. She had gathered these things from time to time when she had gone to the Sunday-school with the children, and had laid them up in her memory more carefully than she had done with those other words and phrases; and she had studied them deeply, for her good and ours. One may see by this that she had a wise and thoughtful head, for all there was so much lightness and vanity in it.
When I finally grew up, I was sold and taken away, and I never saw her again. She was heartbroken, and so was I, and we cried; but she comforted me as best as she could and said we were put in this world for a wise and good purpose. We had to do our duties without complaining, accept our life as it comes, live it for the good of others, and not worry about the outcomes; those weren’t our concern. She said that people who lived this way would eventually receive a noble and beautiful reward in another life, and although we animals wouldn’t go there, living well and doing the right thing without expecting a reward would give our short lives worth and dignity, which in itself would be a reward. She had collected these ideas over time when she went to Sunday school with the kids, and she had remembered them more carefully than the other words and phrases. She had studied them deeply for her own good and ours. This shows that she had a wise and thoughtful mind, despite all the lightness and vanity in it.
So we said our farewells, and looked our last upon each other through our tears; and the last thing she said—keeping it for the last to make me remember it the better, I think—was, “In memory of me, when there is a time of danger to another do not think of yourself, think of your mother, and do as she would do.”
So we said our goodbyes and took one last look at each other through our tears. The last thing she said—saving it for last so I would remember it more clearly, I think—was, “In memory of me, when someone else is in danger, don’t think about yourself, think about your mother, and do what she would do.”
Do you think I could forget that? No.
Do you really think I could forget that? No.
CHAPTER III
It was such a charming home!—my new one; a fine great house, with pictures, and delicate decorations, and rich furniture, and no gloom anywhere, but all the wilderness of dainty colors lit up with flooding sunshine; and the spacious grounds around it, and the great garden—oh, greensward, and noble trees, and flowers, no end! And I was the same as a member of the family; and they loved me, and petted me, and did not give me a new name, but called me by my old one that was dear to me because my mother had given it me—Aileen Mavoureen. She got it out of a song; and the Grays knew that song, and said it was a beautiful name.
It was such a lovely home!—my new one; a big, beautiful house, filled with pictures, delicate decorations, and luxurious furniture, with no darkness anywhere, just a mix of pretty colors shining with bright sunlight; and the spacious grounds around it, and the huge garden—oh, green grass, majestic trees, and endless flowers! And I felt like I was part of the family; they cared for me, spoiled me, and didn’t give me a new name but called me by my old one, which was special to me since my mother had given it to me—Aileen Mavoureen. She took it from a song; and the Grays knew that song and said it was a lovely name.
Mrs. Gray was thirty, and so sweet and so lovely, you cannot imagine it; and Sadie was ten, and just like her mother, just a darling slender little copy of her, with auburn tails down her back, and short frocks; and the baby was a year old, and plump and dimpled, and fond of me, and never could get enough of hauling on my tail, and hugging me, and laughing out its innocent happiness; and Mr. Gray was thirty-eight, and tall and slender and handsome, a little bald in front, alert, quick in his movements, business-like, prompt, decided, unsentimental, and with that kind of trim-chiseled face that just seems to glint and sparkle with frosty intellectuality! He was a renowned scientist. I do not know what the word means, but my mother would know how to use it and get effects. She would know how to depress a rat-terrier with it and make a lap-dog look sorry he came. But that is not the best one; the best one was Laboratory. My mother could organize a Trust on that one that would skin the tax-collars off the whole herd. The laboratory was not a book, or a picture, or a place to wash your hands in, as the college president's dog said—no, that is the lavatory; the laboratory is quite different, and is filled with jars, and bottles, and electrics, and wires, and strange machines; and every week other scientists came there and sat in the place, and used the machines, and discussed, and made what they called experiments and discoveries; and often I came, too, and stood around and listened, and tried to learn, for the sake of my mother, and in loving memory of her, although it was a pain to me, as realizing what she was losing out of her life and I gaining nothing at all; for try as I might, I was never able to make anything out of it at all.
Mrs. Gray was thirty, super sweet and lovely, more than you could imagine; Sadie was ten, just like her mom, a darling little version of her, with auburn pigtails down her back and short dresses; and the baby was a year old, chubby and dimpled, loved me a lot, always pulling on my tail, hugging me, and giggling with innocent joy; Mr. Gray was thirty-eight, tall, slender, and handsome, a bit bald in front, always alert, quick in his movements, business-like, decisive, and practical, with a sculpted face that seemed to shine with frosty intelligence! He was a well-known scientist. I’m not sure what that means, but my mom would know how to use it to make an impression. She would know how to make a rat terrier feel down and make a lap dog regret showing up. But that's not the best word; the best one was Laboratory. My mom could create a Trust with that word that would take money from the entire lot. The laboratory wasn’t a book, or a picture, or a place to wash your hands in—like the college president's dog said—no, that's the lavatory; the laboratory is totally different, filled with jars, bottles, machines, wires, and all sorts of weird gadgets; and every week, other scientists would come there to sit, use the machines, discuss things, and do what they called experiments and discoveries; and I often showed up, standing around listening, trying to learn for my mom’s sake, in loving memory of her, even though it hurt me to realize what she was missing out on while I gained nothing at all; because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make sense of it at all.
Other times I lay on the floor in the mistress's work-room and slept, she gently using me for a foot-stool, knowing it pleased me, for it was a caress; other times I spent an hour in the nursery, and got well tousled and made happy; other times I watched by the crib there, when the baby was asleep and the nurse out for a few minutes on the baby's affairs; other times I romped and raced through the grounds and the garden with Sadie till we were tired out, then slumbered on the grass in the shade of a tree while she read her book; other times I went visiting among the neighbor dogs—for there were some most pleasant ones not far away, and one very handsome and courteous and graceful one, a curly-haired Irish setter by the name of Robin Adair, who was a Presbyterian like me, and belonged to the Scotch minister.
Other times I lay on the floor in the mistress's workroom and slept, her gently using me as a footstool, knowing it made me happy, as it felt like a caress; other times I spent an hour in the nursery, getting well messed up and made happy; other times I kept watch by the crib when the baby was asleep and the nurse stepped out for a few minutes; other times I played and raced through the grounds and the garden with Sadie until we were worn out, then dozed on the grass in the shade of a tree while she read her book; other times I visited with the neighbor dogs—there were some really nice ones nearby, and one very handsome and polite curly-haired Irish setter named Robin Adair, who was a Presbyterian like me and belonged to the Scotch minister.
The servants in our house were all kind to me and were fond of me, and so, as you see, mine was a pleasant life. There could not be a happier dog that I was, nor a gratefuler one. I will say this for myself, for it is only the truth: I tried in all ways to do well and right, and honor my mother's memory and her teachings, and earn the happiness that had come to me, as best I could.
The staff in our home were always nice to me and cared about me, so, as you can see, I had a happy life. There couldn't have been a happier dog than I was, nor a more grateful one. I’ll say this for myself, because it’s true: I did my best to be good and do the right thing, honor my mother’s memory and her lessons, and deserve the happiness that had come my way, as best as I could.
By and by came my little puppy, and then my cup was full, my happiness was perfect. It was the dearest little waddling thing, and so smooth and soft and velvety, and had such cunning little awkward paws, and such affectionate eyes, and such a sweet and innocent face; and it made me so proud to see how the children and their mother adored it, and fondled it, and exclaimed over every little wonderful thing it did. It did seem to me that life was just too lovely to—
By and by, my little puppy arrived, and then my cup was full, my happiness was perfect. It was the cutest little waddling thing, so smooth, soft, and velvety, with those adorable awkward paws, affectionate eyes, and a sweet, innocent face. I felt so proud watching how the children and their mother adored it, played with it, and praised every little amazing thing it did. It really felt like life was just too lovely to—
Then came the winter. One day I was standing a watch in the nursery. That is to say, I was asleep on the bed. The baby was asleep in the crib, which was alongside the bed, on the side next the fireplace. It was the kind of crib that has a lofty tent over it made of gauzy stuff that you can see through. The nurse was out, and we two sleepers were alone. A spark from the wood-fire was shot out, and it lit on the slope of the tent. I suppose a quiet interval followed, then a scream from the baby awoke me, and there was that tent flaming up toward the ceiling! Before I could think, I sprang to the floor in my fright, and in a second was half-way to the door; but in the next half-second my mother's farewell was sounding in my ears, and I was back on the bed again., I reached my head through the flames and dragged the baby out by the waist-band, and tugged it along, and we fell to the floor together in a cloud of smoke; I snatched a new hold, and dragged the screaming little creature along and out at the door and around the bend of the hall, and was still tugging away, all excited and happy and proud, when the master's voice shouted:
Then winter arrived. One day, I was supposed to be keeping watch in the nursery. Actually, I had dozed off on the bed. The baby was asleep in the crib right next to the bed, on the side by the fireplace. It was one of those cribs with a high canopy made of sheer fabric that you can see through. The nurse was out, leaving just the two of us sleepers alone. A spark from the fire shot out and landed on the canopy. I guess a brief moment of silence followed, then a scream from the baby woke me up, and that canopy was ablaze, reaching up to the ceiling! Before I could think, I jumped off the bed in panic and was halfway to the door; but in the next instant, my mother’s farewell echoed in my ears, and I found myself back on the bed. I pushed my head through the flames and yanked the baby out by the waistband, pulling it along with me, and we collapsed to the floor in a cloud of smoke. I grabbed hold again and pulled the screaming little one through the door and around the corner in the hall, still tugging away, all flustered and exhilarated and proud, when the master's voice shouted:
“Begone you cursed beast!” and I jumped to save myself; but he was furiously quick, and chased me up, striking furiously at me with his cane, I dodging this way and that, in terror, and at last a strong blow fell upon my left foreleg, which made me shriek and fall, for the moment, helpless; the cane went up for another blow, but never descended, for the nurse's voice rang wildly out, “The nursery's on fire!” and the master rushed away in that direction, and my other bones were saved.
“Get away from me, you cursed beast!” I jumped to escape, but he was incredibly fast and chased me down, swinging his cane at me. I dodged left and right in fear, and finally, a hard hit landed on my left foreleg, making me scream and fall, momentarily helpless. The cane rose for another strike, but it never came down because the nurse's voice erupted, “The nursery's on fire!” and the master ran off in that direction, leaving my other bones safe.
The pain was cruel, but, no matter, I must not lose any time; he might come back at any moment; so I limped on three legs to the other end of the hall, where there was a dark little stairway leading up into a garret where old boxes and such things were kept, as I had heard say, and where people seldom went. I managed to climb up there, then I searched my way through the dark among the piles of things, and hid in the secretest place I could find. It was foolish to be afraid there, yet still I was; so afraid that I held in and hardly even whimpered, though it would have been such a comfort to whimper, because that eases the pain, you know. But I could lick my leg, and that did some good.
The pain was harsh, but I couldn't waste any time; he could come back at any moment. So, I hobbled on three legs to the other end of the hall, where there was a dark little stairway leading up to an attic that supposedly held old boxes and other things, a place where people rarely went. I managed to climb up there, then I felt my way through the darkness among the piles of stuff and hid in the best spot I could find. It was silly to be scared there, but I was; so scared that I held in my emotions and barely whimpered, even though it would have been such a relief to cry a little, since that helps with the pain, you know. But I could lick my leg, and that helped a bit.
For half an hour there was a commotion downstairs, and shoutings, and rushing footsteps, and then there was quiet again. Quiet for some minutes, and that was grateful to my spirit, for then my fears began to go down; and fears are worse than pains—oh, much worse. Then came a sound that froze me. They were calling me—calling me by name—hunting for me!
For half an hour, there was a lot of noise downstairs—shouting, rushing footsteps—and then it went quiet again. It was quiet for a few minutes, which was a relief to my spirit because my fears started to ease; and fears are way worse than pain—so much worse. Then I heard a sound that chilled me. They were calling me—calling me by name—looking for me!
It was muffled by distance, but that could not take the terror out of it, and it was the most dreadful sound to me that I had ever heard. It went all about, everywhere, down there: along the halls, through all the rooms, in both stories, and in the basement and the cellar; then outside, and farther and farther away—then back, and all about the house again, and I thought it would never, never stop. But at last it did, hours and hours after the vague twilight of the garret had long ago been blotted out by black darkness.
It was faint from a distance, but that didn’t lessen its terror, and it was the scariest sound I had ever heard. It echoed everywhere down there: along the halls, through all the rooms, on both floors, and in the basement and cellar; then outside, and farther and farther away—then back again, all around the house, and I thought it would never, ever stop. But finally, it did, hours after the dim twilight of the attic had been swallowed by total darkness.
Then in that blessed stillness my terrors fell little by little away, and I was at peace and slept. It was a good rest I had, but I woke before the twilight had come again. I was feeling fairly comfortable, and I could think out a plan now. I made a very good one; which was, to creep down, all the way down the back stairs, and hide behind the cellar door, and slip out and escape when the iceman came at dawn, while he was inside filling the refrigerator; then I would hide all day, and start on my journey when night came; my journey to—well, anywhere where they would not know me and betray me to the master. I was feeling almost cheerful now; then suddenly I thought: Why, what would life be without my puppy!
Then in that blessed silence, my fears gradually faded away, and I felt at peace and fell asleep. I had a good rest, but I woke up before dawn. I was feeling pretty comfortable and could come up with a plan now. I created a solid one: I would quietly go down the back stairs, hide behind the cellar door, and slip out when the iceman arrived at dawn, while he was inside filling the refrigerator. Then I would hide all day and start my journey at night—my journey to anywhere they wouldn't recognize me and betray me to the master. I was feeling almost cheerful when suddenly I thought: What would life be without my puppy!
That was despair. There was no plan for me; I saw that; I must say where I was; stay, and wait, and take what might come—it was not my affair; that was what life is—my mother had said it. Then—well, then the calling began again! All my sorrows came back. I said to myself, the master will never forgive. I did not know what I had done to make him so bitter and so unforgiving, yet I judged it was something a dog could not understand, but which was clear to a man and dreadful.
That was despair. There was no plan for me; I realized that. I had to stay put, wait, and accept whatever came my way—it wasn’t my doing; that was just how life is—my mom had said it. Then—well, then the calling started again! All my sorrows returned. I told myself the master would never forgive me. I didn’t understand what I had done to make him so bitter and unforgiving, but I figured it was something a dog wouldn’t grasp, yet was obvious and terrible to a man.
They called and called—days and nights, it seemed to me. So long that the hunger and thirst near drove me mad, and I recognized that I was getting very weak. When you are this way you sleep a great deal, and I did. Once I woke in an awful fright—it seemed to me that the calling was right there in the garret! And so it was: it was Sadie's voice, and she was crying; my name was falling from her lips all broken, poor thing, and I could not believe my ears for the joy of it when I heard her say:
They called and called—days and nights, it felt like. It went on so long that the hunger and thirst nearly drove me crazy, and I realized I was getting really weak. When you're in that state, you sleep a lot, and I did. One time, I woke up in a terrible panic—it felt like the calling was right there in the attic! And it was: it was Sadie's voice, and she was crying; my name was coming from her lips all broken, poor thing, and I couldn't believe my ears out of joy when I heard her say:
“Come back to us—oh, come back to us, and forgive—it is all so sad without our—”
“Come back to us—oh, please come back to us, and forgive us—it’s all so sad without our—”
I broke in with such a grateful little yelp, and the next moment Sadie was plunging and stumbling through the darkness and the lumber and shouting for the family to hear, “She's found, she's found!”
I let out a grateful little yelp, and the next moment, Sadie was diving and tripping through the darkness and the clutter, shouting for the family to hear, “She's found, she's found!”
The days that followed—well, they were wonderful. The mother and Sadie and the servants—why, they just seemed to worship me. They couldn't seem to make me a bed that was fine enough; and as for food, they couldn't be satisfied with anything but game and delicacies that were out of season; and every day the friends and neighbors flocked in to hear about my heroism—that was the name they called it by, and it means agriculture. I remember my mother pulling it on a kennel once, and explaining it in that way, but didn't say what agriculture was, except that it was synonymous with intramural incandescence; and a dozen times a day Mrs. Gray and Sadie would tell the tale to new-comers, and say I risked my life to save the baby's, and both of us had burns to prove it, and then the company would pass me around and pet me and exclaim about me, and you could see the pride in the eyes of Sadie and her mother; and when the people wanted to know what made me limp, they looked ashamed and changed the subject, and sometimes when people hunted them this way and that way with questions about it, it looked to me as if they were going to cry.
The days ahead were amazing. My mother, Sadie, and the staff seemed to completely adore me. They were determined to make my bed as luxurious as possible, and when it came to food, they wouldn't settle for anything less than game and seasonal delicacies. Every day, friends and neighbors came over to hear about my bravery—that's what they called it, and it really meant being a hero. I remember my mother once explaining it while pulling it on a leash, but she didn't really explain what it was, just that it was the same as inner light; and a dozen times a day, Mrs. Gray and Sadie would share the story with newcomers, saying I risked my life to save the baby’s, and that we both had burns to prove it. Then the guests would pass me around, pet me, and rave about me, and you could see the pride in Sadie and her mother's eyes. When people asked what caused my limp, they looked uncomfortable and switched topics, and sometimes, when people pressed them for details, it seemed like they were about to cry.
And this was not all the glory; no, the master's friends came, a whole twenty of the most distinguished people, and had me in the laboratory, and discussed me as if I was a kind of discovery; and some of them said it was wonderful in a dumb beast, the finest exhibition of instinct they could call to mind; but the master said, with vehemence, “It's far above instinct; it's reason, and many a man, privileged to be saved and go with you and me to a better world by right of its possession, has less of it that this poor silly quadruped that's foreordained to perish”; and then he laughed, and said: “Why, look at me—I'm a sarcasm! bless you, with all my grand intelligence, the only thing I inferred was that the dog had gone mad and was destroying the child, whereas but for the beast's intelligence—it's reason, I tell you!—the child would have perished!”
And that wasn’t all the excitement; no, the master’s friends came over, a full twenty of the most renowned people, and they brought me into the lab, discussing me as if I were some kind of discovery. Some of them said it was amazing for a dumb animal, the best display of instinct they could remember; but the master insisted passionately, “It’s far beyond instinct; it’s reason, and many a man, who has the privilege of being saved and going with you and me to a better world because of this gift, has less of it than this poor silly creature that’s destined to die.” Then he laughed and said, “Look at me—I’m a walking irony! With all my great intelligence, the only thing I figured out was that the dog was going crazy and was attacking the child. But without the dog’s intelligence—it's reason, I tell you!—the child wouldn’t have survived!”
They disputed and disputed, and I was the very center of subject of it all, and I wished my mother could know that this grand honor had come to me; it would have made her proud.
They argued and argued, and I was the main topic of it all, and I wished my mom could know that this great honor had come to me; it would have made her proud.
Then they discussed optics, as they called it, and whether a certain injury to the brain would produce blindness or not, but they could not agree about it, and said they must test it by experiment by and by; and next they discussed plants, and that interested me, because in the summer Sadie and I had planted seeds—I helped her dig the holes, you know—and after days and days a little shrub or a flower came up there, and it was a wonder how that could happen; but it did, and I wished I could talk—I would have told those people about it and shown then how much I knew, and been all alive with the subject; but I didn't care for the optics; it was dull, and when they came back to it again it bored me, and I went to sleep.
Then they talked about optics, as they called it, and whether a certain brain injury would cause blindness or not, but they couldn’t agree and said they needed to test it with an experiment later on; then they moved on to discuss plants, which caught my interest because in the summer Sadie and I had planted seeds—I helped her dig the holes, you know—and after days and days, a little shrub or flower popped up, and it was amazing how that happened; but it did, and I wished I could talk—I would have told those people about it and shown them how much I knew, and I would have been really excited about the topic; but I didn’t care about the optics; it was boring, and when they returned to it again, it put me to sleep.
Pretty soon it was spring, and sunny and pleasant and lovely, and the sweet mother and the children patted me and the puppy good-by, and went away on a journey and a visit to their kin, and the master wasn't any company for us, but we played together and had good times, and the servants were kind and friendly, so we got along quite happily and counted the days and waited for the family.
Pretty soon it was spring, sunny, pleasant, and lovely. The sweet mother and the kids said goodbye to me and the puppy and went off on a trip to visit their relatives. The master wasn’t much company for us, but we played together and had a great time. The servants were kind and friendly, so we got along quite happily, counting the days and waiting for the family to come back.
And one day those men came again, and said, now for the test, and they took the puppy to the laboratory, and I limped three-leggedly along, too, feeling proud, for any attention shown to the puppy was a pleasure to me, of course. They discussed and experimented, and then suddenly the puppy shrieked, and they set him on the floor, and he went staggering around, with his head all bloody, and the master clapped his hands and shouted:
And one day those guys came back and said it was time for the test. They took the puppy to the lab, and I limped along with them, feeling proud because any attention given to the puppy made me happy, of course. They talked and experimented, and then suddenly the puppy yelped, and they set him down on the floor, and he stumbled around, his head all bloody, and the master clapped his hands and shouted:
“There, I've won—confess it! He's a blind as a bat!”
“There, I’ve won—admit it! He’s as blind as a bat!”
And they all said:
And they all said:
“It's so—you've proved your theory, and suffering humanity owes you a great debt from henceforth,” and they crowded around him, and wrung his hand cordially and thankfully, and praised him.
“It's amazing—you've proven your theory, and humanity in pain owes you a huge debt from now on,” and they gathered around him, warmly shook his hand in gratitude, and praised him.
But I hardly saw or heard these things, for I ran at once to my little darling, and snuggled close to it where it lay, and licked the blood, and it put its head against mine, whimpering softly, and I knew in my heart it was a comfort to it in its pain and trouble to feel its mother's touch, though it could not see me. Then it dropped down, presently, and its little velvet nose rested upon the floor, and it was still, and did not move any more.
But I barely noticed or heard anything else, because I immediately rushed over to my little darling and snuggled up close to it where it lay. I licked the blood, and it pressed its head against mine, whimpering softly. I knew in my heart that my touch was a comfort to it in its pain and distress, even though it couldn’t see me. Then it lowered its head, and its little velvet nose rested on the floor, becoming still and not moving anymore.
Soon the master stopped discussing a moment, and rang in the footman, and said, “Bury it in the far corner of the garden,” and then went on with the discussion, and I trotted after the footman, very happy and grateful, for I knew the puppy was out of its pain now, because it was asleep. We went far down the garden to the farthest end, where the children and the nurse and the puppy and I used to play in the summer in the shade of a great elm, and there the footman dug a hole, and I saw he was going to plant the puppy, and I was glad, because it would grow and come up a fine handsome dog, like Robin Adair, and be a beautiful surprise for the family when they came home; so I tried to help him dig, but my lame leg was no good, being stiff, you know, and you have to have two, or it is no use. When the footman had finished and covered little Robin up, he patted my head, and there were tears in his eyes, and he said: “Poor little doggie, you saved his child!”
Soon the master paused in the conversation and called the footman, saying, “Bury it in the far corner of the garden,” and then resumed his discussion. I happily followed the footman, grateful, because I knew the puppy was free from pain now that it was asleep. We walked deep into the garden to the farthest point, where the children, the nurse, the puppy, and I used to play in the summer shade of a big elm tree. There, the footman started digging a hole, and I realized he was going to bury the puppy. I felt glad because it would grow into a strong, handsome dog, like Robin Adair, and become a wonderful surprise for the family when they returned home. I tried to help him dig, but my lame leg was useless since it was stiff; you really need two good legs for that. Once the footman finished and covered little Robin up, he patted my head, tears in his eyes, and said, “Poor little doggie, you saved his child!”
I have watched two whole weeks, and he doesn't come up! This last week a fright has been stealing upon me. I think there is something terrible about this. I do not know what it is, but the fear makes me sick, and I cannot eat, though the servants bring me the best of food; and they pet me so, and even come in the night, and cry, and say, “Poor doggie—do give it up and come home; don't break our hearts!” and all this terrifies me the more, and makes me sure something has happened. And I am so weak; since yesterday I cannot stand on my feet anymore. And within this hour the servants, looking toward the sun where it was sinking out of sight and the night chill coming on, said things I could not understand, but they carried something cold to my heart.
I've been waiting for two whole weeks, and he still hasn't shown up! This past week, an awful feeling has been creeping over me. I sense something bad is going on. I can't pinpoint it, but the fear is making me nauseous, and I can't eat, even though the staff brings me the best food. They fuss over me so much, coming in at night, crying, and saying, “Poor doggie—please come home; don't break our hearts!” All of this terrifies me even more and makes me think something has really happened. I'm so weak; since yesterday, I can't even stand on my feet anymore. Just now, the staff, looking at the sun as it was setting and the chill of night approaching, said things I couldn't understand, but they filled my heart with cold dread.
“Those poor creatures! They do not suspect. They will come home in the morning, and eagerly ask for the little doggie that did the brave deed, and who of us will be strong enough to say the truth to them: 'The humble little friend is gone where go the beasts that perish.'”
"Those poor creatures! They have no idea. They'll come home in the morning, excited to ask for the little dog that did the brave thing, and who among us will be strong enough to tell them the truth: 'The humble little friend has gone where the creatures that die go.'"
WAS IT HEAVEN? OR HELL?
CHAPTER I
“You told a lie?”
“You told a lie?”
“You confess it—you actually confess it—you told a lie!”
"You admit it—you really admit it—you lied!"
CHAPTER II
The family consisted of four persons: Margaret Lester, widow, aged thirty six; Helen Lester, her daughter, aged sixteen; Mrs. Lester's maiden aunts, Hannah and Hester Gray, twins, aged sixty-seven. Waking and sleeping, the three women spent their days and nights in adoring the young girl; in watching the movements of her sweet spirit in the mirror of her face; in refreshing their souls with the vision of her bloom and beauty; in listening to the music of her voice; in gratefully recognizing how rich and fair for them was the world with this presence in it; in shuddering to think how desolate it would be with this light gone out of it.
The family had four members: Margaret Lester, a widow, who was thirty-six; her daughter, Helen Lester, who was sixteen; and Margaret's maiden aunts, twins Hannah and Hester Gray, who were sixty-seven. Day and night, the three women devoted themselves to adoring the young girl; they watched the expressions of her sweet spirit reflected in her face; they nourished their souls with the sight of her bloom and beauty; they listened to the music of her voice; they appreciated how rich and beautiful the world felt with her in it; and they shuddered at the thought of how empty it would be without her light.
By nature—and inside—the aged aunts were utterly dear and lovable and good, but in the matter of morals and conduct their training had been so uncompromisingly strict that it had made them exteriorly austere, not to say stern. Their influence was effective in the house; so effective that the mother and the daughter conformed to its moral and religious requirements cheerfully, contentedly, happily, unquestionably. To do this was become second nature to them. And so in this peaceful heaven there were no clashings, no irritations, no fault-finding, no heart-burnings.
By nature—and on the inside—the elderly aunts were completely dear, lovable, and kind, but their upbringing in terms of morals and behavior had been so strictly enforced that it made them appear quite stern, if not severe. Their influence in the household was strong; so strong that both the mother and the daughter happily and willingly followed its moral and religious standards without question. It had become second nature for them. And so, in this tranquil home, there were no conflicts, no annoyances, no complaints, no hard feelings.
In it a lie had no place. In it a lie was unthinkable. In it speech was restricted to absolute truth, iron-bound truth, implacable and uncompromising truth, let the resulting consequences be what they might. At last, one day, under stress of circumstances, the darling of the house sullied her lips with a lie—and confessed it, with tears and self-upbraidings. There are not any words that can paint the consternation of the aunts. It was as if the sky had crumpled up and collapsed and the earth had tumbled to ruin with a crash. They sat side by side, white and stern, gazing speechless upon the culprit, who was on her knees before them with her face buried first in one lap and then the other, moaning and sobbing, and appealing for sympathy and forgiveness and getting no response, humbly kissing the hand of the one, then of the other, only to see it withdrawn as suffering defilement by those soiled lips.
In that place, a lie had no place. A lie was unthinkable there. Speech was limited to complete truth, unyielding truth, harsh and uncompromising truth, no matter what the consequences might be. Finally, one day, under pressure, the favorite of the house tainted her lips with a lie—and confessed it, in tears and self-reproach. There are no words to describe the shock of the aunts. It felt like the sky had crumpled and collapsed, and the earth had shattered with a crash. They sat side by side, pale and stern, staring in silence at the guilty one, who was on her knees before them with her face buried first in one lap and then the other, moaning and sobbing, begging for sympathy and forgiveness but receiving none, humbly kissing one hand, then the other, only to have them withdrawn as if tainted by those soiled lips.
Twice, at intervals, Aunt Hester said, in frozen amazement:
Twice, at intervals, Aunt Hester said, in shocked disbelief:
“You told a lie?”
“You told a lie?”
Twice, at intervals, Aunt Hannah followed with the muttered and amazed ejaculation:
Twice, at different times, Aunt Hannah repeated with a murmured and astonished exclamation:
“You confess it—you actually confess it—you told a lie!”
“You admit it—you really admit it—you lied!”
It was all they could say. The situation was new, unheard of, incredible; they could not understand it, they did not know how to take hold of it, it approximately paralyzed speech.
It was all they could express. The situation was new, unprecedented, unbelievable; they couldn't grasp it, they didn't know how to handle it, it nearly left them speechless.
At length it was decided that the erring child must be taken to her mother, who was ill, and who ought to know what had happened. Helen begged, besought, implored that she might be spared this further disgrace, and that her mother might be spared the grief and pain of it; but this could not be: duty required this sacrifice, duty takes precedence of all things, nothing can absolve one from a duty, with a duty no compromise is possible.
Eventually, it was decided that the child who had made a mistake had to be taken to her mother, who was sick and needed to know what had happened. Helen pleaded, begged, and desperately asked to be spared this additional shame and for her mother to be spared the sorrow and pain of it; but that couldn’t happen: duty demanded this sacrifice, duty comes before everything, nothing can excuse someone from their duty, and there’s no room for compromise when it comes to duty.
Helen still begged, and said the sin was her own, her mother had had no hand in it—why must she be made to suffer for it?
Helen continued to plead and said that the fault was hers alone; her mother had nothing to do with it—why should she have to suffer for it?
But the aunts were obdurate in their righteousness, and said the law that visited the sins of the parent upon the child was by all right and reason reversible; and therefore it was but just that the innocent mother of a sinning child should suffer her rightful share of the grief and pain and shame which were the allotted wages of the sin.
But the aunts were stubborn in their belief that they were right, and said the law that punished the child for the parent's sins was, by all accounts, unfair and could be changed; therefore, it was only fair that the innocent mother of a guilty child should endure her fair share of the grief, pain, and shame that came as the consequence of the sin.
The three moved toward the sick-room.
The three walked toward the sick room.
At this time the doctor was approaching the house. He was still a good distance away, however. He was a good doctor and a good man, and he had a good heart, but one had to know him a year to get over hating him, two years to learn to endure him, three to learn to like him, and four and five to learn to love him. It was a slow and trying education, but it paid. He was of great stature; he had a leonine head, a leonine face, a rough voice, and an eye which was sometimes a pirate's and sometimes a woman's, according to the mood. He knew nothing about etiquette, and cared nothing about it; in speech, manner, carriage, and conduct he was the reverse of conventional. He was frank, to the limit; he had opinions on all subjects; they were always on tap and ready for delivery, and he cared not a farthing whether his listener liked them or didn't. Whom he loved he loved, and manifested it; whom he didn't love he hated, and published it from the housetops. In his young days he had been a sailor, and the salt-airs of all the seas blew from him yet. He was a sturdy and loyal Christian, and believed he was the best one in the land, and the only one whose Christianity was perfectly sound, healthy, full-charged with common sense, and had no decayed places in it. People who had an ax to grind, or people who for any reason wanted to get on the soft side of him, called him The Christian—a phrase whose delicate flattery was music to his ears, and whose capital T was such an enchanting and vivid object to him that he could see it when it fell out of a person's mouth even in the dark. Many who were fond of him stood on their consciences with both feet and brazenly called him by that large title habitually, because it was a pleasure to them to do anything that would please him; and with eager and cordial malice his extensive and diligently cultivated crop of enemies gilded it, beflowered it, expanded it to “The only Christian.” Of these two titles, the latter had the wider currency; the enemy, being greatly in the majority, attended to that. Whatever the doctor believed, he believed with all his heart, and would fight for it whenever he got the chance; and if the intervals between chances grew to be irksomely wide, he would invent ways of shortening them himself. He was severely conscientious, according to his rather independent lights, and whatever he took to be a duty he performed, no matter whether the judgment of the professional moralists agreed with his own or not. At sea, in his young days, he had used profanity freely, but as soon as he was converted he made a rule, which he rigidly stuck to ever afterward, never to use it except on the rarest occasions, and then only when duty commanded. He had been a hard drinker at sea, but after his conversion he became a firm and outspoken teetotaler, in order to be an example to the young, and from that time forth he seldom drank; never, indeed, except when it seemed to him to be a duty—a condition which sometimes occurred a couple of times a year, but never as many as five times.
At that moment, the doctor was on his way to the house. He was still quite far away, though. He was a good doctor and a good person, with a big heart, but you had to know him for a year to get past hating him, two years to put up with him, three to start liking him, and four or five to truly love him. It was a slow and challenging process, but it was worth it. He was tall; he had a lion-like head, a lion-like face, a rough voice, and an eye that could look like a pirate’s at times and like a woman’s at others, depending on his mood. He didn’t know anything about etiquette and didn’t care about it; in how he spoke, acted, carried himself, and behaved, he certainly wasn’t conventional. He was extremely straightforward; he had opinions on everything, and they were always ready to share, regardless of whether the person listening liked them or not. Those he loved, he showed it; those he didn’t love, he hated, and made sure everyone knew. In his youth, he had been a sailor, and the salty air of the seas still lingered around him. He was a strong and loyal Christian, believing he was the best one around and the only one whose faith was completely sound, healthy, full of common sense, and without any flaws. People who had their own agendas or simply wanted to win his favor called him The Christian—a phrase that flattered him and sounded sweet to his ears, and he could actually see the capital T floating in the air whenever someone said it, even in the dark. Many who liked him would passionately use that grand title every chance they got, purely to please him, while his many enemies, eager with malicious intent, would sometimes add a flourish, turning it into “The only Christian.” Of the two titles, the latter was more popular, as his enemies were in the majority. Whatever the doctor believed, he believed wholeheartedly and would fight for it whenever he had the opportunity; if those opportunities were too far apart, he would find ways to create them himself. He was deeply conscientious, according to his own independent beliefs, and whatever he considered a duty, he did, regardless of whether professional moralists agreed with him. At sea in his younger days, he had used profanity freely, but after his conversion, he made a strict rule to only use it on the rarest occasions, and then only when duty called for it. He had been a heavy drinker while at sea, but after his conversion, he became a committed and outspoken teetotaler to set an example for the young, and since then he rarely drank—only when it felt like a duty, which might happen a couple of times a year, but never more than five times.
Necessarily, such a man is impressionable, impulsive, emotional. This one was, and had no gift at hiding his feelings; or if he had it he took no trouble to exercise it. He carried his soul's prevailing weather in his face, and when he entered a room the parasols or the umbrellas went up—figuratively speaking—according to the indications. When the soft light was in his eye it meant approval, and delivered a benediction; when he came with a frown he lowered the temperature ten degrees. He was a well-beloved man in the house of his friends, but sometimes a dreaded one.
Naturally, such a person is impressionable, impulsive, and emotional. This one was, and he had no skill in hiding his feelings; or if he did, he didn’t bother to use it. His emotions were clear on his face, and when he entered a room, figuratively speaking, the parasols or umbrellas went up depending on his mood. When the soft light was in his eyes, it meant approval and brought a blessing; when he walked in frowning, he dropped the temperature by ten degrees. He was well-liked in his friends' homes, but at times, he was also feared.
He had a deep affection for the Lester household and its several members returned this feeling with interest. They mourned over his kind of Christianity, and he frankly scoffed at theirs; but both parties went on loving each other just the same.
He cared deeply for the Lester family, and its members felt the same way about him. They were saddened by his type of Christianity, and he openly mocked theirs, but both sides continued to love each other just the same.
He was approaching the house—out of the distance; the aunts and the culprit were moving toward the sick-chamber.
He was walking toward the house from a distance; the aunts and the culprit were heading to the sickroom.
CHAPTER III
The three last named stood by the bed; the aunts austere, the transgressor softly sobbing. The mother turned her head on the pillow; her tired eyes flamed up instantly with sympathy and passionate mother-love when they fell upon her child, and she opened the refuge and shelter of her arms.
The last three stood by the bed; the aunts were stern, while the transgressor softly sobbed. The mother turned her head on the pillow; her tired eyes instantly lit up with sympathy and deep maternal love when she saw her child, and she opened her arms to offer refuge and comfort.
“Wait!” said Aunt Hannah, and put out her hand and stayed the girl from leaping into them.
“Wait!” said Aunt Hannah, reaching out to stop the girl from jumping into them.
“Helen,” said the other aunt, impressively, “tell your mother all. Purge your soul; leave nothing unconfessed.”
“Helen,” said the other aunt seriously, “tell your mom everything. Clear your conscience; don’t hold anything back.”
Standing stricken and forlorn before her judges, the young girl mourned her sorrowful tale through the end, then in a passion of appeal cried out:
Standing shocked and heartbroken before her judges, the young girl shared her sad story until the end, then in a moment of desperation cried out:
“Oh, mother, can't you forgive me? won't you forgive me?—I am so desolate!”
“Oh, mom, can’t you forgive me? Won’t you forgive me?—I’m so heartbroken!”
“Forgive you, my darling? Oh, come to my arms!—there, lay your head upon my breast, and be at peace. If you had told a thousand lies—”
“Forgive you, my love? Oh, come into my arms!—there, rest your head on my chest, and find peace. Even if you had told a thousand lies—”
There was a sound—a warning—the clearing of a throat. The aunts glanced up, and withered in their clothes—there stood the doctor, his face a thunder-cloud. Mother and child knew nothing of his presence; they lay locked together, heart to heart, steeped in immeasurable content, dead to all things else. The physician stood many moments glaring and glooming upon the scene before him; studying it, analyzing it, searching out its genesis; then he put up his hand and beckoned to the aunts. They came trembling to him, and stood humbly before him and waited. He bent down and whispered:
There was a sound—a warning—the clearing of a throat. The aunts looked up and shrank back in their clothes—there stood the doctor, his face like a storm cloud. Mother and child had no idea he was there; they lay entwined, heart to heart, lost in bliss, oblivious to everything else. The doctor stood for several moments, glaring and brooding at the scene in front of him; he studied it, analyzed it, trying to uncover its origins; then he raised his hand and motioned for the aunts. They approached him, shaking, and stood before him, waiting. He leaned down and whispered:
“Didn't I tell you this patient must be protected from all excitement? What the hell have you been doing? Clear out of the place!”
“Didn't I tell you this patient needs to be kept away from any excitement? What have you been doing? Get out of here!”
They obeyed. Half an hour later he appeared in the parlor, serene, cheery, clothed in sunshine, conducting Helen, with his arm about her waist, petting her, and saying gentle and playful things to her; and she also was her sunny and happy self again.
They complied. Half an hour later, he walked into the living room, calm and cheerful, basking in sunshine, with his arm around Helen’s waist, comforting her and saying sweet, playful things to her; and she was her sunny and happy self again, as well.
“Now, then;” he said, “good-by, dear. Go to your room, and keep away from your mother, and behave yourself. But wait—put out your tongue. There, that will do—you're as sound as a nut!” He patted her cheek and added, “Run along now; I want to talk to these aunts.”
“Alright then,” he said, “goodbye, dear. Go to your room, stay away from your mom, and behave. But wait—stick out your tongue. There, that’s enough—you’re as healthy as can be!” He patted her cheek and added, “Now go on; I need to talk to your aunts.”
She went from the presence. His face clouded over again at once; and as he sat down he said:
She left the room. His face immediately darkened again, and as he took a seat, he said:
“You too have been doing a lot of damage—and maybe some good. Some good, yes—such as it is. That woman's disease is typhoid! You've brought it to a show-up, I think, with your insanities, and that's a service—such as it is. I hadn't been able to determine what it was before.”
“You've caused a lot of harm—and maybe a little good. Some good, sure—if you can call it that. That woman has typhoid! I think you've exposed it with your craziness, and that's helpful—if you can call it that. I couldn’t figure out what it was before.”
With one impulse the old ladies sprang to their feet, quaking with terror.
With one instinct, the old ladies jumped up, shaking with fear.
“Sit down! What are you proposing to do?”
“Sit down! What do you plan to do?"
“Do? We must fly to her. We—”
“Do? We have to hurry to her. We—”
“You'll do nothing of the kind; you've done enough harm for one day. Do you want to squander all your capital of crimes and follies on a single deal? Sit down, I tell you. I have arranged for her to sleep; she needs it; if you disturb her without my orders, I'll brain you—if you've got the materials for it.”
“You're not going to do that; you've caused enough trouble for one day. Do you really want to waste all your chances on one stupid move? Sit down, I’m serious. I’ve made sure she can sleep; she needs it. If you wake her up without my permission, I’ll take care of you—if you can handle it.”
They sat down, distressed and indignant, but obedient, under compulsion. He proceeded:
They sat down, upset and angry, but reluctantly compliant, under pressure. He continued:
“Now, then, I want this case explained. They wanted to explain it to me—as if there hadn't been emotion or excitement enough already. You knew my orders; how did you dare to go in there and get up that riot?”
“Okay, I need this situation explained. They wanted to explain it to me—as if there hadn’t been enough emotion or excitement already. You knew my orders; how did you have the nerve to go in there and start that riot?”
Hester looked appealing at Hannah; Hannah returned a beseeching look at Hester—neither wanted to dance to this unsympathetic orchestra. The doctor came to their help. He said:
Hester looked at Hannah with a hopeful expression; Hannah gave Hester a pleading glance—neither wanted to dance to this unfeeling orchestra. The doctor came to their rescue. He said:
“Begin, Hester.”
"Go ahead, Hester."
Fingering at the fringes of her shawl, and with lowered eyes, Hester said, timidly:
Fingering the edges of her shawl and keeping her eyes down, Hester said, shyly:
“We should not have disobeyed for any ordinary cause, but this was vital. This was a duty. With a duty one has no choice; one must put all lighter considerations aside and perform it. We were obliged to arraign her before her mother. She had told a lie.”
“We shouldn’t have disobeyed for any ordinary reason, but this was crucial. This was a responsibility. When it comes to duty, there’s no choice; you have to set aside all the trivial stuff and get it done. We had to bring her before her mother. She had lied.”
The doctor glowered upon the woman a moment, and seemed to be trying to work up in his mind an understanding of a wholly incomprehensible proposition; then he stormed out:
The doctor glared at the woman for a moment, as if he was trying to wrap his head around a completely baffling idea; then he stormed out:
“She told a lie! did she? God bless my soul! I tell a million a day! And so does every doctor. And so does everybody—including you—for that matter. And that was the important thing that authorized you to venture to disobey my orders and imperil that woman's life! Look here, Hester Gray, this is pure lunacy; that girl couldn't tell a lie that was intended to injure a person. The thing is impossible—absolutely impossible. You know it yourselves—both of you; you know it perfectly well.”
“She lied! Did she? Oh my gosh! I tell a million lies every day! And so does every doctor. And so does everyone—including you, by the way. And that was the key thing that allowed you to go against my orders and put that woman's life at risk! Look, Hester Gray, this is complete madness; that girl couldn't tell a lie that was meant to hurt someone. It’s impossible—absolutely impossible. You both know it—you know it perfectly well.”
Hannah came to her sister's rescue:
Hannah rushed to help her sister:
“Hester didn't mean that it was that kind of a lie, and it wasn't. But it was a lie.”
“Hester didn't mean it was that kind of lie, and it wasn't. But it was a lie.”
“Well, upon my word, I never heard such nonsense! Haven't you got sense enough to discriminate between lies! Don't you know the difference between a lie that helps and a lie that hurts?”
"Well, I can't believe what I'm hearing! Don't you have enough sense to tell the difference between lies? Don't you realize there are lies that help and lies that hurt?"
“All lies are sinful,” said Hannah, setting her lips together like a vise; “all lies are forbidden.”
All lies are sinful,” Hannah said, pressing her lips together tightly; “all lies are forbidden.”
The Only Christian fidgeted impatiently in his chair. He went to attack this proposition, but he did not quite know how or where to begin. Finally he made a venture:
The Only Christian fidgeted impatiently in his chair. He was ready to take on this proposition, but he wasn’t sure how or where to start. Finally, he decided to make a move:
“Hester, wouldn't you tell a lie to shield a person from an undeserved injury or shame?”
“Hester, wouldn’t you lie to protect someone from an unfair injury or humiliation?”
“No.”
"Nope."
“Not even a friend?”
"Not even one friend?"
“No.”
“No.”
“Not even your dearest friend?”
“Not even your closest friend?”
“No. I would not.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
The doctor struggled in silence awhile with this situation; then he asked:
The doctor quietly grappled with the situation for a bit; then he asked:
“Not even to save him from bitter pain and misery and grief?”
“Not even to save him from harsh pain and suffering and sadness?”
“No. Not even to save his life.”
“No. Not even to save his life.”
Another pause. Then:
Another pause. Then:
“Nor his soul?”
"Not even his soul?"
There was a hush—a silence which endured a measurable interval—then Hester answered, in a low voice, but with decision:
There was a silence—a pause that lasted for a noticeable time—then Hester replied, in a soft voice, but with certainty:
“Nor his soul?”
"Or his soul?"
No one spoke for a while; then the doctor said:
No one talked for a bit; then the doctor said:
“Is it with you the same, Hannah?”
“Is it the same with you, Hannah?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Yeah,” she replied.
“I ask you both—why?”
“Why are you both here?”
“Because to tell such a lie, or any lie, is a sin, and could cost us the loss of our own souls—would, indeed, if we died without time to repent.”
“Because telling such a lie, or any lie, is a sin, and could lead to the loss of our own souls—would, in fact, if we died without time to repent.”
“Strange... strange... it is past belief.” Then he asked, roughly: “Is such a soul as that worth saving?” He rose up, mumbling and grumbling, and started for the door, stumping vigorously along. At the threshold he turned and rasped out an admonition: “Reform! Drop this mean and sordid and selfish devotion to the saving of your shabby little souls, and hunt up something to do that's got some dignity to it! Risk your souls! risk them in good causes; then if you lose them, why should you care? Reform!”
“Strange... strange... it’s unbelievable.” Then he asked, roughly: “Is such a soul even worth saving?” He stood up, mumbling and complaining, and made his way to the door, stomping his feet as he went. At the threshold, he turned and harshly said: “Reform! Stop this mean, petty, and selfish obsession with saving your worthless souls, and find something meaningful to do instead! Risk your souls! Risk them for good causes; then if you lose them, why should you care? Reform!”
The good old gentlewomen sat paralyzed, pulverized, outraged, insulted, and brooded in bitterness and indignation over these blasphemies. They were hurt to the heart, poor old ladies, and said they could never forgive these injuries.
The kind old women sat frozen, crushed, outraged, and insulted, brooding in bitterness and anger over these offenses. They were deeply wounded, those poor old ladies, and claimed they could never forgive these wrongs.
“Reform!”
"Change!"
They kept repeating that word resentfully. “Reform—and learn to tell lies!”
They kept saying that word with frustration. “Reform—and learn to lie!”
Time slipped along, and in due course a change came over their spirits. They had completed the human being's first duty—which is to think about himself until he has exhausted the subject, then he is in a condition to take up minor interests and think of other people. This changes the complexion of his spirits—generally wholesomely. The minds of the two old ladies reverted to their beloved niece and the fearful disease which had smitten her; instantly they forgot the hurts their self-love had received, and a passionate desire rose in their hearts to go to the help of the sufferer and comfort her with their love, and minister to her, and labor for her the best they could with their weak hands, and joyfully and affectionately wear out their poor old bodies in her dear service if only they might have the privilege.
Time passed, and eventually their spirits changed. They had fulfilled the most basic human duty—which is to reflect on oneself until there's nothing left to ponder; only then can one focus on smaller concerns and think of others. This shifts one's mood—usually for the better. The minds of the two elderly ladies turned back to their beloved niece and the dreadful illness that had struck her; immediately, they set aside their own grievances and felt a strong desire to help the suffering niece, to comfort her with their love, to assist her, and to do everything they could, even with their frail hands, joyfully and lovingly exhausting their old bodies in her service if only they could have that chance.
“And we shall have it!” said Hester, with the tears running down her face. “There are no nurses comparable to us, for there are no others that will stand their watch by that bed till they drop and die, and God knows we would do that.”
“And we will have it!” said Hester, with tears streaming down her face. “There are no nurses like us, because there’s no one else who would stand by that bed until they drop and die, and God knows we would do that.”
“Amen,” said Hannah, smiling approval and endorsement through the mist of moisture that blurred her glasses. “The doctor knows us, and knows we will not disobey again; and he will call no others. He will not dare!”
“Amen,” said Hannah, smiling with approval through the mist on her glasses. “The doctor knows us, and he knows we won’t disobey again; and he won’t call anyone else. He wouldn’t dare!”
“Dare?” said Hester, with temper, and dashing the water from her eyes; “he will dare anything—that Christian devil! But it will do no good for him to try it this time—but, laws! Hannah! after all's said and done, he is gifted and wise and good, and he would not think of such a thing.... It is surely time for one of us to go to that room. What is keeping him? Why doesn't he come and say so?”
“Dare?” Hester exclaimed angrily, wiping the tears from her eyes. “He’ll try anything—that Christian devil! But it won't help him this time—but, goodness! Hannah! when it's all said and done, he is talented, smart, and good, and he wouldn’t even think about doing something like that.... It’s definitely time for one of us to go to that room. What’s taking him so long? Why doesn’t he come and say something?”
They caught the sound of his approaching step. He entered, sat down, and began to talk.
They heard him coming. He walked in, took a seat, and started talking.
“Margaret is a sick woman,” he said. “She is still sleeping, but she will wake presently; then one of you must go to her. She will be worse before she is better. Pretty soon a night-and-day watch must be set. How much of it can you two undertake?”
“Margaret is unwell,” he said. “She’s still sleeping, but she’ll wake up soon; then one of you needs to go to her. She’s going to feel worse before she gets better. Soon, we’ll have to keep a watch on her day and night. How much of that can you two handle?”
“All of it!” burst from both ladies at once.
"All of it!" both women exclaimed simultaneously.
The doctor's eyes flashed, and he said, with energy:
The doctor's eyes lit up, and he said, with enthusiasm:
“You do ring true, you brave old relics! And you shall do all of the nursing you can, for there's none to match you in that divine office in this town; but you can't do all of it, and it would be a crime to let you.” It was grand praise, golden praise, coming from such a source, and it took nearly all the resentment out of the aged twin's hearts. “Your Tilly and my old Nancy shall do the rest—good nurses both, white souls with black skins, watchful, loving, tender—just perfect nurses!—and competent liars from the cradle.... Look you! keep a little watch on Helen; she is sick, and is going to be sicker.”
“You really do ring true, you brave old relics! And you will do all the caring you can because there’s no one who can match you in that divine role in this town; but you can’t do it all, and it would be a shame to let you.” It was high praise, glowing praise, coming from such a source, and it took almost all the resentment out of the aged twin's hearts. “Your Tilly and my old Nancy will handle the rest—good nurses both, kind souls with black skin, watchful, loving, tender—just perfect nurses!—and skilled liars from the start.... Look, keep an eye on Helen; she is sick and is going to get sicker.”
The ladies looked a little surprised, and not credulous; and Hester said:
The women looked a bit surprised, but not convinced; and Hester said:
“How is that? It isn't an hour since you said she was as sound as a nut.”
“How is that? It hasn’t been an hour since you said she was perfectly fine.”
The doctor answered, tranquilly:
The doctor replied calmly:
“It was a lie.”
"It was a lie."
The ladies turned upon him indignantly, and Hannah said:
The women turned to him in anger, and Hannah said:
“How can you make an odious confession like that, in so indifferent a tone, when you know how we feel about all forms of—”
“How can you make such a terrible confession like that, in such a casual tone, when you know how we feel about all kinds of—”
“Hush! You are as ignorant as cats, both of you, and you don't know what you are talking about. You are like all the rest of the moral moles; you lie from morning till night, but because you don't do it with your mouths, but only with your lying eyes, your lying inflections, your deceptively misplaced emphasis, and your misleading gestures, you turn up your complacent noses and parade before God and the world as saintly and unsmirched Truth-Speakers, in whose cold-storage souls a lie would freeze to death if it got there! Why will you humbug yourselves with that foolish notion that no lie is a lie except a spoken one? What is the difference between lying with your eyes and lying with your mouth? There is none; and if you would reflect a moment you would see that it is so. There isn't a human being that doesn't tell a gross of lies every day of his life; and you—why, between you, you tell thirty thousand; yet you flare up here in a lurid hypocritical horror because I tell that child a benevolent and sinless lie to protect her from her imagination, which would get to work and warm up her blood to a fever in an hour, if I were disloyal enough to my duty to let it. Which I should probably do if I were interested in saving my soul by such disreputable means.
“Hush! You’re both as clueless as cats, and you have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re just like all the other moral hypocrites; you lie from morning till night, but because you don't do it with words, only with your deceptive eyes, your insincere tones, your misleading emphasis, and your confusing gestures, you hold your noses high and act like you’re pure and honest Truth-Tellers, in whose cold souls a lie would freeze if it ever got there! Why do you fool yourselves with that silly idea that only spoken lies are lies? What’s the difference between lying with your eyes and lying with your mouth? There isn’t one; and if you thought about it for a second, you’d see it. There isn't a single person who doesn't tell a dozen lies every day; and you—well, between the two of you, you tell thirty thousand; yet you get all worked up here in a hypocritical outrage because I tell that child a kind and harmless lie to protect her from her imagination, which would start running wild and raise her temperature to a fever in an hour if I were disloyal enough to my duty to let it. Which I probably would if I cared more about saving my soul in such a disgraceful way.”
“Come, let us reason together. Let us examine details. When you two were in the sick-room raising that riot, what would you have done if you had known I was coming?”
"Come on, let’s talk this through. Let’s look at the details. When you two were causing a commotion in the sick room, what would you have done if you had known I was on my way?"
“Well, what?”
"What's up?"
“You would have slipped out and carried Helen with you—wouldn't you?”
“You would have sneaked out and taken Helen with you—wouldn't you?”
The ladies were silent.
The women were quiet.
“What would be your object and intention?”
“What’s your goal and mission?”
“Well, what?”
"Well, what’s up?"
“To keep me from finding out your guilt; to beguile me to infer that Margaret's excitement proceeded from some cause not known to you. In a word, to tell me a lie—a silent lie. Moreover, a possibly harmful one.”
“To keep me from discovering your guilt; to trick me into thinking that Margaret's excitement came from some reason you’re not aware of. In short, to tell me a lie—a silent lie. Plus, one that could be potentially harmful.”
The twins colored, but did not speak.
The twins colored without saying a word.
“You not only tell myriads of silent lies, but you tell lies with your mouths—you two.”
“You not only tell countless silent lies, but you also speak lies with your mouths—you two.”
“That is not so!”
“That’s not true!”
“It is so. But only harmless ones. You never dream of uttering a harmful one. Do you know that that is a concession—and a confession?”
“It is. But only harmless ones. You would never think of saying a harmful one. Do you realize that this is both a concession and a confession?”
“How do you mean?”
"What do you mean?"
“It is an unconscious concession that harmless lies are not criminal; it is a confession that you constantly make that discrimination. For instance, you declined old Mrs. Foster's invitation last week to meet those odious Higbies at supper—in a polite note in which you expressed regret and said you were very sorry you could not go. It was a lie. It was as unmitigated a lie as was ever uttered. Deny it, Hester—with another lie.”
“It’s an unintentional acceptance that harmless lies aren’t really wrong; it’s a confession that you continually make that distinction. For example, you turned down old Mrs. Foster's invitation last week to have dinner with those awful Higbies—in a polite note where you expressed regret and said you were really sorry you couldn’t attend. That was a lie. It was as absolute a lie as has ever been told. Deny it, Hester—with another lie.”
Hester replied with a toss of her head.
Hester responded by tossing her head.
“That will not do. Answer. Was it a lie, or wasn't it?”
"That won't work. Answer me. Was it a lie, or wasn't it?"
The color stole into the cheeks of both women, and with a struggle and an effort they got out their confession:
The color flushed the cheeks of both women, and with some effort, they managed to voice their confession:
“It was a lie.”
"It was a lie."
“Good—the reform is beginning; there is hope for you yet; you will not tell a lie to save your dearest friend's soul, but you will spew out one without a scruple to save yourself the discomfort of telling an unpleasant truth.”
“Good—the reform is starting; there’s hope for you yet; you won’t lie to save your closest friend’s soul, but you’ll easily spit out a lie to avoid the discomfort of telling an unpleasant truth.”
He rose. Hester, speaking for both, said; coldly:
He got up. Hester, speaking for both of them, said coldly:
“We have lied; we perceive it; it will occur no more. To lie is a sin. We shall never tell another one of any kind whatsoever, even lies of courtesy or benevolence, to save any one a pang or a sorrow decreed for him by God.”
“We have lied; we realize it; it will never happen again. Lying is a sin. We will never tell another lie of any kind, even if it's to be polite or kind, to spare someone from a hurt or sorrow that God intended for them.”
“Ah, how soon you will fall! In fact, you have fallen already; for what you have just uttered is a lie. Good-by. Reform! One of you go to the sick-room now.”
“Ah, how soon you will fall! In fact, you have already fallen; because what you just said is a lie. Goodbye. Change! One of you go to the sick room now.”
CHAPTER IV
Twelve days later.
Twelve days later.
Mother and child were lingering in the grip of the hideous disease. Of hope for either there was little. The aged sisters looked white and worn, but they would not give up their posts. Their hearts were breaking, poor old things, but their grit was steadfast and indestructible. All the twelve days the mother had pined for the child, and the child for the mother, but both knew that the prayer of these longings could not be granted. When the mother was told—on the first day—that her disease was typhoid, she was frightened, and asked if there was danger that Helen could have contracted it the day before, when she was in the sick-chamber on that confession visit. Hester told her the doctor had poo-pooed the idea. It troubled Hester to say it, although it was true, for she had not believed the doctor; but when she saw the mother's joy in the news, the pain in her conscience lost something of its force—a result which made her ashamed of the constructive deception which she had practiced, though not ashamed enough to make her distinctly and definitely wish she had refrained from it. From that moment the sick woman understood that her daughter must remain away, and she said she would reconcile herself to the separation the best she could, for she would rather suffer death than have her child's health imperiled. That afternoon Helen had to take to her bed, ill. She grew worse during the night. In the morning her mother asked after her:
Mother and child were stuck in the grip of a terrible illness. Hope for either of them was almost nonexistent. The elderly sisters looked pale and exhausted, but they refused to leave their posts. Their hearts were breaking, poor things, but their determination was strong and unbreakable. For all twelve days, the mother had yearned for her child, and the child for her mother, but both knew that their prayers for longing couldn’t be fulfilled. When the mother was told on the first day that she had typhoid, she was scared and asked if there was a risk that Helen could have caught it the day before when she was in the sick-room during that confession visit. Hester told her that the doctor had dismissed the idea. It bothered Hester to say it, though it was true, because she hadn’t really believed the doctor; but when she saw the mother’s relief at the news, her guilt eased a bit—a feeling that made her ashamed of the lie she had told, though not enough to make her genuinely wish she hadn't said it. From that moment, the sick woman realized her daughter had to stay away, and she said she would try to accept the separation as best she could because she'd rather face death than put her child's health at risk. That afternoon, Helen had to go to bed, feeling ill. She got worse during the night. In the morning, her mother asked about her:
“Is she well?”
"Is she okay?"
Hester turned cold; she opened her lips, but the words refused to come. The mother lay languidly looking, musing, waiting; suddenly she turned white and gasped out:
Hester felt a chill; she parted her lips, but the words wouldn't come. The mother lay there, gazing, lost in thought, waiting; suddenly she turned pale and gasped:
“Oh, my God! what is it? is she sick?”
“Oh my God! What’s wrong? Is she sick?”
Then the poor aunt's tortured heart rose in rebellion, and words came:
Then the poor aunt's tormented heart rebelled, and words flowed out:
“No—be comforted; she is well.”
“No—don’t worry; she’s fine.”
The sick woman put all her happy heart in her gratitude:
The sick woman poured all her grateful heart into her thanks:
“Thank God for those dear words! Kiss me. How I worship you for saying them!”
“Thank goodness for those sweet words! Kiss me. I adore you for saying them!”
Hester told this incident to Hannah, who received it with a rebuking look, and said, coldly:
Hester shared this incident with Hannah, who responded with a disapproving glance and said, coolly:
“Sister, it was a lie.”
"Sis, it was a lie."
Hester's lips trembled piteously; she choked down a sob, and said:
Hester’s lips shook with emotion; she fought back a sob and said:
“Oh, Hannah, it was a sin, but I could not help it. I could not endure the fright and the misery that were in her face.”
“Oh, Hannah, it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t bear the fear and pain that were in her expression.”
“No matter. It was a lie. God will hold you to account for it.”
“No worries. That was a lie. God will make you answer for it.”
“Oh, I know it, I know it,” cried Hester, wringing her hands, “but even if it were now, I could not help it. I know I should do it again.”
“Oh, I know it, I know it,” Hester cried, wringing her hands. “But even if it happened right now, I couldn't stop myself. I know I would do it again.”
“Then take my place with Helen in the morning. I will make the report myself.”
“Then take my spot with Helen in the morning. I’ll handle the report myself.”
Hester clung to her sister, begging and imploring.
Hester held on to her sister, pleading and begging.
“Don't, Hannah, oh, don't—you will kill her.”
“Don't, Hannah, please don't—you'll kill her.”
“I will at least speak the truth.”
“I’ll at least tell the truth.”
In the morning she had a cruel report to bear to the mother, and she braced herself for the trial. When she returned from her mission, Hester was waiting, pale and trembling, in the hall. She whispered:
In the morning, she had a tough message to deliver to her mother, and she prepared herself for the challenge. When she came back from her task, Hester was waiting in the hall, pale and shaking. She whispered:
“Oh, how did she take it—that poor, desolate mother?”
“Oh, how did she handle it—that poor, heartbroken mother?”
Hannah's eyes were swimming in tears. She said:
Hannah was in tears. She said:
“God forgive me, I told her the child was well!”
“God forgive me, I told her the kid was fine!”
Hester gathered her to her heart, with a grateful “God bless you, Hannah!” and poured out her thankfulness in an inundation of worshiping praises.
Hester pulled her close, saying with gratitude, “God bless you, Hannah!” and expressed her thankfulness in a flood of heartfelt praises.
After that, the two knew the limit of their strength, and accepted their fate. They surrendered humbly, and abandoned themselves to the hard requirements of the situation. Daily they told the morning lie, and confessed their sin in prayer; not asking forgiveness, as not being worthy of it, but only wishing to make record that they realized their wickedness and were not desiring to hide it or excuse it.
After that, the two understood the limits of their strength and accepted their fate. They surrendered humbly and submitted to the harsh realities of the situation. Every day, they told the morning lie and confessed their sins in prayer; not asking for forgiveness, since they didn’t feel worthy of it, but only wanting to acknowledge their wrongdoing and showing that they didn’t want to hide or make excuses for it.
Daily, as the fair young idol of the house sank lower and lower, the sorrowful old aunts painted her glowing bloom and her fresh young beauty to the wan mother, and winced under the stabs her ecstasies of joy and gratitude gave them.
Daily, as the beautiful young star of the house fell further and further, the sad old aunts described her vibrant glow and fresh beauty to the pale mother, feeling a sharp pain from the overwhelming joy and gratitude that it brought them.
In the first days, while the child had strength to hold a pencil, she wrote fond little love-notes to her mother, in which she concealed her illness; and these the mother read and reread through happy eyes wet with thankful tears, and kissed them over and over again, and treasured them as precious things under her pillow.
In the early days, when the child was strong enough to hold a pencil, she wrote sweet little love notes to her mother, hiding her illness in them; her mother read and reread them with happy eyes filled with thankful tears, kissed them over and over, and kept them as treasured keepsakes under her pillow.
Then came a day when the strength was gone from the hand, and the mind wandered, and the tongue babbled pathetic incoherences. This was a sore dilemma for the poor aunts. There were no love-notes for the mother. They did not know what to do. Hester began a carefully studied and plausible explanation, but lost the track of it and grew confused; suspicion began to show in the mother's face, then alarm. Hester saw it, recognized the imminence of the danger, and descended to the emergency, pulling herself resolutely together and plucking victory from the open jaws of defeat. In a placid and convincing voice she said:
Then came a day when the strength left the hand, the mind wandered, and the tongue rambled with sad nonsensical chatter. This was a tough situation for the poor aunts. There were no sweet notes for the mother. They didn’t know what to do. Hester started a carefully thought-out and believable explanation, but lost track of it and became confused; suspicion began to show on the mother’s face, then fear. Hester noticed it, recognized the approaching danger, and rose to the occasion, gathering herself firmly and turning defeat into victory. In a calm and convincing voice, she said:
“I thought it might distress you to know it, but Helen spent the night at the Sloanes'. There was a little party there, and, although she did not want to go, and you so sick, we persuaded her, she being young and needing the innocent pastimes of youth, and we believing you would approve. Be sure she will write the moment she comes.”
“I didn’t want to upset you, but Helen stayed overnight at the Sloanes'. They had a small party, and even though she didn’t want to go with you being so sick, we convinced her. She’s young and needs some fun, and we thought you would understand. Rest assured, she’ll write as soon as she gets back.”
“How good you are, and how dear and thoughtful for us both! Approve? Why, I thank you with all my heart. My poor little exile! Tell her I want her to have every pleasure she can—I would not rob her of one. Only let her keep her health, that is all I ask. Don't let that suffer; I could not bear it. How thankful I am that she escaped this infection—and what a narrow risk she ran, Aunt Hester! Think of that lovely face all dulled and burned with fever. I can't bear the thought of it. Keep her health. Keep her bloom! I can see her now, the dainty creature—with the big, blue, earnest eyes; and sweet, oh, so sweet and gentle and winning! Is she as beautiful as ever, dear Aunt Hester?”
“How kind you are, and how caring and thoughtful for both of us! Approve? Well, I thank you with all my heart. My poor little exile! Tell her I want her to enjoy every pleasure possible—I wouldn’t take any away from her. Just let her stay healthy, that’s all I ask. Don’t let that suffer; I couldn’t handle it. How grateful I am that she avoided this infection—and what a close call she had, Aunt Hester! Imagine that lovely face all dull and burned with fever. I can’t stand the thought of it. Keep her health. Keep her glow! I can picture her now, the delicate creature—with those big, blue, sincere eyes; and sweet, oh, so sweet and gentle and charming! Is she as beautiful as ever, dear Aunt Hester?”
“Oh, more beautiful and bright and charming than ever she was before, if such a thing can be”—and Hester turned away and fumbled with the medicine-bottles, to hide her shame and grief.
“Oh, more beautiful, bright, and charming than ever she was before, if that's even possible”—and Hester turned away and fumbled with the medicine bottles to hide her shame and grief.
CHAPTER V
After a little, both aunts were laboring upon a difficult and baffling work in Helen's chamber. Patiently and earnestly, with their stiff old fingers, they were trying to forge the required note. They made failure after failure, but they improved little by little all the time. The pity of it all, the pathetic humor of it, there was none to see; they themselves were unconscious of it. Often their tears fell upon the notes and spoiled them; sometimes a single misformed word made a note risky which could have been ventured but for that; but at last Hannah produced one whose script was a good enough imitation of Helen's to pass any but a suspicious eye, and bountifully enriched it with the petting phrases and loving nicknames that had been familiar on the child's lips from her nursery days. She carried it to the mother, who took it with avidity, and kissed it, and fondled it, reading its precious words over and over again, and dwelling with deep contentment upon its closing paragraph:
After a while, both aunts were working hard on a challenging and puzzling task in Helen's room. Patiently and sincerely, with their stiff old fingers, they were trying to create the needed note. They faced failure again and again, but they gradually improved each time. The sadness of it all, the bittersweet irony of it, went unnoticed; they themselves were oblivious to it. Often, their tears would fall on the notes and ruin them; sometimes a single awkward word made a note too risky that could have been done, if not for that. But finally, Hannah produced one that looked enough like Helen's handwriting to pass muster with anyone who wasn't too suspicious, and she filled it with the affectionate phrases and loving nicknames that had been familiar to the child since her early days. She took it to the mother, who eagerly accepted it, kissed it, and cherished it, reading its treasured words over and over again, and savoring its closing paragraph with deep satisfaction:
“Mousie darling, if I could only see you, and kiss your eyes, and feel your arms about me! I am so glad my practicing does not disturb you. Get well soon. Everybody is good to me, but I am so lonesome without you, dear mamma.”
“Mousie darling, if I could just see you, kiss your eyes, and feel your arms around me! I’m so glad my practice doesn’t bother you. Get better soon. Everyone is nice to me, but I feel so lonely without you, dear mom.”
“The poor child, I know just how she feels. She cannot be quite happy without me; and I—oh, I live in the light of her eyes! Tell her she must practice all she pleases; and, Aunt Hannah—tell her I can't hear the piano this far, nor her dear voice when she sings: God knows I wish I could. No one knows how sweet that voice is to me; and to think—some day it will be silent! What are you crying for?”
“The poor child, I know exactly how she feels. She can't be completely happy without me; and I—oh, I live in the glow of her eyes! Tell her she can practice as much as she wants; and, Aunt Hannah—tell her I can't hear the piano from this far away, nor her lovely voice when she sings: God knows I wish I could. No one knows how sweet that voice is to me; and to think—someday it will be quiet! What are you crying for?”
“Only because—because—it was just a memory. When I came away she was singing, 'Loch Lomond.' The pathos of it! It always moves me so when she sings that.”
“Only because—because—it was just a memory. When I left, she was singing, 'Loch Lomond.' The emotion of it! It always touches me so when she sings that.”
“And me, too. How heartbreakingly beautiful it is when some youthful sorrow is brooding in her breast and she sings it for the mystic healing it brings.... Aunt Hannah?”
“Me too. How heartbreakingly beautiful it is when some youthful sorrow is weighing on her heart and she sings it for the mystical healing it brings... Aunt Hannah?”
“Dear Margaret?”
“Hey Margaret?”
“I am very ill. Sometimes it comes over me that I shall never hear that dear voice again.”
“I’m really sick. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never hear that sweet voice again.”
“Oh, don't—don't, Margaret! I can't bear it!”
“Oh, please—don't, Margaret! I can't handle it!”
Margaret was moved and distressed, and said, gently:
Margaret was upset and troubled, and said softly:
“There—there—let me put my arms around you. Don't cry. There—put your cheek to mine. Be comforted. I wish to live. I will live if I can. Ah, what could she do without me!... Does she often speak of me?—but I know she does.”
“There—there—let me wrap my arms around you. Don’t cry. There—put your cheek against mine. Feel comforted. I want to live. I will live if I can. Ah, what would she do without me!... Does she talk about me often?—but I know she does.”
“Oh, all the time—all the time!”
“Oh, all the time—all the time!”
“My sweet child! She wrote the note the moment she came home?”
“My sweet child! Did she write the note as soon as she got home?”
“Yes—the first moment. She would not wait to take off her things.”
“Yes—the first moment. She wouldn’t wait to take off her stuff.”
“I knew it. It is her dear, impulsive, affectionate way. I knew it without asking, but I wanted to hear you say it. The petted wife knows she is loved, but she makes her husband tell her so every day, just for the joy of hearing it.... She used the pen this time. That is better; the pencil-marks could rub out, and I should grieve for that. Did you suggest that she use the pen?”
“I knew it. That’s just her sweet, impulsive, affectionate nature. I didn’t need to ask, but I wanted to hear you say it. The cherished wife knows she’s loved, but she has her husband tell her every day, just for the pleasure of hearing it.... She used a pen this time. That’s better; pencil marks can be erased, and I would be upset about that. Did you suggest she use a pen?”
“Y—no—she—it was her own idea.”
"Y—no—she—it was her idea."
The mother looked her pleasure, and said:
The mother expressed her joy and said:
“I was hoping you would say that. There was never such a dear and thoughtful child!... Aunt Hannah?”
“I was really hoping you'd say that. There was never a child so sweet and considerate!... Aunt Hannah?”
“Dear Margaret?”
“Hi Margaret?”
“Go and tell her I think of her all the time, and worship her. Why—you are crying again. Don't be so worried about me, dear; I think there is nothing to fear, yet.”
“Go tell her that I think about her all the time and adore her. Why—you're crying again. Don’t worry so much about me, dear; I don’t think there’s anything to be afraid of, yet.”
The grieving messenger carried her message, and piously delivered it to unheeding ears. The girl babbled on unaware; looking up at her with wondering and startled eyes flaming with fever, eyes in which was no light of recognition:
The grieving messenger brought her message and dutifully delivered it to ears that didn’t listen. The girl kept talking, oblivious; she looked up at her with wide, surprised eyes filled with fever, eyes that held no spark of recognition:
“Are you—no, you are not my mother. I want her—oh, I want her! She was here a minute ago—I did not see her go. Will she come? will she come quickly? will she come now?... There are so many houses ... and they oppress me so... and everything whirls and turns and whirls... oh, my head, my head!”—and so she wandered on and on, in her pain, flitting from one torturing fancy to another, and tossing her arms about in a weary and ceaseless persecution of unrest.
“Are you—no, you’re not my mom. I want her—oh, I want her! She was here a minute ago—I didn’t see her leave. Will she come? Will she come quickly? Will she come now?... There are so many houses... and they weigh me down so... and everything spins and turns and spins... oh, my head, my head!”—and so she wandered on and on, in her pain, flitting from one tormenting thought to another, and tossing her arms about in a tired and endless struggle with restlessness.
Poor old Hannah wetted the parched lips and softly stroked the hot brow, murmuring endearing and pitying words, and thanking the Father of all that the mother was happy and did not know.
Poor old Hannah wet the dry lips and gently stroked the hot forehead, murmuring kind and sympathetic words, and thanking the Father of all that the mother was happy and unaware.
CHAPTER VI
Daily the child sank lower and steadily lower towards the grave, and daily the sorrowing old watchers carried gilded tidings of her radiant health and loveliness to the happy mother, whose pilgrimage was also now nearing its end. And daily they forged loving and cheery notes in the child's hand, and stood by with remorseful consciences and bleeding hearts, and wept to see the grateful mother devour them and adore them and treasure them away as things beyond price, because of their sweet source, and sacred because her child's hand had touched them.
Every day, the child sank lower and lower towards the grave, while each day the grieving old watchers brought glowing news of her radiant health and beauty to the joyful mother, whose journey was also nearing its end. And every day, they crafted loving and cheerful notes in the child's hand, standing by with guilty consciences and heavy hearts, crying to see the grateful mother cherish them, adore them, and save them as priceless treasures, because of their sweet origin, and sacred because her child's hand had touched them.
At last came that kindly friend who brings healing and peace to all. The lights were burning low. In the solemn hush which precedes the dawn vague figures flitted soundless along the dim hall and gathered silent and awed in Helen's chamber, and grouped themselves about her bed, for a warning had gone forth, and they knew. The dying girl lay with closed lids, and unconscious, the drapery upon her breast faintly rising and falling as her wasting life ebbed away. At intervals a sigh or a muffled sob broke upon the stillness. The same haunting thought was in all minds there: the pity of this death, the going out into the great darkness, and the mother not here to help and hearten and bless.
At last, that kind friend who brings healing and peace to everyone arrived. The lights were dim. In the solemn silence that comes before dawn, vague figures moved quietly along the dark hall and gathered silently and reverently in Helen's room, surrounding her bed, as word had spread, and they understood. The dying girl lay with her eyes shut, unaware, the fabric on her chest gently rising and falling as her fading life slipped away. Occasionally, a sigh or a muffled sob broke the stillness. The same haunting thought was on everyone's mind: the sorrow of this death, moving into the great unknown, and the mother not there to support, encourage, and bless.
Helen stirred; her hands began to grope wistfully about as if they sought something—she had been blind some hours. The end was come; all knew it. With a great sob Hester gathered her to her breast, crying, “Oh, my child, my darling!” A rapturous light broke in the dying girl's face, for it was mercifully vouchsafed her to mistake those sheltering arms for another's; and she went to her rest murmuring, “Oh, mamma, I am so happy—I longed for you—now I can die.”
Helen stirred; her hands began to reach out longingly as if they were looking for something—she had been blind for a few hours. The end had come; everyone knew it. With a great sob, Hester pulled her close, crying, “Oh, my child, my darling!” A blissful light appeared on the dying girl's face because she was mercifully allowed to mistake those comforting arms for someone else's; and she went to her rest murmuring, “Oh, mom, I am so happy—I longed for you—now I can die.”
Two hours later Hester made her report. The mother asked:
Two hours later, Hester gave her report. The mother asked:
“How is it with the child?”
“How's the kid doing?”
“She is well.”
“She’s good.”
CHAPTER VII
A sheaf of white crape and black was hung upon the door of the house, and there it swayed and rustled in the wind and whispered its tidings. At noon the preparation of the dead was finished, and in the coffin lay the fair young form, beautiful, and in the sweet face a great peace. Two mourners sat by it, grieving and worshipping—Hannah and the black woman Tilly. Hester came, and she was trembling, for a great trouble was upon her spirit. She said:
A bundle of white and black fabric was hung on the front door of the house, swaying and rustling in the wind, sharing its somber news. By noon, the preparations for the deceased were complete, and the beautiful young body lay in the coffin, her sweet face showing a deep peace. Two mourners sat beside her, mourning and paying their respects—Hannah and the black woman Tilly. Hester arrived, trembling, as a heavy burden weighed on her spirit. She said:
“She asks for a note.”
"She wants a note."
Hannah's face blanched. She had not thought of this; it had seemed that that pathetic service was ended. But she realized now that that could not be. For a little while the two women stood looking into each other's face, with vacant eyes; then Hannah said:
Hannah's face went pale. She hadn’t considered this; it had seemed like that sad service was over. But she now understood that it couldn’t be. For a moment, the two women stood staring at each other with blank expressions; then Hannah said:
“There is no way out of it—she must have it; she will suspect, else.”
“There’s no escaping it—she needs to have it; otherwise, she’ll suspect something.”
“And she would find out.”
"And she would find out."
“Yes. It would break her heart.” She looked at the dead face, and her eyes filled. “I will write it,” she said.
“Yes. It would break her heart.” She looked at the lifeless face, and her eyes filled with tears. “I will write it,” she said.
Hester carried it. The closing line said:
Hester carried it. The closing line said:
“Darling Mousie, dear sweet mother, we shall soon be together again. Is not that good news? And it is true; they all say it is true.”
“Darling Mousie, dear sweet mother, we’ll be together again soon. Isn’t that great news? And it’s true; everyone says it is true.”
The mother mourned, saying:
The mom mourned, saying:
“Poor child, how will she bear it when she knows? I shall never see her again in life. It is hard, so hard. She does not suspect? You guard her from that?”
“Poor kid, how will she handle it when she finds out? I’ll never see her again in my life. It’s tough, really tough. Does she have any clue? Are you keeping her from that?”
“She thinks you will soon be well.”
“She thinks you’ll be better soon.”
“How good you are, and careful, dear Aunt Hester! None goes near her who could carry the infection?”
“How kind and careful you are, dear Aunt Hester! Is there anyone nearby who could spread the infection?”
“It would be a crime.”
"It'd be a crime."
“But you see her?”
“But you see her?”
“With a distance between—yes.”
"With some distance—yes."
“That is so good. Others one could not trust; but you two guardian angels—steel is not so true as you. Others would be unfaithful; and many would deceive, and lie.”
"That's so good. You can't trust others; but you two guardian angels—you're more reliable than steel. Others would be unfaithful; many would deceive and lie."
Hester's eyes fell, and her poor old lips trembled.
Hester looked down, and her worn lips shook.
“Let me kiss you for her, Aunt Hester; and when I am gone, and the danger is past, place the kiss upon her dear lips some day, and say her mother sent it, and all her mother's broken heart is in it.”
“Let me kiss you for her, Aunt Hester; and when I’m gone and the danger is over, put the kiss on her sweet lips someday and tell her it’s from her mother, with all her mother’s broken heart in it.”
Within the hour, Hester, raining tears upon the dead face, performed her pathetic mission.
Within the hour, Hester, crying tears on the lifeless face, fulfilled her heartbreaking task.
CHAPTER VIII
Another day dawned, and grew, and spread its sunshine in the earth. Aunt Hannah brought comforting news to the failing mother, and a happy note, which said again, “We have but a little time to wait, darling mother, then we shall be together.”
Another day started, getting brighter and spreading its sunshine across the earth. Aunt Hannah brought reassuring news to the ailing mother, along with a cheerful note that said again, “We just have a little while to wait, dear mother, then we’ll be together.”
The deep note of a bell came moaning down the wind.
The low sound of a bell echoed softly in the wind.
“Aunt Hannah, it is tolling. Some poor soul is at rest. As I shall be soon. You will not let her forget me?”
“Aunt Hannah, the bell is ringing. Someone has passed away. I’ll be there soon too. Please don’t let her forget me?”
“Oh, God knows she never will!”
“Oh, God knows she never will!”
“Do not you hear strange noises, Aunt Hannah? It sounds like the shuffling of many feet.”
“Don’t you hear those strange noises, Aunt Hannah? It sounds like a lot of people shuffling around.”
“We hoped you would not hear it, dear. It is a little company gathering, for—for Helen's sake, poor little prisoner. There will be music—and she loves it so. We thought you would not mind.”
“We hoped you wouldn’t hear it, dear. It’s a small get-together for—for Helen’s sake, the poor little prisoner. There will be music—and she loves it so much. We thought you wouldn’t mind.”
“Mind? Oh no, no—oh, give her everything her dear heart can desire. How good you two are to her, and how good to me! God bless you both always!”
“Mind? Oh no, no—just give her everything her heart desires. You two are so good to her, and so good to me! God bless you both always!”
After a listening pause:
After a moment of silence:
“How lovely! It is her organ. Is she playing it herself, do you think?” Faint and rich and inspiring the chords floating to her ears on the still air. “Yes, it is her touch, dear heart, I recognize it. They are singing. Why—it is a hymn! and the sacredest of all, the most touching, the most consoling.... It seems to open the gates of paradise to me.... If I could die now....”
“How beautiful! That’s her instrument. Do you think she’s playing it herself?” The chords drifted softly and richly through the still air. “Yes, it’s her playing, my dear, I can tell. They’re singing. Oh—it’s a hymn! The most sacred one of all, the most moving, the most comforting.... It’s like it’s opening the gates of paradise for me.... If I could just die now....”
Faint and far the words rose out of the stillness:
Faint and distant, the words floated out of the silence:
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee,
E'en though it be a cross
That raiseth me.
Closer, my God, to You,
Closer to You,
Even if it’s a burden
That lifts me.With the closing of the hymn another soul passed to its rest, and they that had been one in life were not sundered in death. The sisters, mourning and rejoicing, said:
With the end of the hymn, another soul found peace, and those who were united in life remained connected in death. The sisters, grieving yet celebrating, said:
“How blessed it was that she never knew!”
“How lucky she was that she never knew!”
CHAPTER IX
At midnight they sat together, grieving, and the angel of the Lord appeared in the midst transfigured with a radiance not of earth; and speaking, said:
At midnight, they sat together, mourning, and the angel of the Lord appeared among them, transformed with a brightness not of this world; and spoke, saying:
“For liars a place is appointed. There they burn in the fires of hell from everlasting unto everlasting. Repent!”
“For liars, a place is set aside. There, they burn in the fires of hell from eternity to eternity. Repent!”
The bereaved fell upon their knees before him and clasped their hands and bowed their gray heads, adoring. But their tongues clove to the roof of their mouths, and they were dumb.
The grieving people dropped to their knees in front of him, clasped their hands together, and bowed their gray heads in worship. But they were so overcome with emotion that their tongues felt stuck to the roof of their mouths, leaving them speechless.
“Speak! that I may bear the message to the chancery of heaven and bring again the decree from which there is no appeal.”
“Speak! so I can deliver your message to the heavenly court and bring back the decree that can't be challenged.”
Then they bowed their heads yet lower, and one said:
Then they lowered their heads even more, and one said:
“Our sin is great, and we suffer shame; but only perfect and final repentance can make us whole; and we are poor creatures who have learned our human weakness, and we know that if we were in those hard straits again our hearts would fail again, and we should sin as before. The strong could prevail, and so be saved, but we are lost.”
“Our sins are serious, and we feel ashamed; but only true and complete repentance can restore us; and we are flawed beings who have come to understand our human frailty, and we realize that if we found ourselves in those difficult situations again, our hearts would falter once more, and we would sin like we did before. The strong might overcome and thus be saved, but we are doomed.”
They lifted their heads in supplication. The angel was gone. While they marveled and wept he came again; and bending low, he whispered the decree.
They raised their heads in prayer. The angel had disappeared. While they were in awe and crying, he returned; and leaning down, he whispered the command.
CHAPTER X
Was it Heaven? Or Hell?
Heaven or Hell?
A CURE FOR THE BLUES
By courtesy of Mr. Cable I came into possession of a singular book eight or ten years ago. It is likely that mine is now the only copy in existence. Its title-page, unabbreviated, reads as follows:
By the kindness of Mr. Cable, I got my hands on a unique book about eight or ten years ago. It's probably true that mine is now the only copy left in existence. Its full title page reads as follows:
“The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant. By G. Ragsdale McClintock, (1) author of 'An Address,' etc., delivered at Sunflower Hill, South Carolina, and member of the Yale Law School. New Haven: published by T. H. Pease, 83 Chapel Street, 1845.”
“The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant. By G. Ragsdale McClintock, (1) author of 'An Address,' etc., delivered at Sunflower Hill, South Carolina, and member of the Yale Law School. New Haven: published by T. H. Pease, 83 Chapel Street, 1845.”
No one can take up this book and lay it down again unread. Whoever reads one line of it is caught, is chained; he has become the contented slave of its fascinations; and he will read and read, devour and devour, and will not let it go out of his hand till it is finished to the last line, though the house be on fire over his head. And after a first reading he will not throw it aside, but will keep it by him, with his Shakespeare and his Homer, and will take it up many and many a time, when the world is dark and his spirits are low, and be straightway cheered and refreshed. Yet this work has been allowed to lie wholly neglected, unmentioned, and apparently unregretted, for nearly half a century.
No one can pick up this book and put it down unread. Whoever reads even a single line gets hooked, becomes captivated; they turn into a happy slave to its allure, reading and re-reading, devouring every word, refusing to let it go until they’ve finished it, even if the house is burning down around them. After the first read, they won’t just toss it aside but will keep it close, alongside their Shakespeare and Homer, picking it up time and again when the world feels heavy and their mood is low, instantly feeling uplifted and rejuvenated. Yet, this work has been left completely ignored, unmentioned, and seemingly forgotten for almost fifty years.
The reader must not imagine that he is to find in it wisdom, brilliancy, fertility of invention, ingenuity of construction, excellence of form, purity of style, perfection of imagery, truth to nature, clearness of statement, humanly possible situations, humanly possible people, fluent narrative, connected sequence of events—or philosophy, or logic, or sense. No; the rich, deep, beguiling charm of the book lies in the total and miraculous absence from it of all these qualities—a charm which is completed and perfected by the evident fact that the author, whose naive innocence easily and surely wins our regard, and almost our worship, does not know that they are absent, does not even suspect that they are absent. When read by the light of these helps to an understanding of the situation, the book is delicious—profoundly and satisfyingly delicious.
The reader shouldn't expect to find wisdom, brilliance, creativity, clever construction, excellent structure, pure style, perfect imagery, realism, clarity, realistic situations, realistic characters, smooth storytelling, or a logical sequence of events—or philosophy, or logic, or sense. No; the rich, deep, enchanting charm of the book comes from the complete and miraculous absence of all these qualities—a charm that is enhanced by the clear fact that the author, whose naive innocence effortlessly earns our admiration and almost our worship, is completely unaware of their absence, not even suspecting it. When viewed with these insights in mind, the book is utterly delightful—profoundly and satisfyingly delightful.
I call it a book because the author calls it a book, I call it a work because he calls it a work; but, in truth, it is merely a duodecimo pamphlet of thirty-one pages. It was written for fame and money, as the author very frankly—yes, and very hopefully, too, poor fellow—says in his preface. The money never came—no penny of it ever came; and how long, how pathetically long, the fame has been deferred—forty-seven years! He was young then, it would have been so much to him then; but will he care for it now?
I call it a book because the author calls it a book, I call it a work because he calls it a work; but, honestly, it's just a small pamphlet of thirty-one pages. It was written for fame and money, as the author very openly—yes, and quite hopefully too, poor guy—mentions in his preface. The money never came—not a penny of it; and just think about how long, how sadly long, the fame has been postponed—forty-seven years! He was young back then, it would have meant so much to him at that time; but will it matter to him now?
As time is measured in America, McClintock's epoch is antiquity. In his long-vanished day the Southern author had a passion for “eloquence”; it was his pet, his darling. He would be eloquent, or perish. And he recognized only one kind of eloquence—the lurid, the tempestuous, the volcanic. He liked words—big words, fine words, grand words, rumbling, thundering, reverberating words; with sense attaching if it could be got in without marring the sound, but not otherwise. He loved to stand up before a dazed world, and pour forth flame and smoke and lava and pumice-stone into the skies, and work his subterranean thunders, and shake himself with earthquakes, and stench himself with sulphur fumes. If he consumed his own fields and vineyards, that was a pity, yes; but he would have his eruption at any cost. Mr. McClintock's eloquence—and he is always eloquent, his crater is always spouting—is of the pattern common to his day, but he departs from the custom of the time in one respect: his brethren allowed sense to intrude when it did not mar the sound, but he does not allow it to intrude at all. For example, consider this figure, which he used in the village “Address” referred to with such candid complacency in the title-page above quoted—“like the topmost topaz of an ancient tower.” Please read it again; contemplate it; measure it; walk around it; climb up it; try to get at an approximate realization of the size of it. Is the fellow to that to be found in literature, ancient or modern, foreign or domestic, living or dead, drunk or sober? One notices how fine and grand it sounds. We know that if it was loftily uttered, it got a noble burst of applause from the villagers; yet there isn't a ray of sense in it, or meaning to it.
As time is measured in America, McClintock's era feels ancient. Back in his long-gone day, the Southern author had a strong obsession with “eloquence”; it was his favorite thing. He would be eloquent, or he would fail. He recognized only one type of eloquence—the vivid, the stormy, the explosive. He loved words—big words, beautiful words, impressive words, rumbling, roaring, echoing words; with meaning, if it could fit in without ruining the sound, but not otherwise. He enjoyed standing up before a bewildered audience, and unleashing a torrent of fire, smoke, lava, and pumice into the air, working his subterranean thunders, shaking himself with earthquakes, and filling the air with sulfuric fumes. If he burned down his own fields and vineyards, that was unfortunate, yes; but he would have his eruption no matter what. Mr. McClintock's eloquence—and he is always eloquent, his crater is always spewing—is typical of his time, but he differs from his peers in one way: while they let meaning slip in when it didn’t disrupt the sound, he doesn’t allow it in at all. For example, consider this phrase he used in the village “Address” mentioned so openly in the title page above—“like the topmost topaz of an ancient tower.” Read it again; think about it; consider it; walk around it; climb it; try to get a rough idea of its size. Is there anything like it in literature, ancient or modern, from abroad or at home, alive or dead, sober or drunk? One notices how elegant and impressive it sounds. We know that if it was delivered loftily, it earned a grand round of applause from the villagers; yet there isn’t a hint of sense or meaning in it.
McClintock finished his education at Yale in 1843, and came to Hartford on a visit that same year. I have talked with men who at that time talked with him, and felt of him, and knew he was real. One needs to remember that fact and to keep fast hold of it; it is the only way to keep McClintock's book from undermining one's faith in McClintock's actuality.
McClintock completed his education at Yale in 1843 and visited Hartford that same year. I've spoken with people who interacted with him at that time and sensed his authenticity. It's important to remember that fact and hold on to it tightly; it's the only way to prevent McClintock's book from shaking one's belief in his reality.
As to the book. The first four pages are devoted to an inflamed eulogy of Woman—simply Woman in general, or perhaps as an Institution—wherein, among other compliments to her details, he pays a unique one to her voice. He says it “fills the breast with fond alarms, echoed by every rill.” It sounds well enough, but it is not true. After the eulogy he takes up his real work and the novel begins. It begins in the woods, near the village of Sunflower Hill.
As for the book, the first four pages are dedicated to an exaggerated praise of Woman—simply Woman in general, or maybe as an Institution—where, among other compliments about her, he gives a special mention to her voice. He claims it “fills the breast with fond alarms, echoed by every rill.” It sounds nice, but it isn't accurate. After the praise, he gets to his actual work, and the novel starts. It begins in the woods, close to the village of Sunflower Hill.
Brightening clouds seemed to rise from the mist of the fair Chattahoochee, to spread their beauty over the thick forest, to guide the hero whose bosom beats with aspirations to conquer the enemy that would tarnish his name, and to win back the admiration of his long-tried friend.
Bright clouds seemed to rise from the mist of the fair Chattahoochee, spreading their beauty over the thick forest, guiding the hero whose heart races with the need to defeat the foe that threatens his reputation and to win back the respect of his longtime friend.
It seems a general remark, but it is not general; the hero mentioned is the to-be hero of the book; and in this abrupt fashion, and without name or description, he is shoveled into the tale. “With aspirations to conquer the enemy that would tarnish his name” is merely a phrase flung in for the sake of the sound—let it not mislead the reader. No one is trying to tarnish this person; no one has thought of it. The rest of the sentence is also merely a phrase; the man has no friend as yet, and of course has had no chance to try him, or win back his admiration, or disturb him in any other way.
It might seem like a general statement, but it’s not; the hero mentioned is meant to be the main hero of the book, and in this abrupt way, without any name or description, he is introduced into the story. “With hopes of defeating the enemy that could stain his reputation” is just a phrase thrown in for effect—don’t let it mislead you. No one is trying to damage this person; no one has even considered it. The rest of the sentence is just more empty wording; the man doesn't have any friends yet, and obviously hasn’t had the chance to prove himself, earn back anyone’s respect, or affect anyone in any way.
The hero climbs up over “Sawney's Mountain,” and down the other side, making for an old Indian “castle”—which becomes “the red man's hut” in the next sentence; and when he gets there at last, he “surveys with wonder and astonishment” the invisible structure, “which time has buried in the dust, and thought to himself his happiness was not yet complete.” One doesn't know why it wasn't, nor how near it came to being complete, nor what was still wanting to round it up and make it so. Maybe it was the Indian; but the book does not say. At this point we have an episode:
The hero climbs over “Sawney's Mountain” and descends on the other side, heading towards an old Indian “castle”—which becomes “the red man's hut” in the next sentence. When he finally arrives, he “watches in wonder and amazement” the invisible structure, “which time has buried in the dust, and thinks to himself that his happiness is still not complete.” It's unclear why it isn’t complete, how close it was to being complete, or what exactly was still needed to fulfill it. Maybe it had to do with the Indian, but the book doesn’t clarify. At this point, we have an episode:
Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man, about eighteen or twenty, who seemed to be reading some favorite book, and who had a remarkably noble countenance—eyes which betrayed more than a common mind. This of course made the youth a welcome guest, and gained him friends in whatever condition of his life he might be placed. The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure which showed strength and grace in every movement. He accordingly addressed him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way to the village. After he had received the desired information, and was about taking his leave, the youth said, “Are you not Major Elfonzo, the great musician (2)—the champion of a noble cause—the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?” “I bear that name,” said the Major, “and those titles, trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,” continued the Major, “you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds, I should like to make you my confidant and learn your address.” The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment, and began: “My name is Roswell. I have been recently admitted to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success in that honorable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall look down from the lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity, and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be called from its buried greatness.” The Major grasped him by the hand, and exclaimed: “O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration—thou flame of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede your progress!”
By the edge of the stream sat a young man, around eighteen or twenty, who seemed completely absorbed in a favorite book, with a strikingly noble face—his eyes showed more than just an ordinary mind. This made him a welcoming presence, gaining him friends no matter the situation. The traveler noticed that he had a well-built physique that exuded strength and grace in every movement. He approached him politely and asked for directions to the village. After getting the information he needed and was about to leave, the young man said, “Aren’t you Major Elfonzo, the famous musician—the champion of a noble cause—the modern Achilles, who won many battles in the Florida War?” “I carry that name,” replied the Major, “and those titles, hoping that the forces of grace will lead me triumphantly through all my worthy endeavors, and if,” the Major continued, “you, sir, support noble acts, I would like to confide in you and learn your address.” The young man looked slightly surprised, bowed respectfully, thought for a moment, and began: “My name is Roswell. I was recently admitted to the bar, and can only offer a glimpse of my future success in that honorable field; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I will look down from great heights upon the homes of people, and will always be ready to offer you any help in my official role, and whatever my strong arm can do whenever called upon from its hidden greatness.” The Major shook his hand and exclaimed: “O! you exalted spirit of inspiration—you flame of burning success, may the divine light guide your soul, and tear down every barrier that stands in your way!”
There is a strange sort of originality about McClintock; he imitates other people's styles, but nobody can imitate his, not even an idiot. Other people can be windy, but McClintock blows a gale; other people can blubber sentiment, but McClintock spews it; other people can mishandle metaphors, but only McClintock knows how to make a business of it. McClintock is always McClintock, he is always consistent, his style is always his own style. He does not make the mistake of being relevant on one page and irrelevant on another; he is irrelevant on all of them. He does not make the mistake of being lucid in one place and obscure in another; he is obscure all the time. He does not make the mistake of slipping in a name here and there that is out of character with his work; he always uses names that exactly and fantastically fit his lunatics. In the matter of undeviating consistency he stands alone in authorship. It is this that makes his style unique, and entitles it to a name of its own—McClintockian. It is this that protects it from being mistaken for anybody else's. Uncredited quotations from other writers often leave a reader in doubt as to their authorship, but McClintock is safe from that accident; an uncredited quotation from him would always be recognizable. When a boy nineteen years old, who had just been admitted to the bar, says, “I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man,” we know who is speaking through that boy; we should recognize that note anywhere. There be myriads of instruments in this world's literary orchestra, and a multitudinous confusion of sounds that they make, wherein fiddles are drowned, and guitars smothered, and one sort of drum mistaken for another sort; but whensoever the brazen note of the McClintockian trombone breaks through that fog of music, that note is recognizable, and about it there can be no blur of doubt.
There’s a peculiar kind of originality to McClintock; he copies other people’s styles, but no one can copy his, not even an idiot. Other people can be long-winded, but McClintock creates a storm; others can gush sentiment, but McClintock throws it up; others can misuse metaphors, but only McClintock knows how to turn it into a business. McClintock is always himself, he’s always consistent, his style is uniquely his. He doesn’t make the mistake of being relevant on one page and irrelevant on another; he’s irrelevant on all of them. He doesn’t make the mistake of being clear in one part and obscure in another; he’s obscure all the time. He doesn’t make the mistake of dropping in names that don’t match his work; he always uses names that fit his eccentric characters perfectly. In terms of unwavering consistency, he stands alone in writing. This is what makes his style unique and gives it its own name—McClintockian. This is what keeps it from being confused with anyone else’s. Unattributed quotes from other authors often leave readers unsure of who wrote them, but McClintock is safe from that issue; an uncredited quote from him would always be recognizable. When a nineteen-year-old boy, freshly admitted to the bar, says, “I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man,” we know who is speaking through that boy; we’d recognize that tone anywhere. There are countless instruments in this world’s literary orchestra, creating a chaotic mix of sounds where violins get drowned out, guitars get muffled, and one type of drum gets confused with another; but whenever the bold note of the McClintockian trombone cuts through that fog of music, it’s unmistakable, and there’s no confusion about it.
The novel now arrives at the point where the Major goes home to see his father. When McClintock wrote this interview he probably believed it was pathetic.
The novel now reaches the moment when the Major returns home to visit his father. When McClintock wrote this scene, he likely thought it was pitiful.
The road which led to the town presented many attractions Elfonzo had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was now wending his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness. The south winds whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed against the banks, as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars. This brought him to remember while alone, that he quietly left behind the hospitality of a father's house, and gladly entered the world, with higher hopes than are often realized. But as he journeyed onward, he was mindful of the advice of his father, who had often looked sadly on the ground, when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened his eyes. Elfonzo had been somewhat a dutiful son; yet fond of the amusements of life—had been in distant lands—had enjoyed the pleasure of the world, and had frequently returned to the scenes of his boyhood, almost destitute of many of the comforts of life. In this condition, he would frequently say to his father, “Have I offended you, that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon me with stinging looks? Will you not favor me with the sound of your voice? If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread a humid veil of darkness around your expectations, send me back into the world, where no heart beats for me—where the foot of man had never yet trod; but give me at least one kind word—allow me to come into the presence sometimes of thy winter-worn locks.” “Forbid it, Heaven, that I should be angry with thee,” answered the father, “my son, and yet I send thee back to the children of the world—to the cold charity of the combat, and to a land of victory. I read another destiny in thy countenance—I learn thy inclinations from the flame that has already kindled in my soul a strange sensation. It will seek thee, my dear Elfonzo, it will find thee—thou canst not escape that lighted torch, which shall blot out from the remembrance of men a long train of prophecies which they have foretold against thee. I once thought not so. Once, I was blind; but now the path of life is plain before me, and my sight is clear; yet, Elfonzo, return to thy worldly occupation—take again in thy hand that chord of sweet sounds—struggle with the civilized world and with your own heart; fly swiftly to the enchanted ground—let the night-OWL send forth its screams from the stubborn oak—let the sea sport upon the beach, and the stars sing together; but learn of these, Elfonzo, thy doom, and thy hiding-place. Our most innocent as well as our most lawful desires must often be denied us, that we may learn to sacrifice them to a Higher will.”
Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately urged by the recollection of his father's family to keep moving.
The road to the town had many sights that Elfonzo admired as he said goodbye to his youthful feelings and headed toward the place filled with his happiest memories. The southern winds whistled through the trees while the water crashed against the banks, like roaring flames in a furnace. This reminded him, even in solitude, that he had quietly left his father's comfortable home and stepped out into the world with dreams that were bigger than what usually comes true. But as he continued his journey, he recalled his father's advice, who often looked down sadly when tears of harshly deceived hope filled his eyes. Elfonzo had been a somewhat dutiful son; however, he enjoyed life's pleasures—had traveled to distant lands—savored the joys of the world, and often returned to his childhood home almost lacking many of life's comforts. In this state, he would often ask his father, “Have I upset you, that you see me as a stranger and frown at me with piercing looks? Will you not let me hear your voice? If I have disrespected your honor or dimmed your hopes, send me back to the world where no one cares about me—where no man's foot has ever stepped; but at least give me one kind word—let me sometimes come into your presence with your winter-worn hair.” “Heaven forbid that I should be angry with you,” the father replied, “my son, yet I send you back to the people of the world—to the cold kindness of struggle and a land of victory. I see a different fate in your face—I understand your desires from the fire that has already sparked a strange feeling in my soul. It will seek you, my dear Elfonzo, it will find you—you cannot escape that flame, which will erase from people's memories a long list of prophecies that have been foretold against you. I didn't always think this way. Once, I was blind; but now the path of life is clear to me, and my vision is sharp; yet, Elfonzo, return to your worldly pursuits—take that sweet-sounding string in your hand again—struggle with the civilized world and with your own heart; quickly fly to the enchanted ground—let the night owl cry from the stubborn oak—let the sea play along the beach, and let the stars sing together; but learn from these, Elfonzo, your fate and your hiding place. Our most innocent as well as our most lawful desires must often be denied to us, so we can learn to sacrifice them to a Higher will.
Remembering those warnings with gratitude, Elfonzo was quickly motivated by memories of his father's family to keep going.
McClintock has a fine gift in the matter of surprises; but as a rule they are not pleasant ones, they jar upon the feelings. His closing sentence in the last quotation is of that sort. It brings one down out of the tinted clouds in too sudden and collapsed a fashion. It incenses one against the author for a moment. It makes the reader want to take him by his winter-worn locks, and trample on his veneration, and deliver him over to the cold charity of combat, and blot him out with his own lighted torch. But the feeling does not last. The master takes again in his hand that concord of sweet sounds of his, and one is reconciled, pacified.
McClintock has a real talent for surprises, but usually, they aren’t the kind you want; they disrupt your emotions. His final sentence in the last quote is an example of this. It brings you crashing down from your high hopes too abruptly. For a moment, it makes you angry at the author. You want to grab him by his frayed hair, stomp on his reverence, throw him into a tough situation, and erase him with his own burning torch. But that feeling doesn’t last. The master once again takes hold of his harmonious melodies, and you find yourself at peace again.
His steps became quicker and quicker—he hastened through the piny woods, dark as the forest was, and with joy he very soon reached the little village of repose, in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry. His close attention to every important object—his modest questions about whatever was new to him—his reverence for wise old age, and his ardent desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought him into respectable notice.
One mild winter day, as he walked along the streets toward the Academy, which stood upon a small eminence, surrounded by native growth—some venerable in its appearance, others young and prosperous—all seemed inviting, and seemed to be the very place for learning as well as for genius to spend its research beneath its spreading shades. He entered its classic walls in the usual mode of southern manners.
He picked up the pace—rushing through the dark pine woods, and with excitement, he soon arrived at the peaceful little village where the bravest knights took their rest. His sharp observation of everything important—his polite questions about things he was unfamiliar with—his respect for wise elders, and his eagerness to learn various skills quickly earned him a great reputation.
One mild winter day, as he walked along the streets toward the Academy, which was perched on a small hill and surrounded by native trees—some looking ancient, while others were young and thriving—everything felt inviting, like the perfect place for both learning and creativity to flourish under its wide shade. He entered its classic walls in the typical Southern manner.
The artfulness of this man! None knows so well as he how to pique the curiosity of the reader—and how to disappoint it. He raises the hope, here, that he is going to tell all about how one enters a classic wall in the usual mode of Southern manners; but does he? No; he smiles in his sleeve, and turns aside to other matters.
The skill of this man! No one understands better than he how to spark the reader's curiosity—and how to let it down. He builds the expectation, here, that he will explain how someone enters a classic space in the typical Southern way; but does he? No; he smirks to himself and shifts to other topics.
The principal of the Institution begged him to be seated and listen to the recitations that were going on. He accordingly obeyed the request, and seemed to be much pleased. After the school was dismissed, and the young hearts regained their freedom, with the songs of the evening, laughing at the anticipated pleasures of a happy home, while others tittered at the actions of the past day, he addressed the teacher in a tone that indicated a resolution—with an undaunted mind. He said he had determined to become a student, if he could meet with his approbation. “Sir,” said he, “I have spent much time in the world. I have traveled among the uncivilized inhabitants of America. I have met with friends, and combated with foes; but none of these gratify my ambition, or decide what is to be my destiny. I see the learned world have an influence with the voice of the people themselves. The despoilers of the remotest kingdoms of the earth refer their differences to this class of persons. This the illiterate and inexperienced little dream of; and now if you will receive me as I am, with these deficiencies—with all my misguided opinions, I will give you my honor, sir, that I will never disgrace the Institution, or those who have placed you in this honorable station.” The instructor, who had met with many disappointments, knew how to feel for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities of an unfeeling community. He looked at him earnestly, and said: “Be of good cheer—look forward, sir, to the high destination you may attain. Remember, the more elevated the mark at which you aim, the more sure, the more glorious, the more magnificent the prize.” From wonder to wonder, his encouragement led the impatient listener. A strange nature bloomed before him—giant streams promised him success—gardens of hidden treasures opened to his view. All this, so vividly described, seemed to gain a new witchery from his glowing fancy.
The principal of the school encouraged him to sit down and listen to the lessons happening in the classroom. He complied and seemed quite happy about it. Once the school day ended and the students enjoyed their freedom with the sounds of evening songs, excited to head home and sharing laughs about the day's events, he approached the teacher with determination and confidence. He expressed his wish to become a student if the teacher would approve. “Sir,” he said, “I’ve spent a lot of time in the world. I’ve traveled among the uninformed people of America, made friends, and encountered enemies; but none of these experiences fulfill my ambitions or shape my future. I see that the educated have a strong impact on public opinion. Even those who conquer far-off lands seek this group to settle their disputes. The uneducated and inexperienced don’t even think about this; so if you’ll accept me as I am, with all my flaws and misguided views, I promise you, sir, that I will never bring disgrace to this institution or to those who have put you in this respected position.” The teacher, having faced many disappointments, understood the situation of a stranger reliant on the kindness of an indifferent society. He looked at him earnestly and said: “Stay hopeful—look forward, sir, to the great things you can achieve. Remember, the higher the goal you chase, the more certain, more glorious, and more wonderful the reward.” His encouragement took the eager listener from one inspiration to the next. A remarkable future unfolded before him—vast opportunities promised him success—gardens filled with hidden treasures opened up to him. All this, vividly described, seemed to gain even more appeal through his imaginative mind.
It seems to me that this situation is new in romance. I feel sure it has not been attempted before. Military celebrities have been disguised and set at lowly occupations for dramatic effect, but I think McClintock is the first to send one of them to school. Thus, in this book, you pass from wonder to wonder, through gardens of hidden treasure, where giant streams bloom before you, and behind you, and all around, and you feel as happy, and groggy, and satisfied with your quart of mixed metaphor aboard as you would if it had been mixed in a sample-room and delivered from a jug.
This situation in romance feels completely new to me. I'm pretty sure it hasn't been done before. Sure, military figures have been disguised and placed in lowly jobs for dramatic effect, but I think McClintock is the first to actually send one of them to school. In this book, you move from one surprise to another, through gardens filled with hidden treasures, where huge streams bloom all around you. You feel just as happy, dazed, and content with your blend of mixed metaphors as you would if it had been poured from a jug in a bar.
Now we come upon some more McClintockian surprises—a sweetheart who is sprung upon us without any preparation, along with a name for her which is even a little more of a surprise than she herself is.
Now we encounter some more McClintockian surprises—a girlfriend who suddenly appears without any warning, along with a name for her that is even more surprising than she is.
In 1842 he entered the class, and made rapid progress in the English and Latin departments. Indeed, he continued advancing with such rapidity that he was like to become the first in his class, and made such unexpected progress, and was so studious, that he had almost forgotten the pictured saint of his affections. The fresh wreaths of the pine and cypress had waited anxiously to drop once more the dews of Heaven upon the heads of those who had so often poured forth the tender emotions of their souls under its boughs. He was aware of the pleasure that he had seen there. So one evening, as he was returning from his reading, he concluded he would pay a visit to this enchanting spot. Little did he think of witnessing a shadow of his former happiness, though no doubt he wished it might be so. He continued sauntering by the roadside, meditating on the past. The nearer he approached the spot, the more anxious he became. At that moment a tall female figure flitted across his path, with a bunch of roses in her hand; her countenance showed uncommon vivacity, with a resolute spirit; her ivory teeth already appeared as she smiled beautifully, promenading—while her ringlets of hair dangled unconsciously around her snowy neck. Nothing was wanting to complete her beauty. The tinge of the rose was in full bloom upon her cheek; the charms of sensibility and tenderness were always her associates. In Ambulinia's bosom dwelt a noble soul—one that never faded—one that never was conquered.
In 1842, he joined the class and quickly excelled in English and Latin. He progressed so rapidly that he was on track to become the top student in his class. His unexpected achievements and hard work made him almost forget about the cherished image that had captured his heart. The fresh wreaths of pine and cypress had been waiting to shower their blessings on those who often shared their deepest feelings beneath its branches. He remembered the joy he had felt there. One evening, as he was returning from his reading, he decided to visit this enchanting place. Little did he know he would catch a glimpse of his past happiness, though he hoped for it. He walked along the roadside, lost in thought about the past. The closer he got to the spot, the more anxious he became. At that moment, a tall woman hurried across his path, holding a bouquet of roses; her face radiated an uncommon liveliness and determination. Her bright smile revealed her ivory teeth as she walked gracefully, with her hair flowing around her fair neck. Everything about her was beautifully complete. The rosy glow on her cheeks was vibrant; the qualities of sensitivity and tenderness always accompanied her. In Ambulinia’s heart resided a noble spirit—one that never faded and could never be defeated.
Ambulinia! It can hardly be matched in fiction. The full name is Ambulinia Valeer. Marriage will presently round it out and perfect it. Then it will be Mrs. Ambulinia Valeer Elfonzo. It takes the chromo.
Ambulinia! It's hard to find anything like it in fiction. Her full name is Ambulinia Valeer. Soon, marriage will complete and perfect it. Then she'll be Mrs. Ambulinia Valeer Elfonzo. It’s a standout.
Her heart yielded to no feeling but the love of Elfonzo, on whom she gazed with intense delight, and to whom she felt herself more closely bound, because he sought the hand of no other. Elfonzo was roused from his apparent reverie. His books no longer were his inseparable companions—his thoughts arrayed themselves to encourage him to the field of victory. He endeavored to speak to his supposed Ambulinia, but his speech appeared not in words. No, his effort was a stream of fire, that kindled his soul into a flame of admiration, and carried his senses away captive. Ambulinia had disappeared, to make him more mindful of his duty. As she walked speedily away through the piny woods, she calmly echoed: “O! Elfonzo, thou wilt now look from thy sunbeams. Thou shalt now walk in a new path—perhaps thy way leads through darkness; but fear not, the stars foretell happiness.”
Her heart was filled only with love for Elfonzo, whom she looked at with deep joy, and she felt more connected to him because he sought no one else’s hand. Elfonzo was pulled out of his apparent daydream. His books were no longer his constant companions—his thoughts started to gather to inspire him toward success. He tried to talk to his imagined Ambulinia, but the words wouldn’t come. No, his effort was a wave of passion that lit up his soul with admiration and captivated his senses. Ambulinia had disappeared to make him more aware of his responsibilities. As she hurried away through the pine forest, she calmly said: “Oh, Elfonzo, you will now look away from your sunlight. You will now walk a new path—maybe it leads through darkness; but don’t be afraid, the stars promise happiness.”
To McClintock that jingling jumble of fine words meant something, no doubt, or seemed to mean something; but it is useless for us to try to divine what it was. Ambulinia comes—we don't know whence nor why; she mysteriously intimates—we don't know what; and then she goes echoing away—we don't know whither; and down comes the curtain. McClintock's art is subtle; McClintock's art is deep.
To McClintock, that jangling mix of fancy words must have meant something, or at least seemed to mean something; but it’s pointless for us to guess what it was. Ambulinia arrives—we have no idea from where or why; she hints at something mysterious—we don’t know what; and then she fades away—we have no clue where to; and then the curtain falls. McClintock's art is intricate; McClintock’s art is profound.
Not many days afterward, as surrounded by fragrant flowers she sat one evening at twilight, to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered notes of melody along the distant groves, the little birds perched on every side, as if to watch the movements of their new visitor. The bells were tolling, when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild wood flowers, holding in his hand his favorite instrument of music—his eye continually searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed to perceive him, as she played carelessly with the songsters that hopped from branch to branch. Nothing could be more striking than the difference between the two. Nature seemed to have given the more tender soul to Elfonzo, and the stronger and more courageous to Ambulinia. A deep feeling spoke from the eyes of Elfonzo—such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who are blessed as admirers, and by those who are able to return the same with sincerity of heart. He was a few years older than Ambulinia: she had turned a little into her seventeenth. He had almost grown up in the Cherokee country, with the same equal proportions as one of the natives. But little intimacy had existed between them until the year forty-one—because the youth felt that the character of such a lovely girl was too exalted to inspire any other feeling than that of quiet reverence. But as lovers will not always be insulted, at all times and under all circumstances, by the frowns and cold looks of crabbed old age, which should continually reflect dignity upon those around, and treat the unfortunate as well as the fortunate with a graceful mien, he continued to use diligence and perseverance. All this lighted a spark in his heart that changed his whole character, and like the unyielding Deity that follows the storm to check its rage in the forest, he resolves for the first time to shake off his embarrassment and return where he had before only worshiped.
Not long after, one evening at twilight, she sat surrounded by fragrant flowers, enjoying the cool breeze that softly rustled through the nearby groves, while little birds perched all around, seemingly observing their new visitor. The bells were ringing as Elfonzo quietly walked through the wildflowers, holding his favorite musical instrument, his eyes constantly searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed aware of him as she playfully interacted with the birds hopping from branch to branch. The contrast between them was striking. Nature had seemingly given Elfonzo the gentler soul and Ambulinia the bolder, braver one. A deep emotion shone in Elfonzo's eyes—an emotion that can only be understood by those fortunate enough to admire someone and respond with true love. He was a few years older than Ambulinia, who had just turned seventeen. He had nearly grown up in Cherokee country, resembling the local natives. There hadn’t been much closeness between them until the year forty-one, as he believed such a lovely girl had a character too refined to inspire anything but quiet respect. But as lovers don’t always handle rejection well, despite the scowls and cold looks from bitter elders—who should show dignity and treat everyone with grace—he pressed on with determination. All this sparked a change in his heart, and like the relentless deity who calms the storm in the forest, he decided for the first time to overcome his shyness and approach where he had only admired from a distance.
At last we begin to get the Major's measure. We are able to put this and that casual fact together, and build the man up before our eyes, and look at him. And after we have got him built, we find him worth the trouble. By the above comparison between his age and Ambulinia's, we guess the war-worn veteran to be twenty-two; and the other facts stand thus: he had grown up in the Cherokee country with the same equal proportions as one of the natives—how flowing and graceful the language, and yet how tantalizing as to meaning!—he had been turned adrift by his father, to whom he had been “somewhat of a dutiful son”; he wandered in distant lands; came back frequently “to the scenes of his boyhood, almost destitute of many of the comforts of life,” in order to get into the presence of his father's winter-worn locks, and spread a humid veil of darkness around his expectations; but he was always promptly sent back to the cold charity of the combat again; he learned to play the fiddle, and made a name for himself in that line; he had dwelt among the wild tribes; he had philosophized about the despoilers of the kingdoms of the earth, and found out—the cunning creature—that they refer their differences to the learned for settlement; he had achieved a vast fame as a military chieftain, the Achilles of the Florida campaigns, and then had got him a spelling-book and started to school; he had fallen in love with Ambulinia Valeer while she was teething, but had kept it to himself awhile, out of the reverential awe which he felt for the child; but now at last, like the unyielding Deity who follows the storm to check its rage in the forest, he resolves to shake off his embarrassment, and to return where before he had only worshiped. The Major, indeed, has made up his mind to rise up and shake his faculties together, and to see if he can't do that thing himself. This is not clear. But no matter about that: there stands the hero, compact and visible; and he is no mean structure, considering that his creator had never created anything before, and hadn't anything but rags and wind to build with this time. It seems to me that no one can contemplate this odd creature, this quaint and curious blatherskite, without admiring McClintock, or, at any rate, loving him and feeling grateful to him; for McClintock made him, he gave him to us; without McClintock we could not have had him, and would now be poor.
At last, we start to understand the Major. We can piece together some random facts and build a picture of him in our minds. And once we have this picture, we find him worth our effort. By comparing his age to Ambulinia's, we guess that this battle-hardened veteran is about twenty-two. The other details are as follows: he grew up in the Cherokee country, carrying the same balanced traits as one of the locals—how beautiful and fluid the language is, yet how frustratingly ambiguous!—he was abandoned by his father, to whom he had been “somewhat of a dutiful son”; he roamed distant lands; returned often “to the scenes of his boyhood, almost lacking many comforts of life,” seeking out his father's winter-worn hair, hoping to cast a shadow over his dreams; but he was always sent back to face the harshness of battle; he learned to play the fiddle and gained recognition in that field; he lived among wild tribes; he pondered the ones who exploit the kingdoms of earth and discovered—this clever man—that they refer their disputes to the educated for resolution; he gained great fame as a military leader, the Achilles of the Florida campaigns, and then picked up a spelling book and went to school; he had fallen in love with Ambulinia Valeer when she was just a baby, but kept it to himself for a while out of respect for her childhood; but now, like the relentless Deity who calms the storm in the forest, he decides to overcome his shyness and return to where he had only adored her. The Major has determined to gather his thoughts and see if he can take action himself. This isn’t clear. But that doesn’t matter: there stands the hero, solid and real; and he’s quite an impressive figure, considering his creator had never made anything before and had only rags and wind to work with this time. It seems to me that no one can look at this peculiar being, this strange and fascinating chatterbox, without admiring McClintock, or at least feeling affection and gratitude towards him; for McClintock created him, he gave him to us; without McClintock, we wouldn’t have him, and we would be worse off.
But we must come to the feast again. Here is a courtship scene, down there in the romantic glades among the raccoons, alligators, and things, that has merit, peculiar literary merit. See how Achilles woos. Dwell upon the second sentence (particularly the close of it) and the beginning of the third. Never mind the new personage, Leos, who is intruded upon us unheralded and unexplained. That is McClintock's way; it is his habit; it is a part of his genius; he cannot help it; he never interrupts the rush of his narrative to make introductions.
But we have to come back to the feast. Here’s a courtship scene, down there in the romantic woods among the raccoons, alligators, and other creatures, that has real value, unique literary value. Look at how Achilles courts. Focus on the second sentence (especially the end of it) and the start of the third. Don’t worry about the new character, Leos, who shows up without any introduction or background. That’s McClintock's style; it’s his thing; it’s part of his brilliance; he can’t help it; he never breaks the flow of his story to make introductions.
It could not escape Ambulinia's penetrating eye that he sought an interview with her, which she as anxiously avoided, and assumed a more distant calmness than before, seemingly to destroy all hope. After many efforts and struggles with his own person, with timid steps the Major approached the damsel, with the same caution as he would have done in a field of battle. “Lady Ambulinia,” said he, trembling, “I have long desired a moment like this. I dare not let it escape. I fear the consequences; yet I hope your indulgence will at least hear my petition. Can you not anticipate what I would say, and what I am about to express? Will not you, like Minerva, who sprung from the brain of Jupiter, release me from thy winding chains or cure me—” “Say no more, Elfonzo,” answered Ambulinia, with a serious look, raising her hand as if she intended to swear eternal hatred against the whole world; “another lady in my place would have perhaps answered your question in bitter coldness. I know not the little arts of my sex. I care but little for the vanity of those who would chide me, and am unwilling as well as ashamed to be guilty of anything that would lead you to think 'all is not gold that glitters'; so be not rash in your resolution. It is better to repent now, than to do it in a more solemn hour. Yes, I know what you would say. I know you have a costly gift for me—the noblest that man can make—your heart! You should not offer it to one so unworthy. Heaven, you know, has allowed my father's house to be made a house of solitude, a home of silent obedience, which my parents say is more to be admired than big names and high-sounding titles. Notwithstanding all this, let me speak the emotions of an honest heart—allow me to say in the fullness of my hopes that I anticipate better days. The bird may stretch its wings toward the sun, which it can never reach; and flowers of the field appear to ascend in the same direction, because they cannot do otherwise; but man confides his complaints to the saints in whom he believes; for in their abodes of light they know no more sorrow. From your confession and indicative looks, I must be that person; if so deceive not yourself.”
Ambulinia noticed he was trying to meet with her, something she was desperately trying to avoid. She kept a colder distance than before, seemingly determined to crush any hope. After struggling with his own feelings, the Major cautiously approached her, as carefully as he would on a battlefield. “Lady Ambulinia,” he said, trembling, “I've longed for a moment like this. I can't let it slip away. I'm afraid of the consequences, but I hope you'll at least listen to my request. Can you guess what I want to say? Would you, like Minerva who sprang from Jupiter's mind, free me from your entangling chains or heal me—” “Don’t say more, Elfonzo,” Ambulinia replied seriously, raising her hand as if ready to vow eternal disdain against the world. “Another woman in my position might respond to your question with cruel indifference. I don’t know the manipulative tricks of my gender. I care little for the vanity of those who criticize me, and I don’t want to feel ashamed or lead you to think that 'all that glitters is not gold'; so don’t act rashly. It’s better to regret it now than later when it really matters. Yes, I know what you intend to say. You have a precious gift for me—the greatest thing a man can offer—your heart! But you shouldn’t give it to someone so unworthy. Heaven has turned my father's house into a place of solitude, a home of quiet obedience, which my parents say is more admirable than grand names or titles. Still, let me share the feelings of an honest heart—I hope for better days. A bird may stretch its wings toward the sun, which it can never reach; and the flowers may seem to rise in that direction because they have no other choice; but a man confides his complaints to the saints he believes in; for in their realms of light, they know no more sorrow. From your words and looks, I must be that person; if so, don’t deceive yourself.”
Elfonzo replied, “Pardon me, my dear madam, for my frankness. I have loved you from my earliest days—everything grand and beautiful hath borne the image of Ambulinia; while precipices on every hand surrounded me, your guardian angel stood and beckoned me away from the deep abyss. In every trial, in every misfortune, I have met with your helping hand; yet I never dreamed or dared to cherish thy love, till a voice impaired with age encouraged the cause, and declared they who acquired thy favor should win a victory. I saw how Leos worshiped thee. I felt my own unworthiness. I began to know jealously, a strong guest—indeed, in my bosom,—yet I could see if I gained your admiration Leos was to be my rival. I was aware that he had the influence of your parents, and the wealth of a deceased relative, which is too often mistaken for permanent and regular tranquillity; yet I have determined by your permission to beg an interest in your prayers—to ask you to animate my drooping spirits by your smiles and your winning looks; for if you but speak I shall be conqueror, my enemies shall stagger like Olympus shakes. And though earth and sea may tremble, and the charioteer of the sun may forget his dashing steed, yet I am assured that it is only to arm me with divine weapons which will enable me to complete my long-tried intention.”
Elfonzo replied, “I apologize for being so straightforward, my dear lady. I've loved you since we were kids—everything wonderful and beautiful reminds me of you; while dangerous cliffs were all around me, your guardian angel was there, guiding me away from danger. In every challenge and hardship, I’ve felt your support; yet, I never thought I could hope for your love until an old voice advised me that those who earn your favor will succeed. I saw how Leos adored you. I felt unworthy. Jealousy started to creep into my heart—a powerful feeling, for sure—but I realized that if I earned your admiration, Leos would become my rival. I knew he had the support of your parents and the inheritance of a deceased relative, which often gets confused with true and lasting happiness; still, I’ve decided, with your permission, to ask for a spot in your prayers—to ask you to lift my spirits with your smiles and enchanting gaze; for if you just say a word, I will succeed, and my enemies will stumble like Olympus trembling. And even if the earth and sea shake, and the sun’s charioteer forgets his galloping horse, I'm sure it's only to give me the divine strength to achieve my long-held goal.”
“Return to yourself, Elfonzo,” said Ambulinia, pleasantly: “a dream of vision has disturbed your intellect; you are above the atmosphere, dwelling in the celestial regions; nothing is there that urges or hinders, nothing that brings discord into our present litigation. I entreat you to condescend a little, and be a man, and forget it all. When Homer describes the battle of the gods and noble men fighting with giants and dragons, they represent under this image our struggles with the delusions of our passions. You have exalted me, an unhappy girl, to the skies; you have called me a saint, and portrayed in your imagination an angel in human form. Let her remain such to you, let her continue to be as you have supposed, and be assured that she will consider a share in your esteem as her highest treasure. Think not that I would allure you from the path in which your conscience leads you; for you know I respect the conscience of others, as I would die for my own. Elfonzo, if I am worthy of thy love, let such conversation never again pass between us. Go, seek a nobler theme! we will seek it in the stream of time, as the sun set in the Tigris.” As she spake these words she grasped the hand of Elfonzo, saying at the same time—“Peace and prosperity attend you, my hero; be up and doing!” Closing her remarks with this expression, she walked slowly away, leaving Elfonzo astonished and amazed. He ventured not to follow or detain her. Here he stood alone, gazing at the stars; confounded as he was, here he stood.
“Come back to reality, Elfonzo,” Ambulinia said gently. “You've been caught up in a dream; you're floating above the world, lost in a perfect space. There’s nothing to hold you back or confuse our current discussion. I ask you to come down a bit and be a man, letting everything else go. When Homer describes gods battling noble men against giants and dragons, it represents our struggles with the illusions of our desires. You've lifted me, an unhappy girl, to the heavens; you've called me a saint and imagined me as an angel in human form. Let me stay that way for you; let me continue being what you believe, knowing that your admiration is my greatest treasure. Don’t think I want to lead you away from the path your conscience is on; you know I respect others' consciences just as much as I'd give up everything for my own. Elfonzo, if I deserve your love, let’s not have this kind of conversation again. Go, find a greater topic! We'll explore it over time, just like the sun sets over the Tigris.” As she said this, she took Elfonzo's hand and added, “May peace and prosperity be with you, my hero; rise and take action!” With that, she slowly walked away, leaving Elfonzo stunned and speechless. He didn’t dare follow or stop her. He stood there alone, staring at the stars; as confused as he was, he remained right there.
Yes; there he stood. There seems to be no doubt about that. Nearly half of this delirious story has now been delivered to the reader. It seems a pity to reduce the other half to a cold synopsis. Pity! it is more than a pity, it is a crime; for to synopsize McClintock is to reduce a sky-flushing conflagration to dull embers, it is to reduce barbaric splendor to ragged poverty. McClintock never wrote a line that was not precious; he never wrote one that could be spared; he never framed one from which a word could be removed without damage. Every sentence that this master has produced may be likened to a perfect set of teeth, white, uniform, beautiful. If you pull one, the charm is gone.
Yes, there he stood. There’s no doubt about that. Almost half of this wild story has now been shared with the reader. It seems a shame to condense the other half into a cold summary. Shame! It’s more than a shame; it’s a crime; because summarizing McClintock is like turning a brilliant fire into dull ashes, it’s like turning wild beauty into tattered poverty. McClintock never wrote a single line that wasn't valuable; he never wrote one that could be left out; he never crafted one from which a word could be taken without losing something important. Every sentence from this master can be compared to a perfect set of teeth—white, even, and beautiful. If you take one away, the charm is lost.
Still, it is now necessary to begin to pull, and to keep it up; for lack of space requires us to synopsize.
Still, it’s important to start summarizing and to keep doing it; not enough space requires us to condense.
We left Elfonzo standing there amazed. At what, we do not know. Not at the girl's speech. No; we ourselves should have been amazed at it, of course, for none of us has ever heard anything resembling it; but Elfonzo was used to speeches made up of noise and vacancy, and could listen to them with undaunted mind like the “topmost topaz of an ancient tower”; he was used to making them himself; he—but let it go, it cannot be guessed out; we shall never know what it was that astonished him. He stood there awhile; then he said, “Alas! am I now Grief's disappointed son at last?” He did not stop to examine his mind, and to try to find out what he probably meant by that, because, for one reason, “a mixture of ambition and greatness of soul moved upon his young heart,” and started him for the village. He resumed his bench in school, “and reasonably progressed in his education.” His heart was heavy, but he went into society, and sought surcease of sorrow in its light distractions. He made himself popular with his violin, “which seemed to have a thousand chords—more symphonious than the Muses of Apollo, and more enchanting than the ghost of the Hills.” This is obscure, but let it go.
We left Elfonzo standing there, amazed. At what, we don't know. Not at the girl's speech. No; we should have been amazed by it, of course, since none of us had ever heard anything like it; but Elfonzo was used to speeches filled with noise and emptiness, and could listen to them without a second thought, like the "topmost topaz of an ancient tower"; he was used to giving them himself; he—but let's move on, it can't be figured out; we'll never know what exactly astonished him. He stood there for a while; then he said, “Alas! am I finally Grief's disappointed son?” He didn't stop to analyze his thoughts, nor to try to figure out what he might have meant by that, because, for one reason, “a mixture of ambition and greatness of soul stirred in his young heart,” and pushed him toward the village. He returned to his bench at school, “and made reasonable progress in his education.” His heart was heavy, but he engaged with society, seeking relief from his sorrow in its light distractions. He became popular with his violin, “which seemed to have a thousand chords—more harmonious than the Muses of Apollo, and more enchanting than the spirit of the Hills.” This is unclear, but let's leave it at that.
During this interval Leos did some unencouraged courting, but at last, “choked by his undertaking,” he desisted.
During this time, Leos tried to pursue a romance without much encouragement, but eventually, “overwhelmed by his efforts,” he gave up.
Presently “Elfonzo again wends his way to the stately walls and new-built village.” He goes to the house of his beloved; she opens the door herself. To my surprise—for Ambulinia's heart had still seemed free at the time of their last interview—love beamed from the girl's eyes. One sees that Elfonzo was surprised, too; for when he caught that light, “a halloo of smothered shouts ran through every vein.” A neat figure—a very neat figure, indeed! Then he kissed her. “The scene was overwhelming.” They went into the parlor. The girl said it was safe, for her parents were abed, and would never know. Then we have this fine picture—flung upon the canvas with hardly an effort, as you will notice.
Right now, “Elfonzo is making his way to the grand walls and the newly built village.” He heads to the house of his beloved, and she opens the door herself. To my surprise—since Ambulinia's heart had seemed free during their last meeting—love shone in the girl's eyes. It’s clear that Elfonzo was surprised too; when he saw that light, “a rush of stifled excitement ran through him.” A charming figure—a very charming figure, indeed! Then he kissed her. “The moment was intense.” They went into the living room. The girl said it was safe since her parents were in bed and wouldn’t know. Then we have this beautiful scene—painted on the canvas with barely any effort, as you will see.
Advancing toward him, she gave a bright display of her rosy neck, and from her head the ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance; her robe hung waving to his view, while she stood like a goddess confessed before him.
As she approached him, she showcased her lovely neck, and her hair had a divine fragrance; her dress flowed elegantly as she stood in front of him like a goddess unveiled.
There is nothing of interest in the couple's interview. Now at this point the girl invites Elfonzo to a village show, where jealousy is the motive of the play, for she wants to teach him a wholesome lesson, if he is a jealous person. But this is a sham, and pretty shallow. McClintock merely wants a pretext to drag in a plagiarism of his upon a scene or two in “Othello.”
There’s nothing noteworthy in the couple's interview. At this point, the girl invites Elfonzo to a village show, where jealousy is the theme of the play because she wants to teach him a valuable lesson if he happens to be a jealous person. However, this is just a facade and quite superficial. McClintock simply wants an excuse to insert a bit of his own plagiarism from a scene or two in “Othello.”
The lovers went to the play. Elfonzo was one of the fiddlers. He and Ambulinia must not be seen together, lest trouble follow with the girl's malignant father; we are made to understand that clearly. So the two sit together in the orchestra, in the midst of the musicians. This does not seem to be good art. In the first place, the girl would be in the way, for orchestras are always packed closely together, and there is no room to spare for people's girls; in the next place, one cannot conceal a girl in an orchestra without everybody taking notice of it. There can be no doubt, it seems to me, that this is bad art.
The lovers went to the play. Elfonzo was one of the fiddlers. He and Ambulinia couldn't be seen together, or it would cause problems with her overbearing father; that's made clear. So, they sit together in the orchestra, surrounded by the musicians. That doesn’t seem to make much sense. First of all, the girl would be in the way, since orchestras are always packed closely together, leaving no room for someone's girlfriend. Secondly, you can’t hide a girl in an orchestra without everyone noticing. It seems pretty obvious to me that this is bad art.
Leos is present. Of course, one of the first things that catches his eye is the maddening spectacle of Ambulinia “leaning upon Elfonzo's chair.” This poor girl does not seem to understand even the rudiments of concealment. But she is “in her seventeenth,” as the author phrases it, and that is her justification.
Leos is here. Naturally, one of the first things that grabs his attention is the irritating sight of Ambulinia “leaning on Elfonzo's chair.” This poor girl doesn’t seem to grasp even the basics of hiding. But she’s “in her seventeenth,” as the author says, and that’s her excuse.
Leos meditates, constructs a plan—with personal violence as a basis, of course. It was their way down there. It is a good plain plan, without any imagination in it. He will go out and stand at the front door, and when these two come out he will “arrest Ambulinia from the hands of the insolent Elfonzo,” and thus make for himself a “more prosperous field of immortality than ever was decreed by Omnipotence, or ever pencil drew or artist imagined.” But, dear me, while he is waiting there the couple climb out at the back window and scurry home! This is romantic enough, but there is a lack of dignity in the situation.
Leos thinks things through and comes up with a plan—based on personal violence, of course. That’s how things are done down there. It’s a straightforward plan, lacking any creativity. He’ll go out and stand by the front door, and when they come out, he’ll “arrest Ambulinia from the clutches of the disrespectful Elfonzo,” creating for himself a “better chance at immortality than anything ever decreed by Omnipotence or created by an artist’s imagination.” But, oh dear, while he waits there, the couple slips out the back window and hurries home! This is romantic enough, but it doesn’t have the dignity one would hope for in the situation.
At this point McClintock puts in the whole of his curious play—which we skip.
At this point, McClintock presents the entirety of his strange play—which we skip.
Some correspondence follows now. The bitter father and the distressed lovers write the letters. Elopements are attempted. They are idiotically planned, and they fail. Then we have several pages of romantic powwow and confusion signifying nothing. Another elopement is planned; it is to take place on Sunday, when everybody is at church. But the “hero” cannot keep the secret; he tells everybody. Another author would have found another instrument when he decided to defeat this elopement; but that is not McClintock's way. He uses the person that is nearest at hand.
Some letters follow now. The bitter father and the distressed lovers write them. Elopements are attempted. They're poorly planned and end in failure. Then we get several pages of romantic chatter and confusion that means nothing. Another elopement is in the works; it’s set for Sunday when everyone is at church. But the “hero” can’t keep it a secret; he spills the beans to everyone. Another writer might have chosen a different way to sabotage this elopement, but that’s not McClintock's style. He uses the person who’s closest at hand.
The evasion failed, of course. Ambulinia, in her flight, takes refuge in a neighbor's house. Her father drags her home. The villagers gather, attracted by the racket.
The escape didn’t work, of course. Ambulinia, in her attempt to get away, takes shelter in a neighbor's house. Her father pulls her back home. The villagers come together, drawn in by the noise.
Elfonzo was moved at this sight. The people followed on to see what was going to become of Ambulinia, while he, with downcast looks, kept at a distance, until he saw them enter the abode of the father, thrusting her, that was the sigh of his soul, out of his presence into a solitary apartment, when she exclaimed, “Elfonzo! Elfonzo! oh, Elfonzo! where art thou, with all thy heroes? haste, oh! haste, come thou to my relief. Ride on the wings of the wind! Turn thy force loose like a tempest, and roll on thy army like a whirlwind, over this mountain of trouble and confusion. Oh friends! if any pity me, let your last efforts throng upon the green hills, and come to the relief of Ambulinia, who is guilty of nothing but innocent love.” Elfonzo called out with a loud voice, “My God, can I stand this! arouse up, I beseech you, and put an end to this tyranny. Come, my brave boys,” said he, “are you ready to go forth to your duty?” They stood around him. “Who,” said he, “will call us to arms? Where are my thunderbolts of war? Speak ye, the first who will meet the foe! Who will go forward with me in this ocean of grievous temptation? If there is one who desires to go, let him come and shake hands upon the altar of devotion, and swear that he will be a hero; yes, a Hector in a cause like this, which calls aloud for a speedy remedy.” “Mine be the deed,” said a young lawyer, “and mine alone; Venus alone shall quit her station before I will forsake one jot or tittle of my promise to you; what is death to me? what is all this warlike army, if it is not to win a victory? I love the sleep of the lover and the mighty; nor would I give it over till the blood of my enemies should wreak with that of my own. But God forbid that our fame should soar on the blood of the slumberer.” Mr. Valeer stands at his door with the frown of a demon upon his brow, with his dangerous weapon ready to strike the first man who should enter his door. “Who will arise and go forward through blood and carnage to the rescue of my Ambulinia?” said Elfonzo. “All,” exclaimed the multitude; and onward they went, with their implements of battle. Others, of a more timid nature, stood among the distant hills to see the result of the contest.
Elfonzo was deeply moved by what he witnessed. The crowd followed to see what would happen to Ambulinia, while he, feeling downhearted, kept his distance until he saw them take her into her father's house, pushing the one he loved into a solitary room. She called out, “Elfonzo! Elfonzo! Oh, Elfonzo! Where are you, along with all your heroes? Hurry! Please, come to my rescue. Fly in on the wings of the wind! Unleash your power like a storm and send your army like a whirlwind over this mountain of trouble and confusion. Oh friends! If you feel for me, let your final efforts gather on the green hills and come to help Ambulinia, who has done nothing wrong but love innocently.” Elfonzo shouted, “My God, can I take this! Please rise and put an end to this oppression. Come, my brave friends,” he said, “are you ready to fulfill your duty?” They surrounded him. “Who,” he asked, “will rally us for battle? Where are my weapons of war? Speak up, who is willing to face the enemy first! Who will join me in this sea of overwhelming temptation? If anyone wants to go, step forward and solidify your commitment, and swear to be a hero; yes, a Hector in a cause like this, which desperately needs a solution.” “Let the task be mine,” said a young lawyer, “and mine alone; Venus herself wouldn’t abandon her place before I break even part of my promise to you; what is death to me? What is this entire army for if not to achieve victory? I enjoy the peace of a lover and a warrior; nor would I surrender it until the blood of my enemies mixes with my own. But God forbid that our legacy should rise from the blood of the peaceful.” Mr. Valeer stood at his door, wearing a menacing scowl, with his dangerous weapon ready to strike the first person who crossed his threshold. “Who will rise and march through blood and chaos to save my Ambulinia?” Elfonzo asked. “We all will,” the crowd shouted, and they advanced with their weapons. Others, more timid, stayed on the distant hills to watch the outcome of the battle.
It will hardly be believed that after all this thunder and lightning not a drop of rain fell; but such is the fact. Elfonzo and his gang stood up and black-guarded Mr. Valeer with vigor all night, getting their outlay back with interest; then in the early morning the army and its general retired from the field, leaving the victory with their solitary adversary and his crowbar. This is the first time this has happened in romantic literature. The invention is original. Everything in this book is original; there is nothing hackneyed about it anywhere. Always, in other romances, when you find the author leading up to a climax, you know what is going to happen. But in this book it is different; the thing which seems inevitable and unavoidable never happens; it is circumvented by the art of the author every time.
It’s hard to believe that after all that thunder and lightning, not a single drop of rain fell; but that’s the truth. Elfonzo and his crew stood up and insulted Mr. Valeer with enthusiasm all night, getting back what they spent, plus some extra. Then, in the early morning, the army and its general left the scene, handing the victory to their lone opponent and his crowbar. This is the first time something like this has happened in romantic literature. The idea is unique. Everything in this book is original; there’s nothing worn-out about it anywhere. Usually, in other romances, when the author builds up to a climax, you know what’s coming. But in this book, it’s different; what seems inevitable and unavoidable never happens; it’s deftly avoided by the author’s skill every time.
Another elopement was attempted. It failed.
Another attempt at running away together was made. It didn’t work.
We have now arrived at the end. But it is not exciting. McClintock thinks it is; but it isn't. One day Elfonzo sent Ambulinia another note—a note proposing elopement No. 16. This time the plan is admirable; admirable, sagacious, ingenious, imaginative, deep—oh, everything, and perfectly easy. One wonders why it was never thought of before. This is the scheme. Ambulinia is to leave the breakfast-table, ostensibly to “attend to the placing of those flowers, which should have been done a week ago”—artificial ones, of course; the others wouldn't keep so long—and then, instead of fixing the flowers, she is to walk out to the grove, and go off with Elfonzo. The invention of this plan overstrained the author that is plain, for he straightway shows failing powers. The details of the plan are not many or elaborate. The author shall state them himself—this good soul, whose intentions are always better than his English:
We have now reached the end. But it’s not thrilling. McClintock thinks it is; but it really isn’t. One day, Elfonzo sent Ambulinia another note—a note suggesting elopement No. 16. This time the plan is excellent; excellent, wise, clever, imaginative, profound—oh, everything, and completely simple. One wonders why it was never thought of before. Here’s the scheme: Ambulinia is to leave the breakfast table, supposedly to “take care of those flowers, which should have been arranged a week ago”—artificial ones, of course; the real ones wouldn’t last that long—and then, instead of arranging the flowers, she is to walk out to the grove and run away with Elfonzo. The creation of this plan seems to have overstrained the author, that’s clear, because he quickly shows diminishing abilities. The details of the plan aren’t many or complicated. The author will state them himself—this good soul, whose intentions are always better than his writing:
“You walk carelessly toward the academy grove, where you will find me with a lightning steed, elegantly equipped to bear you off where we shall be joined in wedlock with the first connubial rights.”
“You walk without thinking toward the academy grove, where you’ll find me with a beautiful horse, ready to take you away to where we will be joined in marriage with our first rights as a couple.”
Last scene of all, which the author, now much enfeebled, tries to smarten up and make acceptable to his spectacular heart by introducing some new properties—silver bow, golden harp, olive branch—things that can all come good in an elopement, no doubt, yet are not to be compared to an umbrella for real handiness and reliability in an excursion of that kind.
Last scene of all, which the author, now much weakened, tries to spruce up and make appealing to his theatrical heart by adding some new props—silver bow, golden harp, olive branch—things that could definitely come in handy during a getaway, no doubt, but can't compare to an umbrella for true practicality and dependability on an adventure like that.
And away she ran to the sacred grove, surrounded with glittering pearls, that indicated her coming. Elfonzo hails her with his silver bow and his golden harp. They meet—Ambulinia's countenance brightens—Elfonzo leads up the winged steed. “Mount,” said he, “ye true-hearted, ye fearless soul—the day is ours.” She sprang upon the back of the young thunderbolt, a brilliant star sparkles upon her head, with one hand she grasps the reins, and with the other she holds an olive branch. “Lend thy aid, ye strong winds,” they exclaimed, “ye moon, ye sun, and all ye fair host of heaven, witness the enemy conquered.” “Hold,” said Elfonzo, “thy dashing steed.” “Ride on,” said Ambulinia, “the voice of thunder is behind us.” And onward they went, with such rapidity that they very soon arrived at Rural Retreat, where they dismounted, and were united with all the solemnities that usually attended such divine operations.
And off she ran to the sacred grove, surrounded by shimmering pearls that signaled her arrival. Elfonzo welcomed her with his silver bow and golden harp. When they met—Ambulinia's face lit up—Elfonzo revealed the winged horse. "Get on," he said, "you brave and fearless soul—the day is ours." She jumped onto the back of the young thunderbolt, a shining star sparkling on her head, one hand gripping the reins and the other holding an olive branch. "Help us, strong winds," they shouted, "moon, sun, and all you beautiful beings in the sky, witness our victory over the enemy." "Wait," said Elfonzo, "your speedy horse." "Keep going," Ambulinia replied, "the sound of thunder is behind us." And they sped onward, moving so fast that they quickly reached Rural Retreat, where they got off and were greeted with the usual ceremonies that accompanied such divine events.
There is but one Homer, there is but one Shakespeare, there is but one McClintock—and his immortal book is before you. Homer could not have written this book, Shakespeare could not have written it, I could not have done it myself. There is nothing just like it in the literature of any country or of any epoch. It stands alone; it is monumental. It adds G. Ragsdale McClintock's to the sum of the republic's imperishable names.
There is only one Homer, only one Shakespeare, and only one McClintock—and his timeless book is right in front of you. Homer couldn't have written this book, Shakespeare couldn't have written it, and I couldn't have done it myself. There's nothing quite like it in the literature of any country or any time period. It stands on its own; it’s monumental. It adds G. Ragsdale McClintock's name to the list of the republic's enduring figures.
1. The name here given is a substitute for the one actually attached to the pamphlet.
1. The name provided here is a replacement for the one that is actually on the pamphlet.
2. Further on it will be seen that he is a country expert on the fiddle, and has a three-township fame.
2. Later on, it will be clear that he is a local expert on the fiddle and has a reputation that spans three townships.
3. It is a crowbar.
It's a crowbar.
THE CURIOUS BOOK
COMPLETE
(The foregoing review of the great work of G. Ragsdale McClintock is liberally illuminated with sample extracts, but these cannot appease the appetite. Only the complete book, unabridged, can do that. Therefore it is here printed.—M.T.)
(The review of the important work by G. Ragsdale McClintock includes several sample extracts, but these can’t satisfy the curiosity. Only the full, unedited book can do that. So, it is published here.—M.T.)
THE ENEMY CONQUERED; OR, LOVE TRIUMPHANT
THE ENEMY CONQUERED; OR, LOVE TRIUMPHANT
Sweet girl, thy smiles are full of charms,
Thy voice is sweeter still,
It fills the breast with fond alarms,
Echoed by every rill.
Sweet girl, your smiles are full of charm,
Your voice is even sweeter,
It fills the heart with warm alarms,
Echoed by every stream.I begin this little work with an eulogy upon woman, who has ever been distinguished for her perseverance, her constancy, and her devoted attention to those upon whom she has been pleased to place her affections. Many have been the themes upon which writers and public speakers have dwelt with intense and increasing interest. Among these delightful themes stands that of woman, the balm to all our sighs and disappointments, and the most pre-eminent of all other topics. Here the poet and orator have stood and gazed with wonder and with admiration; they have dwelt upon her innocence, the ornament of all her virtues. First viewing her external charms, such as set forth in her form and benevolent countenance, and then passing to the deep hidden springs of loveliness and disinterested devotion. In every clime, and in every age, she has been the pride of her nation. Her watchfulness is untiring; she who guarded the sepulcher was the first to approach it, and the last to depart from its awful yet sublime scene. Even here, in this highly favored land, we look to her for the security of our institutions, and for our future greatness as a nation. But, strange as it may appear, woman's charms and virtues are but slightly appreciated by thousands. Those who should raise the standard of female worth, and paint her value with her virtues, in living colors, upon the banners that are fanned by the zephyrs of heaven, and hand them down to posterity as emblematical of a rich inheritance, do not properly estimate them.
I start this little work with a tribute to women, who have always been known for their perseverance, dedication, and devoted attention to those they choose to love. Many subjects have captivated writers and speakers with growing interest. Among these wonderful topics is that of woman, the remedy for our sighs and disappointments, and the most prominent of all. Here, poets and speakers have stood in awe and admiration; they have focused on her innocence, the crown of all her virtues. First, they admire her physical beauty, represented by her figure and kind expression, then they delve into the deep, hidden qualities of charm and selfless devotion. Throughout time and across cultures, she has been the pride of her nation. Her vigilance is endless; she who watched over the tomb was the first to arrive and the last to leave that terrifying yet awe-inspiring place. Even here, in this blessed land, we look to her for the stability of our institutions and our future greatness as a nation. Yet, strangely, many people hardly appreciate women’s charms and virtues. Those who should promote female worth and vividly portray her value with her virtues on banners carried by the gentle winds of heaven, passing them down to future generations as symbols of a rich legacy, fail to fully recognize them.
Man is not sensible, at all times, of the nature and the emotions which bear that name; he does not understand, he will not comprehend; his intelligence has not expanded to that degree of glory which drinks in the vast revolution of humanity, its end, its mighty destination, and the causes which operated, and are still operating, to produce a more elevated station, and the objects which energize and enliven its consummation. This he is a stranger to; he is not aware that woman is the recipient of celestial love, and that man is dependent upon her to perfect his character; that without her, philosophically and truly speaking, the brightest of his intelligence is but the coldness of a winter moon, whose beams can produce no fruit, whose solar light is not its own, but borrowed from the great dispenser of effulgent beauty. We have no disposition in the world to flatter the fair sex, we would raise them above those dastardly principles which only exist in little souls, contracted hearts, and a distracted brain. Often does she unfold herself in all her fascinating loveliness, presenting the most captivating charms; yet we find man frequently treats such purity of purpose with indifference. Why does he do it? Why does he baffle that which is inevitably the source of his better days? Is he so much of a stranger to those excellent qualities as not to appreciate woman, as not to have respect to her dignity? Since her art and beauty first captivated man, she has been his delight and his comfort; she has shared alike in his misfortunes and in his prosperity.
Man is not always aware of the nature and emotions that define him; he doesn't understand, and he refuses to comprehend. His intelligence hasn't grown to the level that fully grasps the vast changes in humanity, its purpose, its great future, and the forces that have shaped and continue to shape a higher existence, along with the inspirations that drive its fulfillment. He is oblivious to the fact that woman embodies divine love and that man relies on her to complete his character; without her, truthfully, the brightest aspects of his intelligence are like the cold light of a winter moon, offering no real warmth, borrowing its shine from the ultimate source of radiant beauty. We don't aim to flatter women; we want to elevate them beyond the cowardly principles that exist only in small hearts, narrow minds, and distracted thoughts. Often, she reveals herself in all her stunning beauty, presenting the most captivating charms; yet we often see man treating such pure intentions with indifference. Why does he do this? Why does he ignore the very source of his happiest moments? Is he really so unfamiliar with these remarkable qualities that he can't appreciate women or respect their dignity? Since her grace and beauty first captured man, she has been his joy and his solace, sharing in both his struggles and his successes.
Whenever the billows of adversity and the tumultuous waves of trouble beat high, her smiles subdue their fury. Should the tear of sorrow and the mournful sigh of grief interrupt the peace of his mind, her voice removes them all, and she bends from her circle to encourage him onward. When darkness would obscure his mind, and a thick cloud of gloom would bewilder its operations, her intelligent eye darts a ray of streaming light into his heart. Mighty and charming is that disinterested devotion which she is ever ready to exercise toward man, not waiting till the last moment of his danger, but seeks to relieve him in his early afflictions. It gushes forth from the expansive fullness of a tender and devoted heart, where the noblest, the purest, and the most elevated and refined feelings are matured and developed in those many kind offices which invariably make her character.
Whenever the waves of adversity and the crashing troubles come crashing down, her smiles calm their intensity. If the tear of sorrow and the sad sigh of grief disrupt his peace, her voice wipes them away, and she leans in to encourage him to keep going. When darkness tries to cloud his thoughts and a heavy gloom confuses him, her insightful gaze sends a bright spark of hope into his heart. Strong and enchanting is that selfless devotion she always shows toward others, not waiting for the final moment of his struggle but aiming to help him in his earlier hardships. It flows from the deep compassion of a caring and devoted heart, where the noblest, purest, and most refined feelings grow and flourish through the many kind acts that define her character.
In the room of sorrow and sickness, this unequaled characteristic may always been seen, in the performance of the most charitable acts; nothing that she can do to promote the happiness of him who she claims to be her protector will be omitted; all is invigorated by the animating sunbeams which awaken the heart to songs of gaiety. Leaving this point, to notice another prominent consideration, which is generally one of great moment and of vital importance. Invariably she is firm and steady in all her pursuits and aims. There is required a combination of forces and extreme opposition to drive her from her position; she takes her stand, not to be moved by the sound of Apollo's lyre or the curved bow of pleasure.
In the room filled with sadness and illness, this unique trait can always be seen in the way she performs the most charitable acts; nothing she can do to bring happiness to the person she considers her protector is overlooked; everything is energized by the uplifting sunlight that inspires the heart to sing with joy. Moving away from this point, it’s important to highlight another significant consideration, which is always of great importance and crucial. She is consistently strong and unwavering in all her pursuits and goals. It takes a combination of forces and extreme resistance to push her from her stance; she stands firm, unshaken by the sound of Apollo’s lyre or the allure of pleasures.
Firm and true to what she undertakes, and that which she requires by her own aggrandizement, and regards as being within the strict rules of propriety, she will remain stable and unflinching to the last. A more genuine principle is not to be found in the most determined, resolute heart of man. For this she deserves to be held in the highest commendation, for this she deserves the purest of all other blessings, and for this she deserves the most laudable reward of all others. It is a noble characteristic and is worthy of imitation of any age. And when we look at it in one particular aspect, it is still magnified, and grows brighter and brighter the more we reflect upon its eternal duration. What will she not do, when her word as well as her affections and love are pledged to her lover? Everything that is dear to her on earth, all the hospitalities of kind and loving parents, all the sincerity and loveliness of sisters, and the benevolent devotion of brothers, who have surrounded her with every comfort; she will forsake them all, quit the harmony and sweet sound of the lute and the harp, and throw herself upon the affections of some devoted admirer, in whom she fondly hopes to find more than she has left behind, which is not often realized by many. Truth and virtue all combined! How deserving our admiration and love! Ah cruel would it be in man, after she has thus manifested such an unshaken confidence in him, and said by her determination to abandon all the endearments and blandishments of home, to act a villainous part, and prove a traitor in the revolution of his mission, and then turn Hector over the innocent victim whom he swore to protect, in the presence of Heaven, recorded by the pen of an angel.
Firm and true to her commitments, and to what she believes is right for her own advancement, she will remain steady and unwavering until the end. You won't find a more genuine principle than in the most determined heart. For this, she deserves the highest praise, the purest blessings, and the greatest rewards. It’s a noble trait worthy of being admired in any era. When we consider it from a specific angle, it shines even brighter the more we think about its timeless nature. What won’t she do when her word and her feelings are devoted to her lover? She will give up everything she holds dear on this earth, all the warmth and love of her parents, the sincerity and beauty of her sisters, and the selfless support of her brothers, who have provided her with every comfort. She will leave behind the harmony and sweet sounds of the lute and harp to throw herself into the arms of a devoted admirer, hoping to find in him more than what she has left, which often doesn’t happen for many. Truth and virtue combined! How deserving they are of our admiration and love! Ah, it would be cruel for a man to betray such unwavering trust, to abandon the comforts and gentle pleasures of home, and to act treacherously after she has shown such confidence in him, turning against the innocent person he promised to protect, with Heaven as a witness, documented by an angel’s pen.
Striking as this trait may unfold itself in her character, and as pre-eminent as it may stand among the fair display of her other qualities, yet there is another, which struggles into existence, and adds an additional luster to what she already possesses. I mean that disposition in woman which enables her, in sorrow, in grief, and in distress, to bear all with enduring patience. This she has done, and can and will do, amid the din of war and clash of arms. Scenes and occurrences which, to every appearance, are calculated to rend the heart with the profoundest emotions of trouble, do not fetter that exalted principle imbued in her very nature. It is true, her tender and feeling heart may often be moved (as she is thus constituted), but she is not conquered, she has not given up to the harlequin of disappointments, her energies have not become clouded in the last movement of misfortune, but she is continually invigorated by the archetype of her affections. She may bury her face in her hands, and let the tear of anguish roll, she may promenade the delightful walks of some garden, decorated with all the flowers of nature, or she may steal out along some gently rippling stream, and there, as the silver waters uninterruptedly move forward, shed her silent tears; they mingle with the waves, and take a last farewell of their agitated home, to seek a peaceful dwelling among the rolling floods; yet there is a voice rushing from her breast, that proclaims victory along the whole line and battlement of her affections. That voice is the voice of patience and resignation; that voice is one that bears everything calmly and dispassionately, amid the most distressing scenes; when the fates are arrayed against her peace, and apparently plotting for her destruction, still she is resigned.
As striking as this trait may be in her character, and as prominent as it is among her other admirable qualities, there is another trait that comes to light and adds even more brilliance to what she already has. I’m talking about the quality in a woman that allows her, in times of sorrow, grief, and distress, to endure everything with remarkable patience. She has done this, can do it, and will keep doing it even amid the chaos of war and the clash of weapons. Events and circumstances that seem destined to break a heart with deep feelings of trouble do not inhibit that noble spirit ingrained in her very nature. It’s true that her tender heart may often be moved (as she is naturally inclined), but she is not defeated; she hasn’t succumbed to the harlequin of disappointments, and her strength hasn’t faded in her darkest moments; instead, she is constantly refreshed by the essence of her affections. She might cover her face with her hands and let the tears of anguish fall, she might stroll through a beautiful garden filled with nature's flowers, or she might slip away to a gently flowing stream and there, as the silver waters keep moving on, shed her silent tears; they mingle with the waves and bid a final farewell to their restless home, searching for a peaceful place among the rolling waters; yet there is a voice rising from her heart, proclaiming victory throughout the entirety of her affections. That voice is one of patience and acceptance; it is a voice that handles everything calmly and without emotion, even in the most distressing situations; when fate seems to be against her peace and plotting for her downfall, she remains resigned.
Woman's affections are deep, consequently her troubles may be made to sink deep. Although you may not be able to mark the traces of her grief and the furrowings of her anguish upon her winning countenance, yet be assured they are nevertheless preying upon her inward person, sapping the very foundation of that heart which alone was made for the weal and not the woe of man. The deep recesses of the soul are fields for their operation. But they are not destined simply to take the regions of the heart for their dominion, they are not satisfied merely with interrupting her better feelings; but after a while you may see the blooming cheek beginning to droop and fade, her intelligent eye no longer sparkles with the starry light of heaven, her vibrating pulse long since changed its regular motion, and her palpitating bosom beats once more for the midday of her glory. Anxiety and care ultimately throw her into the arms of the haggard and grim monster death. But, oh, how patient, under every pining influence! Let us view the matter in bolder colors; see her when the dearest object of her affections recklessly seeks every bacchanalian pleasure, contents himself with the last rubbish of creation. With what solicitude she awaits his return! Sleep fails to perform its office—she weeps while the nocturnal shades of the night triumph in the stillness. Bending over some favorite book, whilst the author throws before her mind the most beautiful imagery, she startles at every sound. The midnight silence is broken by the solemn announcement of the return of another morning. He is still absent; she listens for that voice which has so often been greeted by the melodies of her own; but, alas! stern silence is all that she receives for her vigilance.
A woman's feelings run deep, and as a result, her troubles can also go deep. Even if you can’t see the signs of her sadness or the lines of her pain on her charming face, rest assured they are still eating away at her inside, undermining the very core of a heart that was meant to bring joy, not sadness, to others. The hidden depths of her soul are where this turmoil takes place. But it’s not just about claiming her heart; it doesn’t stop at interrupting her happier feelings. In time, you might notice her once radiant cheeks starting to sag and lose color, her bright eyes losing their sparkle, her steady heartbeat becoming erratic, and her once lively spirit dimming in the midday of her glory. Worry and stress ultimately push her closer to the grim presence of death. Yet, oh, how patiently she endures every painful moment! Let’s look at it more clearly: imagine her when the person she cherishes the most recklessly dives into every party and indulges in the worst aspects of life. How anxiously she waits for him to come back! Sleep eludes her—she cries while the dark night silently mocks her. Hunched over a beloved book, lost in the beautiful images the writer creates, she jumps at every little noise. The quiet of midnight is disturbed by the solemn arrival of another morning. He’s still not back; she listens for that voice that has so often harmonized with her own, but sadly, all she gets in return for her vigilance is a harsh silence.
Mark her unwearied watchfulness, as the night passes away. At last, brutalized by the accursed thing, he staggers along with rage, and, shivering with cold, he makes his appearance. Not a murmur is heard from her lips. On the contrary, she meets him with a smile—she caresses him with tender arms, with all the gentleness and softness of her sex. Here, then, is seen her disposition, beautifully arrayed. Woman, thou art more to be admired than the spicy gales of Arabia, and more sought for than the gold of Golconda. We believe that Woman should associate freely with man, and we believe that it is for the preservation of her rights. She should become acquainted with the metaphysical designs of those who condescended to sing the siren song of flattery. This, we think, should be according to the unwritten law of decorum, which is stamped upon every innocent heart. The precepts of prudery are often steeped in the guilt of contamination, which blasts the expectations of better moments. Truth, and beautiful dreams—loveliness, and delicacy of character, with cherished affections of the ideal woman—gentle hopes and aspirations, are enough to uphold her in the storms of darkness, without the transferred colorings of a stained sufferer. How often have we seen it in our public prints, that woman occupies a false station in the world! and some have gone so far as to say it was an unnatural one. So long has she been regarded a weak creature, by the rabble and illiterate—they have looked upon her as an insufficient actress on the great stage of human life—a mere puppet, to fill up the drama of human existence—a thoughtless, inactive being—that she has too often come to the same conclusion herself, and has sometimes forgotten her high destination, in the meridian of her glory. We have but little sympathy or patience for those who treat her as a mere Rosy Melindi—who are always fishing for pretty complements—who are satisfied by the gossamer of Romance, and who can be allured by the verbosity of high-flown words, rich in language, but poor and barren in sentiment. Beset, as she has been, by the intellectual vulgar, the selfish, the designing, the cunning, the hidden, and the artful—no wonder she has sometimes folded her wings in despair, and forgotten her heavenly mission in the delirium of imagination; no wonder she searches out some wild desert, to find a peaceful home. But this cannot always continue. A new era is moving gently onward, old things are rapidly passing away; old superstitions, old prejudices, and old notions are now bidding farewell to their old associates and companions, and giving way to one whose wings are plumed with the light of heaven and tinged by the dews of the morning. There is a remnant of blessedness that clings to her in spite of all evil influence, there is enough of the Divine Master left to accomplish the noblest work ever achieved under the canopy of the vaulted skies; and that time is fast approaching, when the picture of the true woman will shine from its frame of glory, to captivate, to win back, to restore, and to call into being once more, the object of her mission.
Observe her tireless vigilance as the night passes. Finally, overwhelmed by the cursed situation, he stumbles in with rage, shivering from the cold. Not a word escapes her lips. Instead, she welcomes him with a smile—embracing him with the tenderness and softness that defines her. Here is her character, beautifully displayed. Woman, you are more admirable than the fragrant breezes of Arabia and more desired than the gold of Golconda. We believe that women should freely associate with men to safeguard their rights. They should understand the hidden motives of those who resort to flattering words. This, we think, aligns with the unspoken rules of decency, embedded in every innocent heart. The rules of modesty are often mired in guilt, which taints hopes for better times. Truth, beautiful dreams—grace, and delicate character, along with the cherished affections of the ideal woman—gentle hopes and aspirations can sustain her through dark times, without the taint of a stained past. How often have we read in public media that women hold a false position in society! Some have even claimed it's an unnatural one. For too long, she has been seen as a weak being by the uneducated and the crowd—they view her as an inadequate player on the vast stage of life—a mere puppet to fill the roles of existence—a thoughtless, passive individual—that she has often come to believe it herself, sometimes losing sight of her true purpose during her high moments. We have little sympathy for those who treat her as just an object of admiration—who constantly seek flattering compliments—who are content with the superficiality of romance, and who can be swayed by grandiose language, rich in words but lacking in true sentiment. Surrounded as she has been by the intellectually shallow, the selfish, the schemers, the deceitful, and the sly—it's no wonder she has sometimes tucked away her wings in despair and lost sight of her higher calling in a haze of imagination; no wonder she longs for a secluded place to find peace. But this can't last forever. A new era is gradually unfolding; outdated beliefs, prejudices, and notions are fading away, making room for something new, bathed in heavenly light and fresh morning dew. There remains a thread of goodness that clings to her despite all negative influences; enough of the Divine remains to achieve the loftiest pursuits under the vast skies; and the time is quickly approaching when the image of the true woman will shine from its glorious frame, ready to captivate, to regain, to restore, and to bring back into existence once more, the object of her mission.
Star of the brave! thy glory shed,
O'er all the earth, thy army led—
Bold meteor of immortal birth!
Why come from Heaven to dwell on Earth?
Star of the brave! your glory shines,
Over all the earth, your army leads—
Bold comet of eternal origins!
Why come from Heaven to live on Earth?Mighty and glorious are the days of youth; happy the moments of the lover, mingled with smiles and tears of his devoted, and long to be remembered are the achievements which he gains with a palpitating heart and a trembling hand. A bright and lovely dawn, the harbinger of a fair and prosperous day, had arisen over the beautiful little village of Cumming, which is surrounded by the most romantic scenery in the Cherokee country. Brightening clouds seemed to rise from the mist of the fair Chattahoochee, to spread their beauty over the thick forest, to guide the hero whose bosom beats with aspirations to conquer the enemy that would tarnish his name, and to win back the admiration of his long-tried friend. He endeavored to make his way through Sawney's Mountain, where many meet to catch the gales that are continually blowing for the refreshment of the stranger and the traveler. Surrounded as he was by hills on every side, naked rocks dared the efforts of his energies. Soon the sky became overcast, the sun buried itself in the clouds, and the fair day gave place to gloomy twilight, which lay heavily on the Indian Plains. He remembered an old Indian Castle, that once stood at the foot of the mountain. He thought if he could make his way to this, he would rest contented for a short time. The mountain air breathed fragrance—a rosy tinge rested on the glassy waters that murmured at its base. His resolution soon brought him to the remains of the red man's hut: he surveyed with wonder and astonishment the decayed building, which time had buried in the dust, and thought to himself, his happiness was not yet complete. Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man, about eighteen or twenty, who seemed to be reading some favorite book, and who had a remarkably noble countenance—eyes which betrayed more than a common mind. This of course made the youth a welcome guest, and gained him friends in whatever condition of life he might be placed. The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure, which showed strength and grace in every movement. He accordingly addressed him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way to the village. After he had received the desired information, and was about taking his leave, the youth said, “Are you not Major Elfonzo, the great musician—the champion of a noble cause—the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?” “I bear that name,” said the Major, “and those titles, trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,” continued the Major, “you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds, I should like to make you my confidant and learn your address.” The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment, and began: “My name is Roswell. I have been recently admitted to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success in that honorable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity, and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be called from its buried greatness.” The Major grasped him by the hand, and exclaimed: “O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration—thou flame of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede your progress!”
The days of youth are powerful and glorious; the moments of the lover are filled with smiles and tears from their devotion, and the achievements gained with a racing heart and trembling hand are treasured memories. A bright and beautiful dawn, a sign of a fair and successful day, had surfaced over the charming village of Cumming, nestled in the most romantic setting of the Cherokee country. Radiant clouds appeared from the mist of the lovely Chattahoochee, spreading their beauty over the dense forest, guiding the hero whose heart beats with aspirations to conquer the foe that might tarnish his name, and to regain the admiration of his long-trusted friend. He tried to navigate through Sawney's Mountain, where many gather to catch the refreshing breezes that blow for the comfort of wanderers and travelers. Surrounded by hills, raw rocks challenged his energy. Soon the sky grew dark, the sun hid behind the clouds, and the beautiful day turned into a gloomy twilight that weighed heavily on the Indian Plains. He recalled an old Indian castle that once stood at the mountain’s base and thought if he could reach it, he would be content to rest for a while. The mountain air was fragrant—a rosy hue lingered on the calm waters murmuring below. His determination soon led him to the remnants of the Native American hut: he marveled at the decayed structure, which time had covered in dust, and thought to himself that his happiness was not yet complete. By the brook sat a young man, around eighteen or twenty, seemingly engrossed in a favorite book, with a remarkably noble face—eyes that revealed an extraordinary mind. This, of course, made the youth a welcomed companion, winning him friends regardless of his status in life. The traveler noticed he had a well-proportioned frame that displayed strength and grace in every action. He approached him in a courteous manner and asked for directions to the village. After receiving the information he needed and preparing to leave, the youth said, “Aren’t you Major Elfonzo, the great musician—the champion of a noble cause—the modern Achilles, who won so many battles in the Florida War?” “I carry that name,” the Major replied, “and those titles, hoping that the powers of grace will guide me successfully through all my commendable endeavors. And if,” the Major added, “you, sir, are a supporter of noble actions, I would like to confide in you and learn your address.” The youth appeared slightly startled, bowed deeply, paused for a moment, and began: “My name is Roswell. I was recently admitted to the bar and can only offer a faint glimpse of my future success in that esteemed profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall soar from high rocks over the homes of people, and will always be ready to assist you in my official role, and whatever this strong arm of mine can do when called from its hidden greatness.” The Major took his hand and exclaimed: “Oh! you exalted spirit of inspiration— you flame of burning prosperity, may the divinely guided fire be the light of your soul, and overcome every obstacle that stands in your way!”
The road which led to the town presented many attractions. Elfonzo had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was now wending his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness. The south winds whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed against the banks, as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars. This brought him to remember while alone, that he quietly left behind the hospitality of a father's house, and gladly entered the world, with higher hopes than are often realized. But as he journeyed onward, he was mindful of the advice of his father, who had often looked sadly on the ground when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened his eye. Elfonzo had been somewhat of a dutiful son; yet fond of the amusements of life—had been in distant lands—had enjoyed the pleasure of the world and had frequently returned to the scenes of his boyhood, almost destitute of many of the comforts of life. In this condition, he would frequently say to his father, “Have I offended you, that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon me with stinging looks? Will you not favor me with the sound of your voice? If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread a humid veil of darkness around your expectations, send me back into the world where no heart beats for me—where the foot of man has never yet trod; but give me at least one kind word—allow me to come into the presence sometimes of thy winter-worn locks.” “Forbid it, Heaven, that I should be angry with thee,” answered the father, “my son, and yet I send thee back to the children of the world—to the cold charity of the combat, and to a land of victory. I read another destiny in thy countenance—I learn thy inclinations from the flame that has already kindled in my soul a strange sensation. It will seek thee, my dear Elfonzo, it will find thee—thou canst not escape that lighted torch, which shall blot out from the remembrance of men a long train of prophecies which they have foretold against thee. I once thought not so. Once, I was blind; but now the path of life is plain before me, and my sight is clear; yet Elfonzo, return to thy worldly occupation—take again in thy hand that chord of sweet sounds—struggle with the civilized world, and with your own heart; fly swiftly to the enchanted ground—let the night-_owl_ send forth its screams from the stubborn oak—let the sea sport upon the beach, and the stars sing together; but learn of these, Elfonzo, thy doom, and thy hiding-place. Our most innocent as well as our most lawful desires must often be denied us, that we may learn to sacrifice them to a Higher will.”
The road to the town had many attractions. Elfonzo had said goodbye to his youthful self and was now making his way to his favorite spot. The southern winds whistled through the woods, like the water crashing against the banks, roaring like flames in a confined furnace. This made him reflect, while alone, that he had quietly left the comfort of his father's home and was stepping into the world with hopes that were often unrealistic. But as he continued on his journey, he remembered his father's advice, who often looked down sadly when tears of shattered hope filled his eyes. Elfonzo had been a somewhat dutiful son; however, he loved the pleasures of life—had traveled to distant lands—had enjoyed the world's joys and often returned to his childhood home, almost lacking many of life's comforts. In this state, he would often say to his father, “Have I offended you, that you look at me as a stranger and frown upon me with hurtful looks? Will you not speak to me? If I have disrespected your honor or dimmed your hopes, send me back into the world where no one cares for me—where no man has ever set foot; but at least give me one kind word—let me come into your presence sometimes, even with your winter-worn hair.” “God forbid that I should be angry with you,” the father replied, “my son, and yet I send you back to the realities of the world—to the cold kindness of struggle, and to a land of triumph. I see a different fate in your face—I sense your desires from the spark that has already begun to stir a strange feeling in my soul. It will seek you out, my dear Elfonzo, and you can't escape that glowing flame, which will erase from memory all the many prophecies that have been made against you. I once thought otherwise. Once, I was blind; but now the path of life is clear before me, and my vision is sharp; yet Elfonzo, return to your worldly pursuits—take that string of sweet sounds back in your hand—struggle with society, and with your own feelings; rush swiftly to the enchanted ground—let the night owl call out from the stubborn oak—let the sea play on the shore, and the stars sing together; but learn from these, Elfonzo, your fate, and your hidden place. Our most innocent and reasonable desires must often be denied, so we can learn to offer them up to a Higher will.”
Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately urged by the recollection of his father's family to keep moving. His steps became quicker and quicker—he hastened through the piny woods, dark as the forest was, and with joy he very soon reached the little village of repose, in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry. His close attention to every important object—his modest questions about whatever was new to him—his reverence for wise old age, and his ardent desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought him into respectable notice.
Grateful for such advice, Elfonzo was immediately reminded of his father's family and felt compelled to keep moving. His steps quickened—he rushed through the piny woods, and despite the darkness of the forest, he joyfully reached the small village of peace, where the bravest knights resided. His keen focus on every significant detail—his humble inquiries about anything unfamiliar—his respect for older, wiser people, and his strong desire to learn various fine arts quickly gained him respect.
One mild winter day as he walked along the streets toward the Academy, which stood upon a small eminence, surrounded by native growth—some venerable in its appearance, others young and prosperous—all seemed inviting, and seemed to be the very place for learning as well as for genius to spend its research beneath its spreading shades. He entered its classic walls in the usual mode of southern manners. The principal of the Institution begged him to be seated and listen to the recitations that were going on. He accordingly obeyed the request, and seemed to be much pleased. After the school was dismissed, and the young hearts regained their freedom, with the songs of the evening, laughing at the anticipated pleasures of a happy home, while others tittered at the actions of the past day, he addressed the teacher in a tone that indicated a resolution—with an undaunted mind. He said he had determined to become a student, if he could meet with his approbation. “Sir,” said he, “I have spent much time in the world. I have traveled among the uncivilized inhabitants of America. I have met with friends, and combated with foes; but none of these gratify my ambition, or decide what is to be my destiny. I see the learned would have an influence with the voice of the people themselves. The despoilers of the remotest kingdoms of the earth refer their differences to this class of persons. This the illiterate and inexperienced little dream of; and now if you will receive me as I am, with these deficiencies—with all my misguided opinions, I will give you my honor, sir, that I will never disgrace the Institution, or those who have placed you in this honorable station.” The instructor, who had met with many disappointments, knew how to feel for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities of an unfeeling community. He looked at him earnestly, and said: “Be of good cheer—look forward, sir, to the high destination you may attain. Remember, the more elevated the mark at which you aim, the more sure, the more glorious, the more magnificent the prize.” From wonder to wonder, his encouragement led the impatient listener. A strange nature bloomed before him—giant streams promised him success—gardens of hidden treasures opened to his view. All this, so vividly described, seemed to gain a new witchery from his glowing fancy.
One mild winter day, as he walked toward the Academy, which was on a small rise surrounded by native plants—some looking ancient, others fresh and thriving—everything seemed inviting and felt like the perfect place for learning and for creative minds to pursue their studies in its spacious shade. He entered its classic buildings the way people do in the South. The head of the Institution asked him to take a seat and listen to the ongoing recitations. He agreed and appeared to be quite pleased. After school ended, the students regained their freedom, filled the air with evening songs, laughed at the upcoming joys of home, and teased each other about the day’s events. He then spoke to the teacher in a determined tone, reflecting his resolute mind. He said he had decided to become a student, if he could earn the teacher’s approval. “Sir,” he said, “I have spent a lot of time in the world. I’ve traveled among the uncivilized peoples of America. I’ve made friends and faced enemies; but none of these experiences satisfy my ambition or determine my future. I see that the educated can have a significant influence on the opinions of the people. Even the conquerors of the farthest kingdoms refer their disputes to this group. The uneducated and inexperienced hardly ever think of this; and now, if you will accept me as I am, with all my flaws and misguided beliefs, I promise you, sir, that I will never bring shame to the Institution or to those who have put you in this respected position.” The instructor, who had experienced many disappointments, understood the plight of a newcomer who had been cast into the indifference of a harsh society. He looked at the young man intently and said, “Stay optimistic—look ahead to the great goals you can achieve. Remember, the higher the aim you set, the more assured, glorious, and magnificent the reward will be.” With each word of encouragement, the eager listener was led from one wonder to another. A strange possibility unfolded before him—massive streams promised him success—gardens of hidden treasures revealed themselves in his mind. All of this, described so vividly, seemed to gain a new charm through his enthusiastic imagination.
In 1842 he entered the class, and made rapid progress in the English and Latin departments. Indeed, he continued advancing with such rapidity that he was like to become the first in his class, and made such unexpected progress, and was so studious, that he had almost forgotten the pictured saint of his affections. The fresh wreaths of the pine and cypress had waited anxiously to drop once more the dews of Heavens upon the heads of those who had so often poured forth the tender emotions of their souls under its boughs. He was aware of the pleasure that he had seen there. So one evening, as he was returning from his reading, he concluded he would pay a visit to this enchanting spot. Little did he think of witnessing a shadow of his former happiness, though no doubt he wished it might be so. He continued sauntering by the roadside, meditating on the past. The nearer he approached the spot, the more anxious he became. At the moment a tall female figure flitted across his path, with a bunch of roses in her hand; her countenance showed uncommon vivacity, with a resolute spirit; her ivory teeth already appeared as she smiled beautifully, promenading—while her ringlets of hair dangled unconsciously around her snowy neck. Nothing was wanting to complete her beauty. The tinge of the rose was in full bloom upon her cheek; the charms of sensibility and tenderness were always her associates.. In Ambulinia's bosom dwelt a noble soul—one that never faded—one that never was conquered. Her heart yielded to no feeling but the love of Elfonzo, on whom she gazed with intense delight, and to whom she felt herself more closely bound, because he sought the hand of no other. Elfonzo was roused from his apparent reverie. His books no longer were his inseparable companions—his thoughts arrayed themselves to encourage him in the field of victory. He endeavored to speak to his supposed Ambulinia, but his speech appeared not in words. No, his effort was a stream of fire, that kindled his soul into a flame of admiration, and carried his senses away captive. Ambulinia had disappeared, to make him more mindful of his duty. As she walked speedily away through the piny woods she calmly echoed: “O! Elfonzo, thou wilt now look from thy sunbeams. Thou shalt now walk in a new path—perhaps thy way leads through darkness; but fear not, the stars foretell happiness.”
In 1842, he joined the class and quickly excelled in both English and Latin. In fact, he was making such fast progress that he was on track to be the top student in his class. He was so focused and studious that he nearly forgot about the image of the saint he cared for. The fresh pine and cypress wreaths had been patiently waiting to shower blessings on those who often expressed their deepest feelings under its branches. He remembered the joy he had experienced there. So one evening, as he was coming back from his studies, he decided to visit that beautiful place. Little did he know he would encounter a glimpse of his past happiness, though he certainly hoped that might be the case. He continued strolling along the roadside, reflecting on the past. The closer he got to the spot, the more anxious he felt. At that moment, a tall woman swiftly crossed his path, holding a bunch of roses; her face radiated uncommon liveliness and determination. Her bright smile revealed her pearly teeth as she walked gracefully, with her hair flowing freely around her fair neck. Everything about her enhanced her beauty. The color of the roses bloomed on her cheeks, and the qualities of sensitivity and tenderness often accompanied her. In Ambulinia's heart lived a noble spirit—one that never faded and could never be defeated. Her heart was devoted solely to the love of Elfonzo, whom she regarded with great joy and felt a deep connection to, especially since he sought the love of no one else. Elfonzo was pulled from his apparent daydream. His books were no longer his only companions—his thoughts rallied to inspire him toward victory. He tried to speak to who he believed was Ambulinia, but words failed him. Instead, his feelings surged like a stream of fire, igniting a blaze of admiration within him and captivating his senses. Ambulinia had vanished, reminding him to be mindful of his responsibilities. As she hurried away through the pine woods, she calmly echoed, “Oh Elfonzo, you will now look from your sunbeams. You will now walk a new path—perhaps your journey leads through darkness; but don’t be afraid, the stars predict happiness.”
Not many days afterward, as surrounded by fragrant flowers she sat one evening at twilight, to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered notes of melody along the distant groves, the little birds perched on every side, as if to watch the movements of their new visitor. The bells were tolling when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild wood flowers, holding in his hand his favorite instrument of music—his eye continually searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed to perceive him, as she played carelessly with the songsters that hopped from branch to branch. Nothing could be more striking than the difference between the two. Nature seemed to have given the more tender soul to Elfonzo, and the stronger and more courageous to Ambulinia. A deep feeling spoke from the eyes of Elfonzo—such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who are blessed as admirers, and by those who are able to return the same with sincerity of heart. He was a few years older than Ambulinia: she had turned a little into her seventeenth. He had almost grown up in the Cherokee country, with the same equal proportions as one of the natives. But little intimacy had existed between them until the year forty-one—because the youth felt that the character of such a lovely girl was too exalted to inspire any other feeling than that of quiet reverence. But as lovers will not always be insulted, at all times and under all circumstances, by the frowns and cold looks of crabbed old age, which should continually reflect dignity upon those around, and treat unfortunate as well as the fortunate with a graceful mien, he continued to use diligence and perseverance. All this lighted a spark in his heart that changed his whole character, and like the unyielding Deity that follows the storm to check its rage in the forest, he resolves for the first time to shake off his embarrassment and return where he had before only worshiped.
Not many days later, as she sat surrounded by fragrant flowers one evening at twilight, enjoying the cool breeze that carried soft melodies from the distant groves, the little birds perched around her as if to observe their new visitor. The bells were ringing when Elfonzo quietly made his way through the wildflowers, holding his favorite musical instrument in hand, his eyes constantly searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed to notice him as she played carelessly with the birds hopping from branch to branch. The contrast between them was striking. It seemed that nature had granted Elfonzo a more tender spirit, while Ambulinia was stronger and more daring. A deep emotion shone in Elfonzo's eyes—an emotion only those fortunate enough to be admirers can express, especially when that admiration is returned with genuine heart. He was a few years older than Ambulinia; she had just turned seventeen. He had practically grown up in Cherokee country, sharing similar traits with the locals. But they hadn’t been close until the year forty-one—because he felt that such a lovely girl's character was too elevated to inspire anything but quiet reverence. However, as lovers will not always be deterred by the harsh attitudes and cold looks of grumpy old people, who should reflect dignity and treat all people—fortunate and unfortunate alike—with grace, he continued to be diligent and persistent. This sparked a change in his heart that transformed his entire character, and like the unyielding deity that calms the storm in the forest, he resolved for the first time to shake off his embarrassment and return to where he had only worshiped before.
It could not escape Ambulinia's penetrating eye that he sought an interview with her, which she as anxiously avoided, and assumed a more distant calmness than before, seemingly to destroy all hope. After many efforts and struggles with his own person, with timid steps the Major approached the damsel, with the same caution as he would have done in a field of battle. “Lady Ambulinia,” said he, trembling, “I have long desired a moment like this. I dare not let it escape. I fear the consequences; yet I hope your indulgence will at least hear my petition. Can you not anticipate what I would say, and what I am about to express? Will not you, like Minerva, who sprung from the brain of Jupiter, release me from thy winding chains or cure me—” “Say no more, Elfonzo,” answered Ambulinia, with a serious look, raising her hand as if she intended to swear eternal hatred against the whole world; “another lady in my place would have perhaps answered your question in bitter coldness. I know not the little arts of my sex. I care but little for the vanity of those who would chide me, and am unwilling as well as shamed to be guilty of anything that would lead you to think 'all is not gold that glitters'; so be not rash in your resolution. It is better to repent now than to do it in a more solemn hour. Yes, I know what you would say. I know you have a costly gift for me—the noblest that man can make—your heart! you should not offer it to one so unworthy. Heaven, you know, has allowed my father's house to be made a house of solitude, a home of silent obedience, which my parents say is more to be admired than big names and high-sounding titles. Notwithstanding all this, let me speak the emotions of an honest heart; allow me to say in the fullness of my hopes that I anticipate better days. The bird may stretch its wings toward the sun, which it can never reach; and flowers of the field appear to ascend in the same direction, because they cannot do otherwise; but man confides his complaints to the saints in whom he believes; for in their abodes of light they know no more sorrow. From your confession and indicative looks, I must be that person; if so, deceive not yourself.”
Ambulinia couldn't help but notice that he was trying to talk to her, while she was just as determined to avoid him, putting on a more aloof demeanor than before, seemingly to snuff out any hope. After many attempts and inner battles, the Major approached her cautiously, like he was heading into a battlefield. “Lady Ambulinia,” he said, shaking, “I’ve wanted a moment like this for so long. I can’t let it slip away. I’m worried about the consequences, but I hope you’ll at least hear my request. Can you guess what I want to say? Will you, like Minerva who sprang from Jupiter’s mind, release me from your tangled chains or cure me—” “Don’t say more, Elfonzo,” Ambulinia replied seriously, raising her hand as if to vow eternal hatred against the world; “another woman in my position might have responded to your question with icy coldness. I’m not skilled in the subtle tactics of my gender. I don’t care much for the vanity of those who would criticize me, and I’m both unwilling and ashamed to lead you to think that 'all that glitters is not gold'; so don’t act too hastily in your decision. It’s better to regret something now than later. Yes, I know what you want to say. I know you have a precious gift for me—the greatest thing a man can offer—your heart! But you shouldn’t give it to someone as unworthy as me. Heaven, as you know, has turned my father’s house into a place of solitude, a home of quiet obedience, which my parents believe is more admirable than grand names and flashy titles. Still, let me express the feelings of an honest heart; let me share my hopes that better days are ahead. The bird may stretch its wings toward the sun, which it can never touch, and the flowers of the field seem to reach up in the same way, simply because they can’t do otherwise; but humans share their sorrows with the saints they believe in, for in their realms of light, they know no pain. From your words and the looks you give, I must be that person; if that’s the case, don’t deceive yourself.”
Elfonzo replied, “Pardon me, my dear madam, for my frankness. I have loved you from my earliest days; everything grand and beautiful hath borne the image of Ambulinia; while precipices on every hand surrounded me, your guardian angel stood and beckoned me away from the deep abyss. In every trial, in every misfortune, I have met with your helping hand; yet I never dreamed or dared to cherish thy love till a voice impaired with age encouraged the cause, and declared they who acquired thy favor should win a victory. I saw how Leos worshipped thee. I felt my own unworthiness. I began to know jealousy—a strong guest, indeed, in my bosom—yet I could see if I gained your admiration Leos was to be my rival. I was aware that he had the influence of your parents, and the wealth of a deceased relative, which is too often mistaken for permanent and regular tranquillity; yet I have determined by your permission to beg an interest in your prayers—to ask you to animate my drooping spirits by your smiles and your winning looks; for if you but speak I shall be conqueror, my enemies shall stagger like Olympus shakes. And though earth and sea may tremble, and the charioteer of the sun may forget his dashing steed, yet I am assured that it is only to arm me with divine weapons which will enable me to complete my long-tried intention.”
Elfonzo replied, “Excuse my honesty, my dear lady. I have loved you since I was a child; everything grand and beautiful has reminded me of you. Whenever I faced challenges, your guardian angel seemed to guide me away from danger. In every trial, in every hardship, I've felt your support; yet I never dreamed of hoping for your love until an aging voice encouraged me, saying that those who earn your favor will achieve victory. I saw how Leos adored you. I felt my own inadequacy. I began to know jealousy—a powerful emotion, indeed, inside me—yet I realized that if I won your admiration, Leos would be my rival. I knew he had your parents' support and the wealth of a deceased relative, which is often mistakenly seen as a stable foundation; nevertheless, I have decided, with your permission, to ask for your prayers—to request that you uplift my spirits with your smiles and charming looks. For if you simply speak, I will be victorious, and my enemies will falter as if the very mountains shook. And even if the earth and sea tremble, and the sun's charioteer forgets his fiery horses, I am certain it’s only to equip me with heavenly strength that will allow me to fulfill my long-held intentions.”
“Return to your self, Elfonzo,” said Ambulinia, pleasantly; “a dream of vision has disturbed your intellect; you are above the atmosphere, dwelling in the celestial regions; nothing is there that urges or hinders, nothing that brings discord into our present litigation. I entreat you to condescend a little, and be a man, and forget it all. When Homer describes the battle of the gods and noble men fighting with giants and dragons, they represent under this image our struggles with the delusions of our passions. You have exalted me, an unhappy girl, to the skies; you have called me a saint, and portrayed in your imagination an angel in human form. Let her remain such to you, let her continue to be as you have supposed, and be assured that she will consider a share in your esteem as her highest treasure. Think not that I would allure you from the path in which your conscience leads you; for you know I respect the conscience of others, as I would die for my own. Elfonzo, if I am worthy of thy love, let such conversation never again pass between us. Go, seek a nobler theme! we will seek it in the stream of time as the sun set in the Tigris.” As she spake these words she grasped the hand of Elfonzo, saying at the same time, “Peace and prosperity attend you, my hero: be up and doing!” Closing her remarks with this expression, she walked slowly away, leaving Elfonzo astonished and amazed. He ventured not to follow or detain her. Here he stood alone, gazing at the stars; confounded as he was, here he stood. The rippling stream rolled on at his feet. Twilight had already begun to draw her sable mantle over the earth, and now and then the fiery smoke would ascend from the little town which lay spread out before him. The citizens seemed to be full of life and good-humor; but poor Elfonzo saw not a brilliant scene. No; his future life stood before him, stripped of the hopes that once adorned all his sanguine desires. “Alas!” said he, “am I now Grief's disappointed son at last.” Ambulinia's image rose before his fancy. A mixture of ambition and greatness of soul moved upon his young heart, and encouraged him to bear all his crosses with the patience of a Job, notwithstanding he had to encounter with so many obstacles. He still endeavored to prosecute his studies, and reasonably progressed in his education. Still, he was not content; there was something yet to be done before his happiness was complete. He would visit his friends and acquaintances. They would invite him to social parties, insisting that he should partake of the amusements that were going on. This he enjoyed tolerably well. The ladies and gentlemen were generally well pleased with the Major; as he delighted all with his violin, which seemed to have a thousand chords—more symphonious than the Muses of Apollo and more enchanting than the ghost of the Hills. He passed some days in the country. During that time Leos had made many calls upon Ambulinia, who was generally received with a great deal of courtesy by the family. They thought him to be a young man worthy of attention, though he had but little in his soul to attract the attention or even win the affections of her whose graceful manners had almost made him a slave to every bewitching look that fell from her eyes. Leos made several attempts to tell her of his fair prospects—how much he loved her, and how much it would add to his bliss if he could but think she would be willing to share these blessings with him; but, choked by his undertaking, he made himself more like an inactive drone than he did like one who bowed at beauty's shrine.
“Come back to yourself, Elfonzo,” said Ambulinia with a smile; “a dream has clouded your mind; you’re floating above the ground, lost in the heavenly places; nothing there pushes or pulls you, nothing disrupts our current situation. Please, I ask you to come down a bit, be a man, and let it go. When Homer writes about the battles of gods and noble men fighting giants and dragons, he symbolizes our struggles against the illusions of our passions. You have lifted me, an unhappy girl, to the skies; you’ve called me a saint and imagined me as an angel in human form. Let me stay that way for you, let me remain as you’ve envisioned, and know that I will treasure a part of your respect above all else. Don’t think I would lead you away from the path your conscience is guiding you on; you know I respect the conscience of others as much as I would die for my own. Elfonzo, if I’m worthy of your love, let’s not have this conversation again. Go find a better topic! We’ll search for it in the flow of time as the sun sets over the Tigris.” As she said this, she took Elfonzo's hand, adding, “Peace and prosperity be with you, my hero: get up and go!” After saying this, she walked away slowly, leaving Elfonzo stunned and bewildered. He didn’t dare follow or stop her. There he stood alone, gazing at the stars; despite his confusion, he remained there. The stream was rippling at his feet. Twilight had already started to cast her dark cloak over the earth, and now and then, smoke would rise from the little town sprawling before him. The townspeople seemed full of life and good cheer; but poor Elfonzo saw no bright picture. No; his future lay before him, stripped of the hopes that once brightened all his optimistic dreams. “Oh no!” he said, “am I now truly the son of disappointment.” Ambulinia's image appeared in his mind. A blend of ambition and nobility stirred in his young heart, encouraging him to bear all his hardships with the patience of Job, despite the many challenges he faced. He continued to pursue his studies and made reasonable progress in his education. Still, he wasn’t satisfied; there was something left to accomplish before his happiness was complete. He decided to visit his friends and acquaintances. They invited him to social gatherings, insisting he join in the fun that was happening. He generally enjoyed this. The ladies and gentlemen were mostly pleased with the Major; he delighted everyone with his violin, which seemed to have a thousand strings—more harmonious than the Muses of Apollo and more enchanting than the spirits of the Hills. He spent some days in the countryside. During that time, Leos made many visits to Ambulinia, who was usually welcomed warmly by her family. They considered him a young man worthy of attention, even though he had little in his soul to attract the notice or even win the affection of her whose graceful demeanor had nearly made him a slave to every captivating glance from her eyes. Leos made several attempts to tell her about his bright prospects—how much he loved her, and how blissful it would be if he could believe she would share these blessings with him; but, struggling with his own words, he came off more like a passive drone than someone devoted to beauty's allure.
Elfonzo again wends his way to the stately walls and new-built village. He now determines to see the end of the prophesy which had been foretold to him. The clouds burst from his sight; he believes if he can but see his Ambulinia, he can open to her view the bloody altars that have been misrepresented to stigmatize his name. He knows that her breast is transfixed with the sword of reason, and ready at all times to detect the hidden villainy of her enemies. He resolves to see her in her own home, with the consoling theme: “'I can but perish if I go.' Let the consequences be what they may,” said he, “if I die, it shall be contending and struggling for my own rights.”
Elfonzo makes his way to the impressive walls and the newly built village. He is determined to see the outcome of the prophecy that was told to him. The clouds clear from his sight; he believes that if he can just see his Ambulinia, he can show her the bloody altars that have been falsely used to tarnish his name. He knows that her heart is pierced with the sword of reason, always ready to uncover the hidden treachery of her enemies. He decides to see her in her own home, with the comforting thought: “I can only perish if I go. Let the consequences be what they may,” he said, “if I die, it will be fighting for my own rights.”
Night had almost overtaken him when he arrived in town. Colonel Elder, a noble-hearted, high-minded, and independent man, met him at his door as usual, and seized him by the hand. “Well, Elfonzo,” said the Colonel, “how does the world use you in your efforts?” “I have no objection to the world,” said Elfonzo, “but the people are rather singular in some of their opinions.” “Aye, well,” said the Colonel, “you must remember that creation is made up of many mysteries; just take things by the right handle; be always sure you know which is the smooth side before you attempt your polish; be reconciled to your fate, be it what it may; and never find fault with your condition, unless your complaining will benefit it. Perseverance is a principle that should be commendable in those who have judgment to govern it. I should never have been so successful in my hunting excursions had I waited till the deer, by some magic dream, had been drawn to the muzzle of the gun before I made an attempt to fire at the game that dared my boldness in the wild forest. The great mystery in hunting seems to be—a good marksman, a resolute mind, a fixed determination, and my word for it, you will never return home without sounding your horn with the breath of a new victory. And so with every other undertaking. Be confident that your ammunition is of the right kind—always pull your trigger with a steady hand, and so soon as you perceive a calm, touch her off, and the spoils are yours.”
Night was nearly upon him when he arrived in town. Colonel Elder, a kind-hearted, principled, and independent man, greeted him at his door as usual and shook his hand. “Well, Elfonzo,” said the Colonel, “how is the world treating you in your efforts?” “I have no issues with the world,” replied Elfonzo, “but the people can be quite peculiar in some of their beliefs.” “Indeed,” said the Colonel, “you must remember that life is full of mysteries; just approach things the right way. Always be sure you know which side is smooth before you try to polish it; accept your situation, whatever it may be; and don’t complain about your circumstances unless it will actually improve them. Perseverance is a quality that should be admired in those wise enough to manage it. I would never have been so successful on my hunting trips if I had waited for the deer to magically come to the end of my gun before trying to shoot at the game that tested my courage in the wild woods. The secret to hunting seems to be—a skilled marksman, a determined mindset, and I promise you will come home sounding your horn with the excitement of a new victory. The same goes for every other endeavor. Make sure your ammunition is the right kind—always pull the trigger with a steady hand, and as soon as you notice a calm, fire away, and the rewards will be yours.”
This filled him with redoubled vigor, and he set out with a stronger anxiety than ever to the home of Ambulinia. A few short steps soon brought him to the door, half out of breath. He rapped gently. Ambulinia, who sat in the parlor alone, suspecting Elfonzo was near, ventured to the door, opened it, and beheld the hero, who stood in an humble attitude, bowed gracefully, and as they caught each other's looks the light of peace beamed from the eyes of Ambulinia. Elfonzo caught the expression; a halloo of smothered shouts ran through every vein, and for the first time he dared to impress a kiss upon her cheek. The scene was overwhelming; had the temptation been less animating, he would not have ventured to have acted so contrary to the desired wish of his Ambulinia; but who could have withstood the irrestistable temptation! What society condemns the practice but a cold, heartless, uncivilized people that know nothing of the warm attachments of refined society? Here the dead was raised to his long-cherished hopes, and the lost was found. Here all doubt and danger were buried in the vortex of oblivion; sectional differences no longer disunited their opinions; like the freed bird from the cage, sportive claps its rustling wings, wheels about to heaven in a joyful strain, and raises its notes to the upper sky. Ambulinia insisted upon Elfonzo to be seated, and give her a history of his unnecessary absence; assuring him the family had retired, consequently they would ever remain ignorant of his visit. Advancing toward him, she gave a bright display of her rosy neck, and from her head the ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance; her robe hung waving to his view, while she stood like a goddess confessed before him.
This filled him with renewed energy, and he headed out with even more anxiety than before to Ambulinia's home. A few quick steps brought him to the door, and he was half out of breath. He knocked lightly. Ambulinia, who was alone in the parlor and sensing Elfonzo was nearby, approached the door, opened it, and saw the hero standing humbly. He bowed gracefully, and as their eyes met, a sense of peace shone in Ambulinia’s eyes. Elfonzo felt the same expression; an exhilarating thrill surged through him, and for the first time, he dared to kiss her cheek. The moment was intense; if the temptation hadn't been so strong, he wouldn’t have acted in a way that went against Ambulinia’s wishes. But who could resist such an irresistible temptation? What society disapproves of this but a cold, heartless, uncivilized group that knows nothing of the warm bonds of refined society? In this moment, the dead hopes were revived, and what was lost was found. All doubt and danger faded away; their differing opinions no longer kept them apart. Like a bird freed from a cage, it flutters its wings, joyfully soaring upward and singing its heart out. Ambulinia urged Elfonzo to sit and tell her about his unnecessary absence, reassuring him that the family had gone to bed and would remain unaware of his visit. As she leaned closer, she revealed her rosy neck, and her beautiful hair radiated a divine fragrance; her robe flowed elegantly as she stood before him like a goddess.
“It does seem to me, my dear sir,” said Ambulinia, “that you have been gone an age. Oh, the restless hours I have spent since I last saw you, in yon beautiful grove. There is where I trifled with your feelings for the express purpose of trying your attachment for me. I now find you are devoted; but ah! I trust you live not unguarded by the powers of Heaven. Though oft did I refuse to join my hand with thine, and as oft did I cruelly mock thy entreaties with borrowed shapes: yes, I feared to answer thee by terms, in words sincere and undissembled. O! could I pursue, and you have leisure to hear the annals of my woes, the evening star would shut Heaven's gates upon the impending day before my tale would be finished, and this night would find me soliciting your forgiveness.”
“It seems to me, my dear sir,” said Ambulinia, “that you’ve been gone forever. Oh, the restless hours I’ve spent since I last saw you in that beautiful grove. That’s where I toyed with your feelings just to test your commitment to me. I now see that you are devoted; but I hope you are not without protection from the powers of Heaven. Even though I often refused to join my hand with yours, and cruelly mocked your pleas in various ways: yes, I was afraid to respond to you in sincere and genuine words. Oh! If only I could share my story, and you had the time to listen to the accounts of my suffering, the evening star would close Heaven’s gates on the coming day before my tale was done, and this night would find me asking for your forgiveness.”
“Dismiss thy fears and thy doubts,” replied Elfonzo.
"Put aside your fears and doubts," replied Elfonzo.
“Look, O! look: that angelic look of thine—bathe not thy visage in tears; banish those floods that are gathering; let my confession and my presence bring thee some relief.” “Then, indeed, I will be cheerful,” said Ambulinia, “and I think if we will go to the exhibition this evening, we certainly will see something worthy of our attention. One of the most tragical scenes is to be acted that has ever been witnessed, and one that every jealous-hearted person should learn a lesson from. It cannot fail to have a good effect, as it will be performed by those who are young and vigorous, and learned as well as enticing. You are aware, Major Elfonzo, who are to appear on the stage, and what the characters are to represent.” “I am acquainted with the circumstances,” replied Elfonzo, “and as I am to be one of the musicians upon that interesting occasion, I should be much gratified if you would favor me with your company during the hours of the exercises.”
“Look, oh! look: that angelic expression of yours—don’t bathe your face in tears; get rid of those floods that are building up; let my confession and my presence bring you some comfort.” “Then, I will be cheerful,” said Ambulinia, “and I think if we go to the exhibition this evening, we will definitely see something worth our attention. One of the most tragic scenes ever performed will take place, and it’s something every jealous-hearted person should learn from. It’s bound to have a positive impact, as it will be put on by those who are young, energetic, educated, and captivating. You know, Major Elfonzo, who will be on stage and what the characters will represent.” “I know the details,” replied Elfonzo, “and since I’m going to be one of the musicians during that intriguing event, I would be very pleased if you would join me during the performances.”
“What strange notions are in your mind?” inquired Ambulinia. “Now I know you have something in view, and I desire you to tell me why it is that you are so anxious that I should continue with you while the exercises are going on; though if you think I can add to your happiness and predilections, I have no particular objection to acquiesce in your request. Oh, I think I foresee, now, what you anticipate.” “And will you have the goodness to tell me what you think it will be?” inquired Elfonzo. “By all means,” answered Ambulinia; “a rival, sir, you would fancy in your own mind; but let me say for you, fear not! fear not! I will be one of the last persons to disgrace my sex by thus encouraging every one who may feel disposed to visit me, who may honor me with their graceful bows and their choicest compliments. It is true that young men too often mistake civil politeness for the finer emotions of the heart, which is tantamount to courtship; but, ah! how often are they deceived, when they come to test the weight of sunbeams with those on whose strength hangs the future happiness of an untried life.”
“What strange ideas are you thinking about?” Ambulinia asked. “I can tell you have something on your mind, and I want to know why you’re so eager for me to stay with you while the activities are happening; though if you believe I can contribute to your happiness and preferences, I’m happy to agree to your request. Oh, I think I can guess what you’re expecting.” “And will you kindly tell me what you think it is?” Elfonzo asked. “Of course,” Ambulinia replied; “you probably imagine a rival in your own thoughts; but let me assure you, don’t worry! Don’t worry! I will be one of the last people to tarnish my gender by encouraging anyone who cares to visit me, who honors me with their polite greetings and best compliments. It’s true that young men often confuse polite behavior with deeper feelings of love, which is similar to courtship; but, ah! how often are they mistaken when they try to measure the depth of sunlight against those whose strength determines the future happiness of an uncertain life.”
The people were now rushing to the Academy with impatient anxiety; the band of music was closely followed by the students; then the parents and guardians; nothing interrupted the glow of spirits which ran through every bosom, tinged with the songs of a Virgil and the tide of a Homer. Elfonzo and Ambulinia soon repaired to the scene, and fortunately for them both the house was so crowded that they took their seats together in the music department, which was not in view of the auditory. This fortuitous circumstances added more the bliss of the Major than a thousand such exhibitions would have done. He forgot that he was man; music had lost its charms for him; whenever he attempted to carry his part, the string of the instrument would break, the bow became stubborn, and refused to obey the loud calls of the audience. Here, he said, was the paradise of his home, the long-sought-for opportunity; he felt as though he could send a million supplications to the throne of Heaven for such an exalted privilege. Poor Leos, who was somewhere in the crowd, looking as attentively as if he was searching for a needle in a haystack; here he stood, wondering to himself why Ambulinia was not there. “Where can she be? Oh! if she was only here, how I could relish the scene! Elfonzo is certainly not in town; but what if he is? I have got the wealth, if I have not the dignity, and I am sure that the squire and his lady have always been particular friends of mine, and I think with this assurance I shall be able to get upon the blind side of the rest of the family and make the heaven-born Ambulinia the mistress of all I possess.” Then, again, he would drop his head, as if attempting to solve the most difficult problem in Euclid. While he was thus conjecturing in his own mind, a very interesting part of the exhibition was going on, which called the attention of all present. The curtains of the stage waved continually by the repelled forces that were given to them, which caused Leos to behold Ambulinia leaning upon the chair of Elfonzo. Her lofty beauty, seen by the glimmering of the chandelier, filled his heart with rapture, he knew not how to contain himself; to go where they were would expose him to ridicule; to continue where he was, with such an object before him, without being allowed an explanation in that trying hour, would be to the great injury of his mental as well as of his physical powers; and, in the name of high heaven, what must he do? Finally, he resolved to contain himself as well as he conveniently could, until the scene was over, and then he would plant himself at the door, to arrest Ambulinia from the hands of the insolent Elfonzo, and thus make for himself a more prosperous field of immortality than ever was decreed by Omnipotence, or ever pencil drew or artist imagined. Accordingly he made himself sentinel, immediately after the performance of the evening—retained his position apparently in defiance of all the world; he waited, he gazed at every lady, his whole frame trembled; here he stood, until everything like human shape had disappeared from the institution, and he had done nothing; he had failed to accomplish that which he so eagerly sought for. Poor, unfortunate creature! he had not the eyes of an Argus, or he might have seen his Juno and Elfonzo, assisted by his friend Sigma, make their escape from the window, and, with the rapidity of a race-horse, hurry through the blast of the storm to the residence of her father, without being recognized. He did not tarry long, but assured Ambulinia the endless chain of their existence was more closely connected than ever, since he had seen the virtuous, innocent, imploring, and the constant Amelia murdered by the jealous-hearted Farcillo, the accursed of the land.
The crowd was buzzing with excitement as they hurried to the Academy; the band of musicians was closely followed by the students, then the parents and guardians. Nothing could dampen the joyful atmosphere that filled everyone, touched by the songs of Virgil and the epic tales of Homer. Elfonzo and Ambulinia quickly made their way to the venue, and luckily for them, the place was so full that they found seats together in the music section, where they were out of sight of the audience. This fortunate situation made Major feel happier than a thousand shows ever could. He forgot he was a man; music no longer mattered to him. Whenever he tried to play his part, a string would snap, the bow would become stubborn, refusing to respond to the audience's loud requests. Here, he thought, was the paradise of his home, the long-awaited chance; he felt like he could send a million prayers to Heaven for such a glorious opportunity. Meanwhile, poor Leos was somewhere in the crowd, searching as if for a needle in a haystack, wondering why Ambulinia wasn’t there. "Where can she be? Oh! If only she were here, I could truly enjoy this! Elfonzo can’t possibly be in town; but what if he is? I may lack dignity, but I have wealth, and I know the squire and his wife have always been good friends of mine. With that in mind, I think I can work my way into the family's good graces and make the heavenly Ambulinia the mistress of everything I have." Then he would lower his head, deep in thought as if trying to solve a tough math problem. While he was lost in his musings, an exciting part of the show caught everyone's attention. The stage curtains were fluttering from the chaotic forces, which made Leos see Ambulinia leaning against Elfonzo's chair. Her stunning beauty, illuminated by the chandelier, filled him with a joy he couldn’t contain; going over there would only lead to embarrassment. Staying where he was, with such a sight before him, without any clarity in that stressful moment, would ruin his mental and physical strength. What should he do in the name of heaven? Finally, he decided to hold himself together as best as he could until the show was over, then he’d position himself at the exit to intercept Ambulinia from the arrogant Elfonzo, hoping to create a more glorious future for himself than anything planned by fate or imagined by artists. So, he stood guard right after the show, seemingly defying the world around him; he waited and scanned every woman, his whole body trembling. He stayed there until everyone human had left the venue, and he had accomplished nothing; he failed to get what he so desperately wanted. Poor, unfortunate guy! He didn’t have the eyes of Argus; otherwise, he might have seen his Juno and Elfonzo, along with his friend Sigma, escaping through the window and racing through the storm to her father’s home, unnoticed. They didn’t linger; Elfonzo assured Ambulinia that their bond was now tighter than ever, especially since he had witnessed the virtuous, innocent, pleading, and ever-loyal Amelia murdered by the jealous Farcillo, the scourge of the land.
The following is the tragical scene, which is only introduced to show the subject-matter that enabled Elfonzo to come to such a determinate resolution that nothing of the kind should ever dispossess him of his true character, should he be so fortunate as to succeed in his present undertaking.
The following is the tragic scene, which is only introduced to show the subject matter that led Elfonzo to make such a definitive decision that nothing of the sort would ever take away his true character, if he were lucky enough to succeed in his current endeavor.
Amelia was the wife of Farcillo, and a virtuous woman; Gracia, a young lady, was her particular friend and confidant. Farcillo grew jealous of Amelia, murders her, finds out that he was deceived, and stabs himself. Amelia appears alone, talking to herself.
Amelia was Farcillo's wife and a noble woman; Gracia, a young lady, was her close friend and confidante. Farcillo became jealous of Amelia, killed her, then realized he had been misled, and stabbed himself. Amelia appears alone, speaking to herself.
A. Hail, ye solitary ruins of antiquity, ye sacred tombs and silent walks! it is your aid I invoke; it is to you, my soul, wrapt in deep mediation, pours forth its prayer. Here I wander upon the stage of mortality, since the world hath turned against me. Those whom I believed to be my friends, alas! are now my enemies, planting thorns in all my paths, poisoning all my pleasures, and turning the past to pain. What a lingering catalogue of sighs and tears lies just before me, crowding my aching bosom with the fleeting dream of humanity, which must shortly terminate. And to what purpose will all this bustle of life, these agitations and emotions of the heart have conduced, if it leave behind it nothing of utility, if it leave no traces of improvement? Can it be that I am deceived in my conclusions? No, I see that I have nothing to hope for, but everything to fear, which tends to drive me from the walks of time.
A. Greetings, you lonely ruins of the past, you sacred tombs and quiet paths! I call upon your help; it's to you that my soul, wrapped in deep thought, offers its prayer. Here I roam on the stage of life, since the world has turned against me. Those I once thought were my friends, alas! have become my enemies, placing thorns in all my paths, ruining all my joys, and turning the past into suffering. What a long list of sighs and tears lies before me, filling my aching heart with the fleeting dream of humanity, which must soon come to an end. And what is the point of all this hustle of life, these ups and downs of the heart, if it leaves behind nothing useful, if it leaves no signs of growth? Could it be that I'm wrong in my thinking? No, I see that I have nothing to hope for, but everything to fear, which pushes me away from the paths of time.
Oh! in this dead night, if loud winds arise,
To lash the surge and bluster in the skies,
May the west its furious rage display,
Toss me with storms in the watery way.
Oh! on this still night, if strong winds pick up,
To whip the waves and roar in the skies,
Let the west show its furious fury,
Throw me about in the stormy sea.(Enter Gracia.)
(Enter Gracia.)
G. Oh, Amelia, is it you, the object of grief, the daughter of opulence, of wisdom and philosophy, that thus complaineth? It cannot be you are the child of misfortune, speaking of the monuments of former ages, which were allotted not for the reflection of the distressed, but for the fearless and bold.
G. Oh, Amelia, is that you, the source of sorrow, the child of wealth, of knowledge and wisdom, who is complaining this way? It can't be that you are born of misfortune, talking about the remnants of past eras, which were meant not for the reflections of the troubled, but for the fearless and brave.
A. Not the child of poverty, Gracia, or the heir of glory and peace, but of fate. Remember, I have wealth more than wit can number; I have had power more than kings could emcompass; yet the world seems a desert; all nature appears an afflictive spectacle of warring passions. This blind fatality, that capriciously sports with the rules and lives of mortals, tells me that the mountains will never again send forth the water of their springs to my thirst. Oh, that I might be freed and set at liberty from wretchedness! But I fear, I fear this will never be.
A. Not the child of poverty, Gracia, nor the heir of glory and peace, but of fate. Remember, I have more wealth than I can count; I have had more power than kings could hold; yet the world feels like a desert; all of nature seems to be a painful display of conflicting emotions. This blind fate, which unpredictably plays with the rules and lives of humans, tells me that the mountains will never again provide the water I crave. Oh, that I could be freed and liberated from my misery! But I fear, I fear this will never happen.
G. Why, Amelia, this untimely grief? What has caused the sorrows that bespeak better and happier days, to those lavish out such heaps of misery? You are aware that your instructive lessons embellish the mind with holy truths, by wedding its attention to none but great and noble affections.
G. Why, Amelia, this unexpected sadness? What has brought on the pains that suggest better and happier times, causing you to express such deep misery? You know that your insightful lessons enrich the mind with sacred truths by focusing its attention on nothing but great and noble feelings.
A. This, of course, is some consolation. I will ever love my own species with feelings of a fond recollection, and while I am studying to advance the universal philanthropy, and the spotless name of my own sex, I will try to build my own upon the pleasing belief that I have accelerated the advancement of one who whispers of departed confidence.
A. This, of course, is some comfort. I will always love my own kind with warm memories, and while I work to promote universal kindness and uphold the good name of my gender, I will try to reassure myself with the comforting thought that I've helped advance someone who speaks of lost trust.
And I, like some poor peasant fated to reside
Remote from friends, in a forest wide.
Oh, see what woman's woes and human wants require,
Since that great day hath spread the seed of sinful fire.
And I, like some unfortunate peasant doomed to live
Far away from friends, in a vast forest.
Oh, look at what women's struggles and human needs demand,
Since that great day has sown the seeds of sinful desire.G. Look up, thou poor disconsolate; you speak of quitting earthly enjoyments. Unfold thy bosom to a friend, who would be willing to sacrifice every enjoyment for the restoration of the dignity and gentleness of mind which used to grace your walks, and which is so natural to yourself; not only that, but your paths were strewed with flowers of every hue and of every order.
G. Look up, you poor, sad soul; you talk about giving up earthly pleasures. Open your heart to a friend who would gladly give up every pleasure for the return of the dignity and kindness of spirit that used to make your presence so lovely and that is so natural to you; not just that, but your journey was filled with flowers of every color and variety.
With verdant green the mountains glow,
For thee, for thee, the lilies grow;
Far stretched beneath the tented hills,
A fairer flower the valley fills.
The mountains shine in vibrant green,
For you, for you, the lilies bloom;
Spread out beneath the covered hills,
A prettier flower brightens the valley.A. Oh, would to Heaven I could give you a short narrative of my former prospects for happiness, since you have acknowledged to be an unchangeable confidant—the richest of all other blessings. Oh, ye names forever glorious, ye celebrated scenes, ye renowned spot of my hymeneal moments; how replete is your chart with sublime reflections! How many profound vows, decorated with immaculate deeds, are written upon the surface of that precious spot of earth where I yielded up my life of celibacy, bade youth with all its beauties a final adieu, took a last farewell of the laurels that had accompanied me up the hill of my juvenile career. It was then I began to descend toward the valley of disappointment and sorrow; it was then I cast my little bark upon a mysterious ocean of wedlock, with him who then smiled and caressed me, but, alas! now frowns with bitterness, and has grown jealous and cold toward me, because the ring he gave me is misplaced or lost. Oh, bear me, ye flowers of memory, softly through the eventful history of past times; and ye places that have witnessed the progression of man in the circle of so many societies, and, oh, aid my recollection, while I endeavor to trace the vicissitudes of a life devoted in endeavoring to comfort him that I claim as the object of my wishes.
A. Oh, how I wish I could share a brief story about my past hopes for happiness, now that you’ve committed to being my steadfast confidant—the greatest blessing of them all. Oh, glorious names, celebrated places, the unforgettable site of my wedding moments; how full is your memory with profound thoughts! How many deep promises, marked by pure actions, are etched upon that treasured piece of earth where I left behind my single life, said a final goodbye to youth with all its beauty, and took a last farewell of the achievements that had accompanied me on my journey through my early years. It was then that I started to head toward the valley of disappointment and sorrow; it was then that I set my little boat adrift on the mysterious sea of marriage, with the one who then smiled and held me, but, sadly, now looks at me with bitterness, having grown jealous and cold because the ring he gave me is missing or lost. Oh, carry me, you flowers of memory, gently through the significant events of the past; and you places that have seen the journey of humankind among so many societies, oh, help my memory as I try to recount the ups and downs of a life dedicated to comforting the one I love.
Ah! ye mysterious men, of all the world, how few
Act just to Heaven and to your promise true!
But He who guides the stars with a watchful eye,
The deeds of men lay open without disguise;
Oh, this alone will avenge the wrongs I bear,
For all the oppressed are His peculiar care.
Ah! you mysterious men of the world, how few
Are just to Heaven and true to your promises!
But He who guides the stars with a watchful eye,
Sees the deeds of men without disguise;
Oh, this alone will make right the wrongs I endure,
For all the oppressed are His special concern.(F. makes a slight noise.)
(F. makes a small sound.)
A. Who is there—Farcillo?
A. Who's there—Farcillo?
G. Then I must gone. Heaven protect you. Oh, Amelia, farewell, be of good cheer.
G. Then I must go. May heaven protect you. Oh, Amelia, goodbye, stay positive.
May you stand like Olympus' towers,
Against earth and all jealous powers!
May you, with loud shouts ascend on high
Swift as an eagle in the upper sky.
May you stand like the towers of Olympus,
Against the earth and all envious forces!
May you, with loud cheers, rise up high
As swiftly as an eagle in the sky above.A. Why so cold and distant tonight, Farcillo? Come, let us each other greet, and forget all the past, and give security for the future.
A. Why are you so cold and distant tonight, Farcillo? Come on, let's greet each other, forget the past, and ensure a secure future.
F. Security! talk to me about giving security for the future—what an insulting requisition! Have you said your prayers tonight, Madam Amelia?
F. Security! Talk to me about providing security for the future—what an insulting demand! Have you said your prayers tonight, Madam Amelia?
A. Farcillo, we sometimes forget our duty, particularly when we expect to be caressed by others.
A. Farcillo, we sometimes forget our responsibilities, especially when we expect others to show us affection.
F. If you bethink yourself of any crime, or of any fault, that is yet concealed from the courts of Heaven and the thrones of grace, I bid you ask and solicit forgiveness for it now.
F. If you remember any crime or fault that is still hidden from the courts of Heaven and the thrones of grace, I urge you to seek and ask for forgiveness for it now.
A. Oh, be kind, Farcillo, don't treat me so. What do you mean by all this?
A. Oh, please be nice, Farcillo, don’t treat me like this. What are you talking about?
F. Be kind, you say; you, madam, have forgot that kindness you owe to me, and bestowed it upon another; you shall suffer for your conduct when you make your peace with your God. I would not slay thy unprotected spirit. I call to Heaven to be my guard and my watch—I would not kill thy soul, in which all once seemed just, right, and perfect; but I must be brief, woman.
F. Be kind, you say; you, ma'am, have forgotten the kindness you owe me and have given it to someone else; you will pay for your actions when you make your peace with God. I wouldn’t harm your defenseless spirit. I call upon Heaven to be my protector and my watch—I wouldn’t take your soul, which once seemed just, right, and perfect; but I need to be quick, woman.
A. What, talk you of killing? Oh, Farcillo, Farcillo, what is the matter?
A. What, are you talking about killing? Oh, Farcillo, Farcillo, what's wrong?
F. Aye, I do, without doubt; mark what I say, Amelia.
F. Yes, I do, without a doubt; pay attention to what I'm saying, Amelia.
A. Then, O God, O Heaven, and Angels, be propitious, and have mercy upon me.
A. Then, O God, O Heaven, and Angels, please be kind and have mercy on me.
F. Amen to that, madam, with all my heart, and with all my soul.
F. Amen to that, ma'am, with all my heart, and with all my soul.
A. Farcillo, listen to me one moment; I hope you will not kill me.
A. Farcillo, just hear me out for a second; I hope you won't end my life.
F. Kill you, aye, that I will; attest it, ye fair host of light, record it, ye dark imps of hell!
F. I'll kill you, yeah, I will; bear witness, you beautiful hosts of light, capture it, you dark demons of hell!
A. Oh, I fear you—you are fatal when darkness covers your brow; yet I know not why I should fear, since I never wronged you in all my life. I stand, sir, guiltless before you.
A. Oh, I’m afraid of you—you become dangerous when a shadow crosses your face; yet I don’t know why I should be scared, since I’ve never wronged you in my life. I stand here, sir, innocent before you.
F. You pretend to say you are guiltless! Think of thy sins, Amelia; think, oh, think, hidden woman.
F. You act like you’re innocent! Reflect on your sins, Amelia; think, oh, think, hidden woman.
A. Wherein have I not been true to you? That death is unkind, cruel, and unnatural, that kills for living.
A. Where have I not been honest with you? That death is unkind, cruel, and unnatural, taking life from those who are alive.
F. Peace, and be still while I unfold to thee.
F. Peace, and be quiet while I explain things to you.
A. I will, Farcillo, and while I am thus silent, tell me the cause of such cruel coldness in an hour like this.
A. I will, Farcillo, and while I'm quiet, tell me why there's such cruel coldness at a time like this.
F. That ring, oh, that ring I so loved, and gave thee as the ring of my heart; the allegiance you took to be faithful, when it was presented; the kisses and smiles with which you honored it. You became tired of the donor, despised it as a plague, and finally gave it to Malos, the hidden, the vile traitor.
F. That ring, oh, that ring I loved so much and gave to you as a symbol of my heart; the promise you made to be loyal when I presented it; the kisses and smiles with which you cherished it. You grew bored with the giver, came to hate it like a disease, and ultimately gave it to Malos, the concealed, the despicable traitor.
A. No, upon my word and honor, I never did; I appeal to the Most High to bear me out in this matter. Send for Malos, and ask him.
A. No, I swear, I never did; I call on the Most High to back me up on this. Get Malos and ask him.
F. Send for Malos, aye! Malos you wish to see; I thought so. I knew you could not keep his name concealed. Amelia, sweet Amelia, take heed, take heed of perjury; you are on the stage of death, to suffer for your sins.
F. Call for Malos, yes! You want to see Malos; I figured that out. I knew you couldn't keep his name a secret. Amelia, dear Amelia, be careful, be careful of lying under oath; you’re in a life-or-death situation, paying for your sins.
A. What, not to die I hope, my Farcillo, my ever beloved.
A. What, I hope you’re not talking about dying, my Farcillo, my forever love.
F. Yes, madam, to die a traitor's death. Shortly your spirit shall take its exit; therefore confess freely thy sins, for to deny tends only to make me groan under the bitter cup thou hast made for me. Thou art to die with the name of traitor on thy brow!
F. Yes, ma'am, to die as a traitor. Soon your spirit will leave this world; so confess your sins openly, because denying them just makes me suffer more from the bitter fate you've created for me. You're going to die with the label of traitor on your forehead!
A. Then, O Lord, have mercy upon me; give me courage, give me grace and fortitude to stand this hour of trial.
A. Then, O Lord, have mercy on me; give me the strength, grace, and bravery to endure this difficult time.
F. Amen, I say, with all my heart.
F. Amen, I truly believe this with all my heart.
A. And, oh, Farcillo, will you have mercy, too? I never intentionally offended you in all my life, never loved Malos, never gave him cause to think so, as the high court of Justice will acquit me before its tribunal.
A. And, oh, Farcillo, will you have mercy, too? I never meant to offend you in my life, never loved Malos, never gave him any reason to think so, as the high court of Justice will clear me before its tribunal.
F. Oh, false, perjured woman, thou didst chill my blood, and makest me a demon like thyself. I saw the ring.
F. Oh, deceitful, lying woman, you made my blood run cold and turned me into a demon just like you. I saw the ring.
A. He found it, then, or got it clandestinely; send for him, and let him confess the truth; let his confession be sifted.
A. He found it, or got it secretly; call him in, and let him confess the truth; let his confession be examined.
F. And you still wish to see him! I tell you, madam, he hath already confessed, and thou knowest the darkness of thy heart.
F. And you still want to see him! I tell you, ma'am, he has already confessed, and you know the darkness in your heart.
A. What, my deceived Farcillo, that I gave him the ring, in which all my affections were concentrated? Oh, surely not.
A. What, my misled Farcillo, you think I gave him the ring that held all my feelings? Oh, definitely not.
F. Aye, he did. Ask thy conscience, and it will speak with a voice of thunder to thy soul.
F. Yes, he did. Ask your conscience, and it will speak to your soul with a voice of thunder.
A. He will not say so, he dare not, he cannot.
A. He won't say it, he can't, he doesn't have the guts.
F. No, he will not say so now, because his mouth, I trust, is hushed in death, and his body stretched to the four winds of heaven, to be torn to pieces by carnivorous birds.
F. No, he won't say that now because, I hope, his mouth is silent in death, and his body is spread to the four winds of heaven, ready to be picked apart by scavenger birds.
A. What, he is dead, and gone to the world of spirits with that declaration in his mouth? Oh, unhappy man! Oh, insupportable hour!
A. What, he's dead and gone to the world of spirits with that declaration on his lips? Oh, unfortunate man! Oh, unbearable moment!
F. Yes, and had all his sighs and looks and tears been lives, my great revenge could have slain them all, without the least condemnation.
F. Yes, and if all his sighs, glances, and tears had been lives, my big revenge could have taken them all out without a hint of guilt.
A. Alas! he is ushered into eternity without testing the matter for which I am abused and sentenced and condemned to die.
A. Unfortunately! he has been led into eternity without experiencing the very issue for which I am mistreated, sentenced, and condemned to die.
F. Cursed, infernal woman! Weepest thou for him to my face? He that hath robbed me of my peace, my energy, the whole love of my life? Could I call the fabled Hydra, I would have him live and perish, survive and die, until the sun itself would grow dim with age. I would make him have the thirst of a Tantalus, and roll the wheel of an Ixion, until the stars of heaven should quit their brilliant stations.
F. Cursed, hellish woman! Are you crying for him in front of me? The one who has taken my peace, my strength, the entire love of my life? If I could summon the legendary Hydra, I would make him live and suffer, survive and die, until the sun itself grew old and faded. I would give him the unending thirst of Tantalus and force him to roll Ixion's wheel until the stars in the sky abandoned their shining places.
A. Oh, invincible God, save me! Oh, unsupportable moment! Oh, heavy hour! Banish me, Farcillo—send me where no eye can ever see me, where no sound shall ever great my ear; but, oh, slay me not, Farcillo; vent thy rage and thy spite upon this emaciated frame of mine, only spare my life.
A. Oh, unbeatable God, save me! Oh, unbearable moment! Oh, difficult hour! Send me away, Farcillo—take me to a place where no one can ever see me, where no sound will ever reach my ears; but please, don’t kill me, Farcillo; unleash your anger and your bitterness on this weak body of mine, just spare my life.
F. Your petitions avail nothing, cruel Amelia.
F. Your requests are useless, cruel Amelia.
A. Oh, Farcillo, perpetrate the dark deed tomorrow; let me live till then, for my past kindness to you, and it may be some kind angel will show to you that I am not only the object of innocence, but one who never loved another but your noble self.
A. Oh, Farcillo, carry out the dark act tomorrow; just let me stay alive until then, for the kindness I've shown you in the past, and maybe some kind angel will reveal to you that I am not just an innocent victim, but someone who has loved no one but your noble self.
F. Amelia, the decree has gone forth, it is to be done, and that quickly; thou art to die, madam.
F. Amelia, the order has been issued, it must be done, and soon; you are to die, ma'am.
A. But half an hour allow me, to see my father and my only child, to tell her the treachery and vanity of this world.
A. But please give me half an hour to see my father and my only child, to tell her about the betrayal and vanity of this world.
F. There is no alternative, there is no pause: my daughter shall not see its deceptive mother die; your father shall not know that his daughter fell disgraced, despised by all but her enchanting Malos.
F. There’s no choice, there’s no break: my daughter won’t see her deceitful mother die; your father won’t know that his daughter fell from grace, looked down upon by everyone except her charming Malos.
A. Oh, Farcillo, put up thy threatening dagger into its scabbard; let it rest and be still, just while I say one prayer for thee and for my child.
A. Oh, Farcillo, put away your threatening dagger and let it rest for a moment while I say a prayer for you and my child.
F. It is too late, thy doom is fixed, thou hast not confessed to Heaven or to me, my child's protector—thou art to die. Ye powers of earth and heaven, protect and defend me in this alone. (Stabs her while imploring for mercy.)
F. It's too late, your fate is sealed, you haven't confessed to God or to me, the protector of my child—you are to die. You forces of earth and heaven, help and defend me in this just cause. (Stabs her while begging for mercy.)
A. Oh, Farcillo, Farcillo, a guiltless death I die.
A. Oh, Farcillo, Farcillo, I die without any guilt.
F. Die! die! die!
F. Die! die! die!
(Gracia enters running, falls on her knees weeping, and kisses Amelia.)
(Gracia rushes in, drops to her knees crying, and kisses Amelia.)
G. Oh, Farcillo, Farcillo! oh, Farcillo!
G. Oh, Farcillo, Farcillo! oh, Farcillo!
F. I am here, the genius of the age, and the avenger of my wrongs.
F. I am here, the brilliant mind of this era, and the one who seeks justice for my grievances.
G. Oh, lady, speak once more; sweet Amelia, oh, speak again. Gone, gone—yes, forever gone! Farcillo, oh, cold-hearted Farcillo, some evil fiend hath urged you to do this, Farcillo.
G. Oh, lady, please speak one more time; sweet Amelia, oh, say something again. Gone, gone—yes, forever gone! Farcillo, oh, cold-hearted Farcillo, some evil spirit must have convinced you to do this, Farcillo.
F. Say not so again, or you shall receive the same fate. I did the glorious deed, madam—beware, then, how you talk.
F. Don’t say that again, or you’ll end up with the same outcome. I accomplished the great deed, ma’am—so be careful with your words.
G. I fear not your implements of war; I will let you know you have not the power to do me harm. If you have a heart of triple brass, it shall be reached and melted, and thy blood shall chill thy veins and grow stiff in thy arteries. Here is the ring of the virtuous and innocent murdered Amelia; I obtained it from Malos, who yet lives, in hopes that he will survive the wound given him, and says he got it clandestinely—declares Amelia to be the princess of truth and virtue, invulnerable to anything like forgetting her first devotion to thee. The world has heard of your conduct and your jealousy, and with one universal voice declares her to be the best of all in piety; that she is the star of this great universe, and a more virtuous woman never lived since the wheels of time began. Oh, had you waited till tomorrow, or until I had returned, some kind window would have been opened to her relief. But, alas! she is gone—yes, forever gone, to try the realities of an unknown world!
G. I'm not afraid of your weapons; I'll show you that you can't hurt me. Even if you have a heart made of solid brass, it can still be reached and broken, and your blood will freeze in your veins and become stiff in your arteries. Here is the ring of innocent and virtuous Amelia, which I got from Malos, who is still alive, hoping he will survive his injury. He says he got it secretly and claims Amelia is the epitome of truth and virtue, immune to ever forgetting her first devotion to you. The world knows about your behavior and jealousy, and in one loud voice, it declares her to be the most pious of all; she's the star of this great universe, and no woman has been more virtuous since time began. Oh, if only you had waited until tomorrow or until I returned, some opportunity might have opened for her rescue. But alas! she is gone—yes, forever gone, to face the realities of an unknown world!
(Farcillo leaning over the body of Amelia.)
(Farcillo leaning over the body of Amelia.)
F. Malos not dead, and here is my ring! Oh, Amelia! falsely murdered! Oh, bloody deed! Oh, wretch that I am! Oh, angels forgive me! Oh, God, withhold thy vengeance! Oh, Amelia! if Heaven would make a thousand worlds like this, set with diamonds, and all of one perfect chrysolite, I would not have done this for them all, I would not have frowned and cursed as I did. Oh, she was heavenly true, nursed in the very lap of bright angels! Cursed slave that I am! Jealousy, oh! thou infernal demon! Lost, lost to every sense of honor! Oh! Amelia—heaven-born Amelia—dead, dead! Oh! oh! oh!—then let me die with thee. Farewell! farewell! ye world that deceived me! (Stabs himself.)
F. Malos is not dead, and here is my ring! Oh, Amelia! wrongfully killed! Oh, what a terrible act! Oh, how wretched I am! Oh, angels, please forgive me! Oh, God, hold back your wrath! Oh, Amelia! if Heaven were to create a thousand worlds like this, filled with diamonds and made entirely of pure chrysolite, I would not have done this for any of them, I wouldn’t have scowled and cursed like I did. Oh, she was divinely true, nurtured in the very embrace of radiant angels! Cursed slave that I am! Jealousy, oh! you hellish demon! Lost, lost to every sense of honor! Oh! Amelia—angelic Amelia—dead, dead! Oh! oh! oh!—then let me die with you. Goodbye! goodbye! you deceitful world! (Stabs himself.)
Soon after the excitement of this tragical scene was over, and the enlisted feeling for Amelia had grown more buoyant with Elfonzo and Ambulinia, he determined to visit his retired home, and make the necessary improvements to enjoy a better day; consequently he conveyed the following lines to Ambulinia:
Soon after the excitement of this tragic scene had passed, and the growing affection for Amelia had become more hopeful with Elfonzo and Ambulinia, he decided to visit his quiet home and make the necessary improvements to enjoy better days; as a result, he sent the following message to Ambulinia:
Go tell the world that hope is glowing,
Go bid the rocks their silence break,
Go tell the stars that love is glowing,
Then bid the hero his lover take.
Go tell the world that hope is shining,
Go urge the rocks to stop their silence,
Go tell the stars that love is shining,
Then tell the hero to take his lover.In the region where scarcely the foot of man hath ever trod, where the woodman hath not found his way, lies a blooming grove, seen only by the sun when he mounts his lofty throne, visited only by the light of the stars, to whom are entrusted the guardianship of earth, before the sun sinks to rest in his rosy bed. High cliffs of rocks surround the romantic place, and in the small cavity of the rocky wall grows the daffodil clear and pure; and as the wind blows along the enchanting little mountain which surrounds the lonely spot, it nourishes the flowers with the dew-drops of heaven. Here is the seat of Elfonzo; darkness claims but little victory over this dominion, and in vain does she spread out her gloomy wings. Here the waters flow perpetually, and the trees lash their tops together to bid the welcome visitor a happy muse. Elfonzo, during his short stay in the country, had fully persuaded himself that it was his duty to bring this solemn matter to an issue. A duty that he individually owed, as a gentleman, to the parents of Ambulinia, a duty in itself involving not only his own happiness and his own standing in society, but one that called aloud the act of the parties to make it perfect and complete. How he should communicate his intentions to get a favorable reply, he was at a loss to know; he knew not whether to address Esq. Valeer in prose or in poetry, in a jocular or an argumentative manner, or whether he should use moral suasion, legal injunction, or seizure and take by reprisal; if it was to do the latter, he would have no difficulty in deciding in his own mind, but his gentlemanly honor was at stake; so he concluded to address the following letter to the father and mother of Ambulinia, as his address in person he knew would only aggravate the old gentleman, and perhaps his lady.
In a place where hardly anyone has ever walked, where no woodcutter has ventured, there’s a blooming grove, visible only to the sun when it rises to its high throne, and visited only by the light of the stars, which watch over the earth before the sun settles down in its rosy bed. Tall rocky cliffs surround this romantic spot, and in the small crevice of the rocky wall, pure and bright daffodils grow. As the wind sweeps across the enchanting little mountain that encircles this lonely area, it nourishes the flowers with heavenly dew drops. This is the home of Elfonzo; darkness has little power over this domain, and her gloomy wings spread in vain. Here, the waters flow endlessly, and the trees sway their tops together to greet any welcome visitor with a joyful muse. During his brief time in the country, Elfonzo had convinced himself that it was his duty to resolve this serious matter. A duty he owed as a gentleman to Ambulinia's parents, one that not only involved his own happiness and status in society but also required the participation of both parties to make it whole. He was unsure how to express his intentions and get a favorable response; he didn't know whether to approach Esq. Valeer in prose or poetry, humor or serious argument, or to use moral persuasion, legal action, or to seize by force; if it were the latter, the decision would have been easy for him, but his gentlemanly honor was on the line. So he decided to write the following letter to Ambulinia’s father and mother, knowing that speaking to them in person would only frustrate the old gentleman and perhaps his wife.
Cumming, Ga., January 22, 1844
Mr. and Mrs. Valeer—
Again I resume the pleasing task of addressing you, and once more beg an immediate answer to my many salutations. From every circumstance that has taken place, I feel in duty bound to comply with my obligations; to forfeit my word would be more than I dare do; to break my pledge, and my vows that have been witnessed, sealed, and delivered in the presence of an unseen Deity, would be disgraceful on my part, as well as ruinous to Ambulinia. I wish no longer to be kept in suspense about this matter. I wish to act gentlemanly in every particular. It is true, the promises I have made are unknown to any but Ambulinia, and I think it unnecessary to here enumerate them, as they who promise the most generally perform the least. Can you for a moment doubt my sincerity or my character? My only wish is, sir, that you may calmly and dispassionately look at the situation of the case, and if your better judgment should dictate otherwise, my obligations may induce me to pluck the flower that you so diametrically opposed. We have sworn by the saints—by the gods of battle, and by that faith whereby just men are made perfect—to be united. I hope, my dear sir, you will find it convenient as well as agreeable to give me a favorable answer, with the signature of Mrs. Valeer, as well as yourself.
With very great esteem,
your humble servant,
J. I. Elfonzo.
Cumming, GA, January 22, 1844
Mr. and Mrs. Valeer—
Once again, I'm reaching out and kindly asking for a quick reply to my many greetings. Given everything that's happened, I feel it’s important to uphold my commitments; I won't break my word. Going back on my promises and vows, witnessed and sealed before an unseen Deity, would not only be shameful for me but also harmful to Ambulinia. I no longer want to be left in the dark about this. I aim to act honorably in every way. While only Ambulinia knows the promises I've made, I think it’s unnecessary to list them here, as those who make the most promises often deliver the least. Can you really question my sincerity or my character? My only wish, sir, is that you can calmly and rationally assess the situation. If your better judgment suggests otherwise, my obligations may lead me to take the path you are so strongly opposed to. We have sworn by the saints, by the gods of battle, and by that faith that perfects just men to be united. I hope, dear sir, that you will find it both convenient and agreeable to give me a positive response, along with the signatures of Mrs. Valeer and yourself.
With great respect,
your humble servant,
J. I. Elfonzo.
The moon and stars had grown pale when Ambulinia had retired to rest. A crowd of unpleasant thoughts passed through her bosom. Solitude dwelt in her chamber—no sound from the neighboring world penetrated its stillness; it appeared a temple of silence, of repose, and of mystery. At that moment she heard a still voice calling her father. In an instant, like the flash of lightning, a thought ran through her mind that it must be the bearer of Elfonzo's communication. “It is not a dream!” she said, “no, I cannot read dreams. Oh! I would to Heaven I was near that glowing eloquence—that poetical language—it charms the mind in an inexpressible manner, and warms the coldest heart.” While consoling herself with this strain, her father rushed into her room almost frantic with rage, exclaiming: “Oh, Ambulinia! Ambulinia!! undutiful, ungrateful daughter! What does this mean? Why does this letter bear such heart-rending intelligence? Will you quit a father's house with this debased wretch, without a place to lay his distracted head; going up and down the country, with every novel object that may chance to wander through this region. He is a pretty man to make love known to his superiors, and you, Ambulinia, have done but little credit to yourself by honoring his visits. Oh, wretchedness! can it be that my hopes of happiness are forever blasted! Will you not listen to a father's entreaties, and pay some regard to a mother's tears. I know, and I do pray that God will give me fortitude to bear with this sea of troubles, and rescue my daughter, my Ambulinia, as a brand from the eternal burning.” “Forgive me, father, oh! forgive thy child,” replied Ambulinia. “My heart is ready to break, when I see you in this grieved state of agitation. Oh! think not so meanly of me, as that I mourn for my own danger. Father, I am only woman. Mother, I am only the templement of thy youthful years, but will suffer courageously whatever punishment you think proper to inflict upon me, if you will but allow me to comply with my most sacred promises—if you will but give me my personal right and my personal liberty. Oh, father! if your generosity will but give me these, I ask nothing more. When Elfonzo offered me his heart, I gave him my hand, never to forsake him, and now may the mighty God banish me before I leave him in adversity. What a heart must I have to rejoice in prosperity with him whose offers I have accepted, and then, when poverty comes, haggard as it may be, for me to trifle with the oracles of Heaven, and change with every fluctuation that may interrupt our happiness—like the politician who runs the political gantlet for office one day, and the next day, because the horizon is darkened a little, he is seen running for his life, for fear he might perish in its ruins. Where is the philosophy, where is the consistency, where is the charity, in conduct like this? Be happy then, my beloved father, and forget me; let the sorrow of parting break down the wall of separation and make us equal in our feeling; let me now say how ardently I love you; let me kiss that age-worn cheek, and should my tears bedew thy face, I will wipe them away. Oh, I never can forget you; no, never, never!”
The moon and stars had faded when Ambulinia went to bed. A flood of troubling thoughts filled her mind. Loneliness filled her room—no sound from the outside world disturbed its stillness; it felt like a sanctuary of silence, peace, and mystery. Just then, she heard a soft voice calling her father. In an instant, a thought shot through her mind like a lightning bolt: it must be the bearer of Elfonzo's message. “It’s not a dream!” she said, “no, I can’t interpret dreams. Oh! I wish I was close to that passionate eloquence—that poetic language—it captivates the mind in an indescribable way and warms the coldest heart.” While reassuring herself with these thoughts, her father burst into her room, almost frantic with anger, exclaiming: “Oh, Ambulinia! Ambulinia!! Disobedient, ungrateful daughter! What does this mean? Why does this letter bring such heartbreaking news? Will you leave your father’s house with this worthless man, with nowhere to lay his troubled head; wandering around the country with every new sight that might catch his eye? He’s hardly a suitable person to proclaim love to his betters, and you, Ambulinia, have done little to honor yourself by welcoming his visits. Oh, how miserable! Could it be that my hopes for happiness are forever shattered! Will you not heed a father’s pleas, and consider a mother’s tears? I know, and I pray that God gives me the strength to endure this storm of troubles, and to save my daughter, my Ambulinia, like a brand pulled from the flames.” “Forgive me, father, oh! forgive your child,” replied Ambulinia. “My heart breaks to see you so upset. Oh! don’t think so lowly of me as to believe I grieve for my own danger. Father, I am just a woman. Mother, I am merely a reflection of your younger years, but I will bravely endure whatever punishment you deem fit to impose on me, if you will just allow me to fulfill my most sacred promises—if you will just grant me my personal rights and my freedom. Oh, father! If your kindness grants me these, I ask for nothing more. When Elfonzo offered me his heart, I gave him my hand, vowing never to abandon him, and now may God take me away before I leave him in hardship. What kind of heart would I have to enjoy his prosperity while accepting his offers, and then, when hardship arrives, however grim, for me to toy with the divine will and waver with every challenge that disrupts our happiness—like a politician who runs the political race for office one day, and the next day, because the skies have darkened a bit, he is seen fleeing for his life, terrified he might be caught in the aftermath. Where is the philosophy, where is the consistency, where is the compassion in behavior like that? So be happy then, my dear father, and forget me; let the pain of parting tear down the wall between us and make us feel the same way; let me now express how deeply I love you; let me kiss that weathered cheek, and if my tears fall on your face, I’ll wipe them away. Oh, I can never forget you; no, never, never!”
“Weep not,” said the father, “Ambulinia. I will forbid Elfonzo my house, and desire that you may keep retired a few days. I will let him know that my friendship for my family is not linked together by cankered chains; and if he ever enters upon my premises again, I will send him to his long home.” “Oh, father! let me entreat you to be calm upon this occasion, and though Elfonzo may be the sport of the clouds and winds, yet I feel assured that no fate will send him to the silent tomb until the God of the Universe calls him hence with a triumphant voice.”
“Don’t cry,” said the father, “Ambulinia. I’ll keep Elfonzo out of my house and ask that you stay out of sight for a few days. I’ll make it clear that my loyalty to my family isn’t tied down by any bitter past; and if he ever steps foot on my property again, I’ll send him to his final resting place.” “Oh, father! Please, I urge you to stay calm. Even though Elfonzo may seem tossed around by fate, I truly believe that no destiny will take him to the grave until the God of the Universe calls him away with a powerful voice.”
Here the father turned away, exclaiming: “I will answer his letter in a very few words, and you, madam, will have the goodness to stay at home with your mother; and remember, I am determined to protect you from the consuming fire that looks so fair to your view.”
Here the father turned away, saying, “I will reply to his letter in just a few words, and you, ma'am, will please stay at home with your mother; and remember, I am determined to protect you from the tempting fire that looks so attractive to you.”
Cumming, January 22, 1844.
Sir—In regard to your request, I am as I ever have been, utterly opposed to your marrying into my family; and if you have any regard for yourself, or any gentlemanly feeling, I hope you will mention it to me no more; but seek some other one who is not so far superior to you in standing.
W. W. Valeer.
Cumming, January 22, 1844.
Dear Sir, regarding your request, I am still firmly opposed to you marrying into my family. If you have any self-respect or sense of decency, I hope you won't mention it to me again; instead, please find someone else who isn't so far above you in status.
W. W. Valeer.
When Elfonzo read the above letter, he became so much depressed in spirits that many of his friends thought it advisable to use other means to bring about the happy union. “Strange,” said he, “that the contents of this diminutive letter should cause me to have such depressed feelings; but there is a nobler theme than this. I know not why my military title is not as great as that of Squire Valeer. For my life I cannot see that my ancestors are inferior to those who are so bitterly opposed to my marriage with Ambulinia. I know I have seen huge mountains before me, yet, when I think that I know gentlemen will insult me upon this delicate matter, should I become angry at fools and babblers, who pride themselves in their impudence and ignorance? No. My equals! I know not where to find them. My inferiors! I think it beneath me; and my superiors! I think it presumption; therefore, if this youthful heart is protected by any of the divine rights, I never will betray my trust.”
When Elfonzo read the letter above, he felt so down that many of his friends thought it would be better to find other ways to help him achieve the happy union. “It's strange,” he said, “that the words in this tiny letter could make me feel this way; but there’s a bigger issue at play. I don’t understand why my military title isn’t as grand as that of Squire Valeer. For the life of me, I can’t see that my ancestors are any less deserving than those who are so strongly against my marriage to Ambulinia. I know I’ve faced significant challenges before, yet when I think about how gentlemen might insult me over this sensitive issue, should I really get upset with fools and gossipers who take pride in their arrogance and ignorance? No. My equals! I have no idea where to find them. My inferiors! I feel that’s beneath me; and my superiors! I consider that presumptuous; so if this youthful heart is guarded by any divine rights, I will never betray my trust.”
He was aware that Ambulinia had a confidence that was, indeed, as firm and as resolute as she was beautiful and interesting. He hastened to the cottage of Louisa, who received him in her usual mode of pleasantness, and informed him that Ambulinia had just that moment left. “Is it possible?” said Elfonzo. “Oh, murdered hours! Why did she not remain and be the guardian of my secrets? But hasten and tell me how she has stood this trying scene, and what are her future determinations.” “You know,” said Louisa, “Major Elfonzo, that you have Ambulinia's first love, which is of no small consequence. She came here about twilight, and shed many precious tears in consequence of her own fate with yours. We walked silently in yon little valley you see, where we spent a momentary repose. She seemed to be quite as determined as ever, and before we left that beautiful spot she offered up a prayer to Heaven for thee.” “I will see her then,” replied Elfonzo, “though legions of enemies may oppose. She is mine by foreordination—she is mine by prophesy—she is mine by her own free will, and I will rescue her from the hands of her oppressors. Will you not, Miss Louisa, assist me in my capture?”
He knew that Ambulinia had a confidence that was as strong and determined as she was beautiful and intriguing. He rushed over to Louisa's cottage, where she greeted him with her usual warmth and told him that Ambulinia had just left. “Is that true?” Elfonzo asked. “Oh, wasted hours! Why didn't she stay and guard my secrets? But please, tell me how she handled this tough situation and what her plans are.” “You know,” Louisa said, “Major Elfonzo, that you have Ambulinia's first love, which is very important. She came here around sunset and shed many tears about her fate with you. We walked quietly in that little valley over there, where we took a brief break. She seemed just as determined as ever, and before we left that beautiful place, she prayed to Heaven for you.” “I’ll go see her,” Elfonzo replied, “even if legions of enemies stand in my way. She is mine by fate—she is mine by prophecy—she is mine by her own choice, and I will rescue her from those who oppress her. Will you help me in my quest, Miss Louisa?”
“I will certainly, by the aid of Divine Providence,” answered Louisa, “endeavor to break those slavish chains that bind the richest of prizes; though allow me, Major, to entreat you to use no harsh means on this important occasion; take a decided stand, and write freely to Ambulinia upon this subject, and I will see that no intervening cause hinders its passage to her. God alone will save a mourning people. Now is the day and now is the hour to obey a command of such valuable worth.” The Major felt himself grow stronger after this short interview with Louisa. He felt as if he could whip his weight in wildcats—he knew he was master of his own feelings, and could now write a letter that would bring this litigation to an issue.
"I will definitely, with the help of Divine Providence," Louisa replied, "try to break those oppressive chains that restrain the greatest of rewards; but please, Major, I urge you to avoid any harsh methods on this critical occasion. Take a firm stance and write openly to Ambulinia about this, and I will make sure nothing stands in the way of it reaching her. Only God can save a grieving people. Now is the time to respond to a command of such immense importance." The Major felt stronger after this brief conversation with Louisa. He felt like he could take on anything—he knew he was in control of his own emotions and could now write a letter that would resolve this legal battle.
Cumming, January 24, 1844.
Dear Ambulinia—
We have now reached the most trying moment of our lives; we are pledged not to forsake our trust; we have waited for a favorable hour to come, thinking your friends would settle the matter agreeably among themselves, and finally be reconciled to our marriage; but as I have waited in vain, and looked in vain, I have determined in my own mind to make a proposition to you, though you may think it not in accord with your station, or compatible with your rank; yet, “sub hoc signo vinces.” You know I cannot resume my visits, in consequence of the utter hostility that your father has to me; therefore the consummation of our union will have to be sought for in a more sublime sphere, at the residence of a respectable friend of this village. You cannot have any scruples upon this mode of proceeding, if you will but remember it emanates from one who loves you better than his own life—who is more than anxious to bid you welcome to a new and happy home. Your warmest associates say come; the talented, the learned, the wise, and the experienced say come;—all these with their friends say, come. Viewing these, with many other inducements, I flatter myself that you will come to the embraces of your Elfonzo; for now is the time of your acceptance of the day of your liberation. You cannot be ignorant, Ambulinia, that thou art the desire of my heart; its thoughts are too noble, and too pure, to conceal themselves from you. I shall wait for your answer to this impatiently, expecting that you will set the time to make your departure, and to be in readiness at a moment's warning to share the joys of a more preferable life. This will be handed to you by Louisa, who will take a pleasure in communicating anything to you that may relieve your dejected spirits, and will assure you that I now stand ready, willing, and waiting to make good my vows.
I am, dear Ambulinia, yours
truly, and forever,
J. I. Elfonzo.
Cumming, January 24, 1844.
Dear Ambulinia,
We have now reached the toughest moment of our lives; we are determined to keep our promise. We thought your friends would figure things out and eventually accept our marriage. But after waiting and searching without success, I’ve decided to suggest something to you, even if it seems out of place considering your status. Yet, “sub hoc signo vinces.” You know I can’t visit you because your father is completely against me, so we’ll have to complete our union in a more suitable location, at the home of a respected friend in this village. You shouldn’t hesitate about this plan, as it comes from someone who loves you more than anything—someone eager to welcome you into a new and happy home. Your closest friends are encouraging you to come; the talented, educated, wise, and experienced are all saying come—everyone is saying, come. With these and many other reasons, I’m hopeful that you will join your Elfonzo; this is the time for you to embrace your freedom. You must know, Ambulinia, that you are the desire of my heart; my feelings are too noble and pure to hide from you. I will wait eagerly for your response, hoping you will choose your time to leave and be ready at a moment’s notice to share in the joys of a better life. This message will be delivered to you by Louisa, who will gladly share anything that might lift your spirits and will assure you that I am here, ready, willing, and waiting to fulfill my promises.
I am, dear Ambulinia, yours
truly, and forever,
J. I. Elfonzo.
Louisa made it convenient to visit Mr. Valeer's, though they did not suspect her in the least the bearer of love epistles; consequently, she was invited in the room to console Ambulinia, where they were left alone. Ambulinia was seated by a small table—her head resting on her hand—her brilliant eyes were bathed in tears. Louisa handed her the letter of Elfonzo, when another spirit animated her features—the spirit of renewed confidence that never fails to strengthen the female character in an hour of grief and sorrow like this, and as she pronounced the last accent of his name, she exclaimed, “And does he love me yet! I never will forget your generosity, Louisa. Oh, unhappy and yet blessed Louisa! may you never feel what I have felt—may you never know the pangs of love. Had I never loved, I never would have been unhappy; but I turn to Him who can save, and if His wisdom does not will my expected union, I know He will give me strength to bear my lot. Amuse yourself with this little book, and take it as an apology for my silence,” said Ambulinia, “while I attempt to answer this volume of consolation.” “Thank you,” said Louisa, “you are excusable upon this occasion; but I pray you, Ambulinia, to be expert upon this momentous subject, that there may be nothing mistrustful upon my part.” “I will,” said Ambulinia, and immediately resumed her seat and addressed the following to Elfonzo:
Louisa made it easy to visit Mr. Valeer's, though they didn't suspect her at all as the one delivering love letters; so she was invited into the room to comfort Ambulinia, where they were left alone. Ambulinia sat by a small table—her head resting on her hand—her bright eyes filled with tears. Louisa handed her Elfonzo's letter, and a new spirit lit up her face—the spirit of renewed confidence that always strengthens a woman in times of grief like this. As she spoke the last syllable of his name, she exclaimed, “And does he love me yet! I will never forget your kindness, Louisa. Oh, unhappy yet blessed Louisa! May you never feel what I've felt—may you never know the pain of love. If I had never loved, I would never have been unhappy; but I turn to Him who can save, and if His wisdom doesn't allow for the union I hope for, I know He will give me the strength to accept my fate. Enjoy this little book, and consider it my apology for my silence,” said Ambulinia, “while I try to respond to this sea of comfort.” “Thank you,” replied Louisa, “you’re excused this time; but I ask you, Ambulinia, to be thorough on this important topic, so I won’t have any doubts.” “I will,” said Ambulinia, and she quickly sat back down and addressed the following to Elfonzo:
Cumming, Ga., January 28, 1844.
Devoted Elfonzo—
I hail your letter as a welcome messenger of faith, and can now say truly and firmly that my feelings correspond with yours. Nothing shall be wanting on my part to make my obedience your fidelity. Courage and perseverance will accomplish success. Receive this as my oath, that while I grasp your hand in my own imagination, we stand united before a higher tribunal than any on earth. All the powers of my life, soul, and body, I devote to thee. Whatever dangers may threaten me, I fear not to encounter them. Perhaps I have determined upon my own destruction, by leaving the house of the best of parents; be it so; I flee to you; I share your destiny, faithful to the end. The day that I have concluded upon for this task is sabbath next, when the family with the citizens are generally at church. For Heaven's sake let not that day pass unimproved: trust not till tomorrow, it is the cheat of life—the future that never comes—the grave of many noble births—the cavern of ruined enterprise: which like the lightning's flash is born, and dies, and perishes, ere the voice of him who sees can cry, behold! behold!! You may trust to what I say, no power shall tempt me to betray confidence. Suffer me to add one word more.
I will soothe thee, in all thy grief, Beside the gloomy river; And though thy love may yet be brief; Mine is fixed forever.Receive the deepest emotions of my heart for thy constant love, and may the power of inspiration be thy guide, thy portion, and thy all. In great haste,
Yours faithfully,
Ambulinia.
Cumming, Ga., January 28, 1844.
Dear Elfonzo,
I appreciate your letter as a comforting sign of your faith, and I can now truthfully say that my feelings are just as strong as yours. I will do everything possible to match your loyalty with my own. With courage and determination, we will succeed. Consider this my promise: as I envision holding your hand, we stand together before a higher power than anyone on this earth. I dedicate all my life, soul, and body to you. No matter what dangers come my way, I’m not afraid to confront them. Perhaps I’ve chosen my own fate by leaving the home of my wonderful parents; if so, that’s okay; I run to you, sharing your destiny and staying loyal until the end. I plan to fulfill this commitment on the next sabbath, when the family and townspeople are typically at church. For Heaven’s sake, don’t let that day pass without action: don’t rely on tomorrow, which is an illusion of life—the future that never comes—the grave of many great ideas—the pit of failed efforts: which, like a flash of lightning, is born and dies and disappears before the observer can exclaim, behold! behold!! You can believe what I say; no power will sway me to betray your trust. Let me add one more thing.
I will comfort you, in all your sorrow, Next to the dark river; And even if your love might be short-lived; Mine will last forever.Receive the deepest feelings of my heart for your unwavering love, and may the power of inspiration be your guide, your gift, and your everything. In great haste,
Yours faithfully,
Ambulinia.
“I now take my leave of you, sweet girl,” said Louisa, “sincerely wishing you success on Sabbath next.” When Ambulinia's letter was handed to Elfonzo, he perused it without doubting its contents. Louisa charged him to make but few confidants; but like most young men who happened to win the heart of a beautiful girl, he was so elated with the idea that he felt as a commanding general on parade, who had confidence in all, consequently gave orders to all. The appointed Sabbath, with a delicious breeze and cloudless sky, made its appearance. The people gathered in crowds to the church—the streets were filled with neighboring citizens, all marching to the house of worship. It is entirely useless for me to attempt to describe the feelings of Elfonzo and Ambulinia, who were silently watching the movements of the multitude, apparently counting them as then entered the house of God, looking for the last one to darken the door. The impatience and anxiety with which they waited, and the bliss they anticipated on the eventful day, is altogether indescribable. Those that have been so fortunate as to embark in such a noble enterprise know all its realities; and those who have not had this inestimable privilege will have to taste its sweets before they can tell to others its joys, its comforts, and its Heaven-born worth. Immediately after Ambulinia had assisted the family off to church, she took advantage of that opportunity to make good her promises. She left a home of enjoyment to be wedded to one whose love had been justifiable. A few short steps brought her to the presence of Louisa, who urged her to make good use of her time, and not to delay a moment, but to go with her to her brother's house, where Elfonzo would forever make her happy. With lively speed, and yet a graceful air, she entered the door and found herself protected by the champion of her confidence. The necessary arrangements were fast making to have the two lovers united—everything was in readiness except the parson; and as they are generally very sanctimonious on such occasions, the news got to the parents of Ambulinia before the everlasting knot was tied, and they both came running, with uplifted hands and injured feelings, to arrest their daughter from an unguarded and hasty resolution. Elfonzo desired to maintain his ground, but Ambulinia thought it best for him to leave, to prepare for a greater contest. He accordingly obeyed, as it would have been a vain endeavor for him to have battled against a man who was armed with deadly weapons; and besides, he could not resist the request of such a pure heart. Ambulinia concealed herself in the upper story of the house, fearing the rebuke of her father; the door was locked, and no chastisement was now expected. Esquire Valeer, whose pride was already touched, resolved to preserve the dignity of his family. He entered the house almost exhausted, looking wildly for Ambulinia. “Amazed and astonished indeed I am,” said he, “at a people who call themselves civilized, to allow such behavior as this. Ambulinia, Ambulinia!” he cried, “come to the calls of your first, your best, and your only friend. I appeal to you, sir,” turning to the gentleman of the house, “to know where Ambulinia has gone, or where is she?” “Do you mean to insult me, sir, in my own house?” inquired the gentleman. “I will burst,” said Mr. V., “asunder every door in your dwelling, in search of my daughter, if you do not speak quickly, and tell me where she is. I care nothing about that outcast rubbish of creation, that mean, low-lived Elfonzo, if I can but obtain Ambulinia. Are you not going to open this door?” said he. “By the Eternal that made Heaven and earth! I will go about the work instantly, if this is not done!” The confused citizens gathered from all parts of the village, to know the cause of this commotion. Some rushed into the house; the door that was locked flew open, and there stood Ambulinia, weeping. “Father, be still,” said she, “and I will follow thee home.” But the agitated man seized her, and bore her off through the gazing multitude. “Father!” she exclaimed, “I humbly beg your pardon—I will be dutiful—I will obey thy commands. Let the sixteen years I have lived in obedience to thee be my future security.” “I don't like to be always giving credit, when the old score is not paid up, madam,” said the father. The mother followed almost in a state of derangement, crying and imploring her to think beforehand, and ask advice from experienced persons, and they would tell her it was a rash undertaking. “Oh!” said she, “Ambulinia, my daughter, did you know what I have suffered—did you know how many nights I have whiled away in agony, in pain, and in fear, you would pity the sorrows of a heartbroken mother.”
“I’m saying goodbye now, sweet girl,” Louisa said, “and I truly wish you success this coming Sabbath.” When Ambulinia's letter was given to Elfonzo, he read it without doubting its contents. Louisa asked him to confide in very few people; but like most young men who win the heart of a beautiful girl, he felt so exhilarated that he thought of himself like a commanding general on parade, confident in everyone, and thus gave orders to all. The appointed Sabbath arrived, accompanied by a lovely breeze and a clear sky. People gathered in crowds for church—the streets brimmed with local citizens, all heading to the place of worship. It’s pointless for me to try to describe the feelings of Elfonzo and Ambulinia as they silently watched the throngs, seemingly counting them as they entered the house of God, looking for the last person to close the door behind them. The impatience and anxiety with which they waited, along with the joy they expected on this significant day, were entirely indescribable. Those fortunate enough to embark on such a noble venture know its realities; and those who haven’t experienced this precious privilege will need to savor its sweetness before they can share its joys, comforts, and Heaven-sent worth. As soon as Ambulinia had helped her family off to church, she seized the opportunity to fulfill her promises. She left a happy home to marry someone whose love was legitimate. Just a few short steps took her to Louisa, who urged her to make good use of her time, not to delay for a moment, but to come with her to her brother's house, where Elfonzo would make her happy forever. With lively speed yet a graceful manner, she stepped inside and found herself safe with the one she trusted. The necessary arrangements were swiftly being made to unite the two lovers—everything was ready except for the minister; and since they are usually very solemn for such occasions, the news reached Ambulinia’s parents before they tied the eternal knot, and they both rushed over, with raised hands and hurt feelings, to stop their daughter from a hasty and unguarded decision. Elfonzo wanted to stand his ground, but Ambulinia thought it best for him to leave and prepare for a bigger battle. He complied, as it would have been futile to fight against a man wielding deadly weapons; and besides, he couldn’t resist the plea of such a pure heart. Ambulinia hid herself in the upper floor of the house, dreading her father’s reprimand; the door was locked, and no punishment was expected now. Esquire Valeer, already feeling his pride insulted, decided to uphold his family’s dignity. He entered the house nearly out of breath, desperately searching for Ambulinia. “I’m truly amazed,” he said, “that people who call themselves civilized would allow behavior like this. Ambulinia, Ambulinia!” he shouted, “come answer the call of your first, your best, and your only friend. I ask you, sir,” he turned to the gentleman of the house, “do you know where Ambulinia has gone, or where she is?” “Are you trying to insult me in my own home?” replied the gentleman. “I will break down every door in your house in search of my daughter if you don’t speak quickly and tell me where she is. I don’t care about that worthless scum of creation, that lowly Elfonzo, if I can just get Ambulinia. Are you going to open this door?” he demanded. “By the Eternal that made Heaven and earth! I will start this work immediately if this isn’t resolved!” Confused citizens from all over the village gathered to see what was happening. Some rushed into the house; the locked door burst open, and there stood Ambulinia, crying. “Father, please be still,” she said, “and I will go home with you.” But the upset man grabbed her and carried her away through the watching crowd. “Father!” she pleaded, “I sincerely beg your forgiveness—I will be dutiful—I will obey your wishes. Let the sixteen years I’ve spent in obedience to you ensure my future.” “I don’t want to always be giving credit when the old debt isn’t paid up, young lady,” the father retorted. Her mother followed closely, almost frantic, crying and urging her to think carefully, and to seek advice from experienced people, who would tell her it was a reckless move. “Oh!” her mother exclaimed, “Ambulinia, my daughter, if you only knew what I’ve suffered—if you only knew how many nights I’ve spent in agony, pain, and fear, you would pity the sorrows of a heartbroken mother.”
“Well, mother,” replied Ambulinia, “I know I have been disobedient; I am aware that what I have done might have been done much better; but oh! what shall I do with my honor? it is so dear to me; I am pledged to Elfonzo. His high moral worth is certainly worth some attention; moreover, my vows, I have no doubt, are recorded in the book of life, and must I give these all up? must my fair hopes be forever blasted? Forbid it, father; oh! forbid it, mother; forbid it, Heaven.” “I have seen so many beautiful skies overclouded,” replied the mother, “so many blossoms nipped by the frost, that I am afraid to trust you to the care of those fair days, which may be interrupted by thundering and tempestuous nights. You no doubt think as I did—life's devious ways were strewn with sweet-scented flowers, but ah! how long they have lingered around me and took their flight in the vivid hope that laughs at the drooping victims it has murdered.” Elfonzo was moved at this sight. The people followed on to see what was going to become of Ambulinia, while he, with downcast looks, kept at a distance, until he saw them enter the abode of the father, thrusting her, that was the sigh of his soul, out of his presence into a solitary apartment, when she exclaimed, “Elfonzo! Elfonzo! oh, Elfonzo! where art thou, with all thy heroes? haste, oh! haste, come thou to my relief. Ride on the wings of the wind! Turn thy force loose like a tempest, and roll on thy army like a whirlwind, over this mountain of trouble and confusion. Oh, friends! if any pity me, let your last efforts throng upon the green hills, and come to the relief of Ambulinia, who is guilty of nothing but innocent love.” Elfonzo called out with a loud voice, “My God, can I stand this! arise up, I beseech you, and put an end to this tyranny. Come, my brave boys,” said he, “are you ready to go forth to your duty?” They stood around him. “Who,” said he, “will call us to arms? Where are my thunderbolts of war? Speak ye, the first who will meet the foe! Who will go forward with me in this ocean of grievous temptation? If there is one who desires to go, let him come and shake hands upon the altar of devotion, and swear that he will be a hero; yes, a Hector in a cause like this, which calls aloud for a speedy remedy.” “Mine be the deed,” said a young lawyer, “and mine alone; Venus alone shall quit her station before I will forsake one jot or tittle of my promise to you; what is death to me? what is all this warlike army, if it is not to win a victory? I love the sleep of the lover and the mighty; nor would I give it over till the blood of my enemies should wreak with that of my own. But God forbid that our fame should soar on the blood of the slumberer.” Mr. Valeer stands at his door with the frown of a demon upon his brow, with his dangerous weapon ready to strike the first man who should enter his door. “Who will arise and go forward through blood and carnage to the rescue of my Ambulinia?” said Elfonzo. “All,” exclaimed the multitude; and onward they went, with their implements of battle. Others, of a more timid nature, stood among the distant hills to see the result of the contest.
“Well, mom,” Ambulinia replied, “I know I’ve been disobedient; I realize that I could have handled this much better; but oh! what should I do about my honor? It means so much to me; I’m committed to Elfonzo. His strong moral character deserves some consideration; besides, I’m sure my promises are noted in the book of life, and must I give those up? Must my bright hopes be completely shattered? Please, father; oh! please, mother; don’t let that happen, Heaven.” “I’ve seen so many beautiful skies turn cloudy,” her mother responded, “so many flowers killed by frost, that I’m afraid to let you trust those beautiful days, which can be interrupted by raging storms at night. You probably think like I did—life’s winding paths were filled with fragrant flowers, but alas! how long they’ve lingered around me and then disappeared in that vivid hope that mocks the struggling victims it has destroyed.” Elfonzo was touched by this scene. The crowd followed to see what would happen to Ambulinia, while he, looking downcast, kept his distance until he saw them enter the father’s home, pushing her, the sigh of his soul, out of his sight into a lonely room, where she cried out, “Elfonzo! Elfonzo! oh, Elfonzo! where are you, with all your heroes? Hurry, oh! hurry, come to my rescue. Ride on the wind! Unleash your force like a storm, and roll your army like a whirlwind over this mountain of trouble and confusion. Oh, friends! if anyone feels sorry for me, let your last efforts gather on the green hills and come to help Ambulinia, who is guilty of nothing but innocent love.” Elfonzo shouted, “Oh my God, can I take this! rise up, I beg you, and put an end to this oppression. Come, my brave friends,” he said, “are you ready to march into action?” They stood around him. “Who,” he asked, “will call us to arms? Where are my thunderbolts of war? Speak up, the first who’ll face the enemy! Who will join me in this sea of severe temptation? If anyone wants to go, come and shake hands at the altar of loyalty, and swear that they’ll be a hero; yes, a Hector in a cause like this, which urgently needs a quick solution.” “Let it be my deed,” said a young lawyer, “and mine alone; Venus herself will step aside before I abandon even the smallest part of my promise to you; what is death to me? what is this entire warlike army, if it’s not to win a victory? I love the peaceful rest of the lover and the powerful; nor would I give it up until the blood of my enemies mingles with my own. But God forbid that our glory should rise on the blood of the slumbering.” Mr. Valeer stands at his door with a demonic scowl on his face, with his dangerous weapon ready to strike the first person who enters. “Who will stand up and push through blood and chaos to rescue my Ambulinia?” said Elfonzo. “Everyone,” shouted the crowd; and off they went, armed for battle. Others, who were more timid, stood on the distant hills to watch the outcome of the conflict.
Elfonzo took the lead of his band. Night arose in clouds; darkness concealed the heavens; but the blazing hopes that stimulated them gleamed in every bosom. All approached the anxious spot; they rushed to the front of the house and, with one exclamation, demanded Ambulinia. “Away, begone, and disturb my peace no more,” said Mr. Valeer. “You are a set of base, insolent, and infernal rascals. Go, the northern star points your path through the dim twilight of the night; go, and vent your spite upon the lonely hills; pour forth your love, you poor, weak-minded wretch, upon your idleness and upon your guitar, and your fiddle; they are fit subjects for your admiration, for let me assure you, though this sword and iron lever are cankered, yet they frown in sleep, and let one of you dare to enter my house this night and you shall have the contents and the weight of these instruments.” “Never yet did base dishonor blur my name,” said Elfonzo; “mine is a cause of renown; here are my warriors; fear and tremble, for this night, though hell itself should oppose, I will endeavor to avenge her whom thou hast banished in solitude. The voice of Ambulinia shall be heard from that dark dungeon.” At that moment Ambulinia appeared at the window above, and with a tremulous voice said, “Live, Elfonzo! oh! live to raise my stone of moss! why should such language enter your heart? why should thy voice rend the air with such agitation? I bid thee live, once more remembering these tears of mine are shed alone for thee, in this dark and gloomy vault, and should I perish under this load of trouble, join the song of thrilling accents with the raven above my grave, and lay this tattered frame beside the banks of the Chattahoochee or the stream of Sawney's brook; sweet will be the song of death to your Ambulinia. My ghost shall visit you in the smiles of Paradise, and tell your high fame to the minds of that region, which is far more preferable than this lonely cell. My heart shall speak for thee till the latest hour; I know faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow, yet our souls, Elfonzo, shall hear the peaceful songs together. One bright name shall be ours on high, if we are not permitted to be united here; bear in mind that I still cherish my old sentiments, and the poet will mingle the names of Elfonzo and Ambulinia in the tide of other days.” “Fly, Elfonzo,” said the voices of his united band, “to the wounded heart of your beloved. All enemies shall fall beneath thy sword. Fly through the clefts, and the dim spark shall sleep in death.” Elfonzo rushes forward and strikes his shield against the door, which was barricaded, to prevent any intercourse. His brave sons throng around him. The people pour along the streets, both male and female, to prevent or witness the melancholy scene.
Elfonzo led his group. Night came in on clouds; darkness hid the sky; but the bright hopes that fired them shone in every heart. They all moved toward the anxious spot; they rushed to the front of the house and, with one voice, demanded Ambulinia. “Get lost, and stop disturbing my peace,” said Mr. Valeer. “You are a bunch of worthless, rude, and wicked scoundrels. Go, the northern star shows you the way through the dim twilight of the night; go, and take your anger out on the lonely hills; pour your love, you poor, weak-minded fool, onto your idleness and your guitar, and your fiddle; they’re better suited for your admiration, for let me assure you, even though this sword and iron lever are rusted, they still scowl in their sleep, and if any of you dare to enter my house tonight, you’ll feel the weight of these weapons.” “Never has dishonor stained my name,” said Elfonzo; “my cause is one of glory; here are my warriors; fear and tremble, for tonight, even if hell itself stands in my way, I will try to avenge her whom you've cast into solitude. The voice of Ambulinia will be heard from that dark dungeon.” Just then, Ambulinia appeared at the window above, and with a trembling voice said, “Live, Elfonzo! Oh! live to raise my moss-covered stone! Why should such words invade your heart? Why should your voice shake the air with such distress? I urge you to live, remembering that these tears of mine are shed alone for you, in this dark and gloomy prison, and if I should perish under this burden of sorrow, join the song of haunting notes with the crow above my grave, and lay this tattered body by the banks of the Chattahoochee or Sawney's brook; sweet will be the song of death for your Ambulinia. My ghost will visit you with smiles from Paradise, and share your high reputation with the minds of that place, which is far better than this lonely cell. My heart will speak for you until the very end; I know the sounds of grief are faint and broken, yet our souls, Elfonzo, will hear the peaceful songs together. One bright name will be ours above, if we are not allowed to be united here; remember that I still hold my old feelings, and the poet will mix the names of Elfonzo and Ambulinia in the flow of other days.” “Run, Elfonzo,” cried the voices of his united group, “to the wounded heart of your beloved. All foes will fall beneath your sword. Rush through the gaps, and the dim spark will rest in death.” Elfonzo charged forward and struck his shield against the door, which was barricaded to prevent any entry. His brave sons gathered around him. The crowd filled the streets, both men and women, to either stop or witness the sad scene.
“To arms, to arms!” cried Elfonzo; “here is a victory to be won, a prize to be gained that is more to me that the whole world beside.” “It cannot be done tonight,” said Mr. Valeer. “I bear the clang of death; my strength and armor shall prevail. My Ambulinia shall rest in this hall until the break of another day, and if we fall, we fall together. If we die, we die clinging to our tattered rights, and our blood alone shall tell the mournful tale of a murdered daughter and a ruined father.” Sure enough, he kept watch all night, and was successful in defending his house and family. The bright morning gleamed upon the hills, night vanished away, the Major and his associates felt somewhat ashamed that they had not been as fortunate as they expected to have been; however, they still leaned upon their arms in dispersed groups; some were walking the streets, others were talking in the Major's behalf. Many of the citizen suspended business, as the town presented nothing but consternation. A novelty that might end in the destruction of some worthy and respectable citizens. Mr. Valeer ventured in the streets, though not without being well armed. Some of his friends congratulated him on the decided stand he had taken, and hoped he would settle the matter amicably with Elfonzo, without any serious injury. “Me,” he replied, “what, me, condescend to fellowship with a coward, and a low-lived, lazy, undermining villain? no, gentlemen, this cannot be; I had rather be borne off, like the bubble upon the dark blue ocean, with Ambulinia by my side, than to have him in the ascending or descending line of relationship. Gentlemen,” continued he, “if Elfonzo is so much of a distinguished character, and is so learned in the fine arts, why do you not patronize such men? why not introduce him into your families, as a gentleman of taste and of unequaled magnanimity? why are you so very anxious that he should become a relative of mine? Oh, gentlemen, I fear you yet are tainted with the curiosity of our first parents, who were beguiled by the poisonous kiss of an old ugly serpent, and who, for one apple, damned all mankind. I wish to divest myself, as far as possible, of that untutored custom. I have long since learned that the perfection of wisdom, and the end of true philosophy, is to proportion our wants to our possessions, our ambition to our capacities; we will then be a happy and a virtuous people.” Ambulinia was sent off to prepare for a long and tedious journey. Her new acquaintances had been instructed by her father how to treat her, and in what manner, and to keep the anticipated visit entirely secret. Elfonzo was watching the movements of everybody; some friends had told him of the plot that was laid to carry off Ambulinia. At night, he rallied some two or three of his forces, and went silently along to the stately mansion; a faint and glimmering light showed through the windows; lightly he steps to the door; there were many voices rallying fresh in fancy's eye; he tapped the shutter; it was opened instantly, and he beheld once more, seated beside several ladies, the hope of all his toils; he rushed toward her, she rose from her seat, rejoicing; he made one mighty grasp, when Ambulinia exclaimed, “Huzza for Major Elfonzo! I will defend myself and you, too, with this conquering instrument I hold in my hand; huzza, I say, I now invoke time's broad wing to shed around us some dewdrops of verdant spring.”
“Go grab your weapons!” shouted Elfonzo. “There’s a victory to be had, a prize that means more to me than the whole world.” “We can’t do this tonight,” said Mr. Valeer. “I can feel death closing in; my strength and armor will see us through. My Ambulinia will stay here until dawn, and if we fall, we fall together. If we die, we die holding onto our rights, and our blood alone will tell the sad story of a murdered daughter and a ruined father.” Sure enough, he stayed up all night and successfully defended his home and family. The bright morning shone on the hills, the night faded away, and the Major and his comrades felt a bit embarrassed that they hadn’t been as lucky as they’d hoped. Still, they leaned on their weapons in scattered groups; some strolled the streets, while others talked in support of the Major. Many townspeople paused their business, as the town was filled with fear. A situation that could endanger some good and respectable citizens. Mr. Valeer ventured into the streets, though he was well-armed. Some friends praised him for the strong stance he took and hoped he would resolve things peacefully with Elfonzo, without anyone getting hurt. “Me?” he responded. “What, me lower myself to associate with a coward, a lazy, deceitful villain? No, gentlemen, that’s not happening; I’d rather be swept away like a bubble on the dark blue ocean, with Ambulinia by my side, than have him related to me in any way. Gentlemen,” he continued, “if Elfonzo is such a distinguished person and knows so much about the fine arts, why don’t you support men like him? Why not bring him into your families as a man of taste and unmatched kindness? Why are you so eager for him to be my relative? Oh, gentlemen, I worry you’re still influenced by the curiosity of our first parents, who were tricked by the poisonous kiss of an old, ugly serpent, and who, for one apple, doomed all humanity. I want to free myself, as much as possible, from that naive habit. I learned long ago that true wisdom and the goal of real philosophy is to match our desires with our possessions, and our ambitions with our abilities; only then can we be a happy and virtuous people.” Ambulinia was sent off to get ready for a long and difficult journey. Her father had instructed her new friends on how to treat her and how to keep the upcoming visit a secret. Elfonzo was closely watching everyone’s movements; some friends had informed him of the plan to take Ambulinia. At night, he gathered a few of his forces and quietly made his way to the grand mansion; a faint light flickered through the windows; he approached the door carefully; he heard many voices lively in his imagination; he knocked on the shutter; it opened immediately, and he saw once again, sitting with several ladies, the hope of all his efforts; he rushed toward her, she stood up, thrilled; he made one powerful grab, when Ambulinia exclaimed, “Hooray for Major Elfonzo! I will defend myself and you, too, with this mighty weapon I hold in my hand; hooray, I say, I now call upon time’s broad wing to shower us with dewdrops of vibrant spring.”
But the hour had not come for this joyous reunion; her friends struggled with Elfonzo for some time, and finally succeeded in arresting her from his hands. He dared not injure them, because they were matrons whose courage needed no spur; she was snatched from the arms of Elfonzo, with so much eagerness, and yet with such expressive signification, that he calmly withdrew from this lovely enterprise, with an ardent hope that he should be lulled to repose by the zephyrs which whispered peace to his soul. Several long days and nights passed unmolested, all seemed to have grounded their arms of rebellion, and no callidity appeared to be going on with any of the parties. Other arrangements were made by Ambulinia; she feigned herself to be entirely the votary of a mother's care, and she, by her graceful smiles, that manhood might claim his stern dominion in some other region, where such boisterous love was not so prevalent. This gave the parents a confidence that yielded some hours of sober joy; they believed that Ambulinia would now cease to love Elfonzo, and that her stolen affections would now expire with her misguided opinions. They therefore declined the idea of sending her to a distant land. But oh! they dreamed not of the rapture that dazzled the fancy of Ambulinia, who would say, when alone, youth should not fly away on his rosy pinions, and leave her to grapple in the conflict with unknown admirers.
But the moment for this joyful reunion hadn’t arrived; her friends fought with Elfonzo for a while and eventually managed to pull her away from him. He wouldn’t dare to hurt them because they were strong women whose bravery needed no encouragement; she was taken from Elfonzo's grasp with such eagerness and meaningful gestures that he calmly stepped back from this beautiful venture, hoping to find peace in the gentle breezes that soothed his soul. Several long days and nights passed without any disturbances; it seemed everyone had laid down their arms of rebellion, and there was no sign of any hidden scheming by any of the parties. Ambulinia made other plans; she pretended to be completely devoted to her role as a caring mother, using her charming smiles to suggest that manhood should assert its authority in some other place where such intense love wasn’t so overwhelming. This gave the parents a sense of reassurance that allowed them some hours of sober happiness; they believed Ambulinia would now stop loving Elfonzo and that her stolen affections would fade along with her misguided beliefs. Therefore, they dismissed the idea of sending her far away. But oh! They didn’t foresee the joy that filled Ambulinia’s imagination, who would say when alone that youth shouldn’t fly away on its rosy wings and leave her to struggle with uncharted admirers.
No frowning age shall control
The constant current of my soul,
Nor a tear from pity's eye
Shall check my sympathetic sigh.
No frowning time will control
The steady flow of my soul,
Nor will a tear from pity's eye
Stop my sympathetic sigh.With this resolution fixed in her mind, one dark and dreary night, when the winds whistled and the tempest roared, she received intelligence that Elfonzo was then waiting, and every preparation was then ready, at the residence of Dr. Tully, and for her to make a quick escape while the family was reposing. Accordingly she gathered her books, went the wardrobe supplied with a variety of ornamental dressing, and ventured alone in the streets to make her way to Elfonzo, who was near at hand, impatiently looking and watching her arrival. “What forms,” said she, “are those rising before me? What is that dark spot on the clouds? I do wonder what frightful ghost that is, gleaming on the red tempest? Oh, be merciful and tell me what region you are from. Oh, tell me, ye strong spirits, or ye dark and fleeting clouds, that I yet have a friend.” “A friend,” said a low, whispering voice. “I am thy unchanging, thy aged, and thy disappointed mother. Why brandish in that hand of thine a javelin of pointed steel? Why suffer that lip I have kissed a thousand times to equivocate? My daughter, let these tears sink deep into thy soul, and no longer persist in that which may be your destruction and ruin. Come, my dear child, retract your steps, and bear me company to your welcome home.” Without one retorting word, or frown from her brow, she yielded to the entreaties of her mother, and with all the mildness of her former character she went along with the silver lamp of age, to the home of candor and benevolence. Her father received her cold and formal politeness—“Where has Ambulinia been, this blustering evening, Mrs. Valeer?” inquired he. “Oh, she and I have been taking a solitary walk,” said the mother; “all things, I presume, are now working for the best.”
With this resolution in her mind, one dark and stormy night, as the winds howled and the storm raged, she got word that Elfonzo was waiting, and everything was ready at Dr. Tully's house for her to make a quick escape while the family was asleep. So, she gathered her books, went to the wardrobe filled with various beautiful clothes, and ventured out alone into the streets to meet Elfonzo, who was nearby, eagerly looking and waiting for her arrival. “What shapes,” she said, “are those appearing before me? What’s that dark patch in the clouds? I wonder what terrifying ghost that is, glowing in the red storm? Oh, be kind and tell me where you're from. Oh, tell me, you strong spirits, or you dark and fleeting clouds, that I still have a friend.” “A friend,” whispered a low voice. “I am your steadfast, your aging, and your disappointed mother. Why do you brandish that pointed steel javelin in your hand? Why does that lip I’ve kissed a thousand times hesitate? My daughter, let these tears reach deep into your soul, and don’t continue down the path that could lead to your destruction and ruin. Come, my dear child, turn back, and keep me company on your way home.” Without a word in reply or a frown on her face, she gave in to her mother’s pleas, and with all the gentleness of her former self, she followed her mother, the silver lamp of age, back to the home of kindness and warmth. Her father greeted her with cold and formal politeness. “Where has Ambulinia been this stormy evening, Mrs. Valeer?” he asked. “Oh, she and I have been taking a quiet walk,” said the mother; “I assume everything is now working out for the best.”
Elfonzo heard this news shortly after it happened. “What,” said he, “has heaven and earth turned against me? I have been disappointed times without number. Shall I despair?—must I give it over? Heaven's decrees will not fade; I will write again—I will try again; and if it traverses a gory field, I pray forgiveness at the altar of justice.”
Elfonzo heard this news shortly after it happened. “What,” he said, “has the world turned against me? I’ve faced disappointment countless times. Should I give up?—must I quit? The forces of destiny won’t change; I’ll write again—I’ll try again; and if it leads me through a bloody battlefield, I ask for forgiveness at the altar of justice.”
Desolate Hill, Cumming, Geo., 1844.
Unconquered and Beloved Ambulinia— I have only time to say to you, not to despair; thy fame shall not perish; my visions are brightening before me. The whirlwind's rage is past, and we now shall subdue our enemies without doubt. On Monday morning, when your friends are at breakfast, they will not suspect your departure, or even mistrust me being in town, as it has been reported advantageously that I have left for the west. You walk carelessly toward the academy grove, where you will find me with a lightning steed, elegantly equipped to bear you off where we shall be joined in wedlock with the first connubial rights. Fail not to do this—think not of the tedious relations of our wrongs—be invincible. You alone occupy all my ambition, and I alone will make you my happy spouse, with the same unimpeached veracity. I remain, forever, your devoted friend and admirer, J. I. Elfonzo.
Desolate Hill, Cumming, Georgia, 1844.
Unconquered and Beloved Ambulinia— I just have time to remind you to keep your hope alive; your reputation will endure; my visions are becoming clearer. The storm has passed, and we will definitely triumph over our enemies now. On Monday morning, while your friends have breakfast, they won’t realize you’ve left or even consider that I’m in town, as it’s been reported that I’ve gone west. You’ll walk casually toward the academy grove, where I’ll be waiting for you with a fast horse, ready to whisk you away so we can unite in marriage with all the accompanying rights. Please don’t overlook this—don’t focus on the long stories of our troubles—be relentless. You’re the center of all my dreams, and I will make you my joyful partner, with the same unwavering honesty. I remain, forever, your devoted friend and admirer, J. I. Elfonzo.
The appointed day ushered in undisturbed by any clouds; nothing disturbed Ambulinia's soft beauty. With serenity and loveliness she obeys the request of Elfonzo. The moment the family seated themselves at the table—“Excuse my absence for a short time,” said she, “while I attend to the placing of those flowers, which should have been done a week ago.” And away she ran to the sacred grove, surrounded with glittering pearls, that indicated her coming. Elfonzo hails her with his silver bow and his golden harp. They meet—Ambulinia's countenance brightens—Elfonzo leads up his winged steed. “Mount,” said he, “ye true-hearted, ye fearless soul—the day is ours.” She sprang upon the back of the young thunder bolt, a brilliant star sparkles upon her head, with one hand she grasps the reins, and with the other she holds an olive branch. “Lend thy aid, ye strong winds,” they exclaimed, “ye moon, ye sun, and all ye fair host of heaven, witness the enemy conquered.” “Hold,” said Elfonzo, “thy dashing steed.” “Ride on,” said Ambulinia, “the voice of thunder is behind us.” And onward they went, with such rapidity that they very soon arrived at Rural Retreat, where they dismounted, and were united with all the solemnities that usually attend such divine operations. They passed the day in thanksgiving and great rejoicing, and on that evening they visited their uncle, where many of their friends and acquaintances had gathered to congratulate them in the field of untainted bliss. The kind old gentleman met them in the yard: “Well,” said he, “I wish I may die, Elfonzo, if you and Ambulinia haven't tied a knot with your tongue that you can't untie with your teeth. But come in, come in, never mind, all is right—the world still moves on, and no one has fallen in this great battle.”
The designated day arrived without a single cloud in the sky; nothing disrupted Ambulinia's gentle beauty. With grace and charm, she fulfilled Elfonzo's request. As soon as the family sat down at the table, she said, “Excuse me for a moment while I take care of those flowers that should’ve been arranged a week ago.” Then she hurried off to the sacred grove, shimmering with pearls that signaled her arrival. Elfonzo greeted her with his silver bow and golden harp. They met—Ambulinia's face lit up—Elfonzo brought forth his winged horse. “Get on,” he said, “you true-hearted, fearless one—the day is ours.” She leaped onto the back of the young thunderbolt, a brilliant star shining on her head, gripping the reins with one hand while holding an olive branch in the other. “Help us, strong winds,” they exclaimed, “moon, sun, and all you beautiful hosts of heaven, witness our victory over the enemy.” “Wait,” said Elfonzo, “your galloping steed.” “Keep going,” Ambulinia replied, “the sound of thunder is behind us.” They charged ahead so quickly that they soon reached Rural Retreat, where they got off and were joined in a ceremony filled with the usual solemnities of such divine unions. They spent the day in gratitude and joy, and that evening they visited their uncle, where many friends and acquaintances had gathered to celebrate their unblemished happiness. The kind old gentleman met them in the yard: “Well,” he said, “I swear, Elfonzo, if you and Ambulinia haven't tied a knot with your tongues that you can't untie with your teeth. But come in, come in, never mind, everything's fine—the world keeps turning, and no one has fallen in this great battle.”
Happy now is their lot! Unmoved by misfortune, they live among the fair beauties of the South. Heaven spreads their peace and fame upon the arch of the rainbow, and smiles propitiously at their triumph, through the tears of the storm.
Happy now is their lot! Unaffected by misfortune, they live among the beautiful landscapes of the South. Heaven spreads their peace and fame across the arch of the rainbow and smiles favorably at their triumph, through the tears of the storm.
THE CALIFORNIAN'S TALE
Thirty-five years ago I was out prospecting on the Stanislaus, tramping all day long with pick and pan and horn, and washing a hatful of dirt here and there, always expecting to make a rich strike, and never doing it. It was a lovely region, woodsy, balmy, delicious, and had once been populous, long years before, but now the people had vanished and the charming paradise was a solitude. They went away when the surface diggings gave out. In one place, where a busy little city with banks and newspapers and fire companies and a mayor and aldermen had been, was nothing but a wide expanse of emerald turf, with not even the faintest sign that human life had ever been present there. This was down toward Tuttletown. In the country neighborhood thereabouts, along the dusty roads, one found at intervals the prettiest little cottage homes, snug and cozy, and so cobwebbed with vines snowed thick with roses that the doors and windows were wholly hidden from sight—sign that these were deserted homes, forsaken years ago by defeated and disappointed families who could neither sell them nor give them away. Now and then, half an hour apart, one came across solitary log cabins of the earliest mining days, built by the first gold-miners, the predecessors of the cottage-builders. In some few cases these cabins were still occupied; and when this was so, you could depend upon it that the occupant was the very pioneer who had built the cabin; and you could depend on another thing, too—that he was there because he had once had his opportunity to go home to the States rich, and had not done it; had rather lost his wealth, and had then in his humiliation resolved to sever all communication with his home relatives and friends, and be to them thenceforth as one dead. Round about California in that day were scattered a host of these living dead men—pride-smitten poor fellows, grizzled and old at forty, whose secret thoughts were made all of regrets and longings—regrets for their wasted lives, and longings to be out of the struggle and done with it all.
Thirty-five years ago, I was out prospecting on the Stanislaus, trudging all day with a pick, a pan, and a horn, washing a hatful of dirt here and there, always hoping to strike it rich, but never did. It was a beautiful area, lush, sunny, and delightful, once bustling with life long ago, but now the people had disappeared, and the lovely paradise had become a ghost town. They left when the surface mining dried up. In one spot, where a lively little city with banks, newspapers, fire companies, a mayor, and city council members had been, there was nothing but a vast stretch of green grass, with not even the faintest sign that humans had ever lived there. This was down toward Tuttletown. In the nearby countryside, along the dusty roads, you’d find charming little cottages, snug and cozy, completely covered in vines thick with roses, hiding the doors and windows from view—evidence that these homes were deserted, left behind years ago by families who had been beaten down and disappointed, unable to sell or give them away. Now and then, about half an hour apart, you’d come across lonely log cabins from the earliest mining days, built by the first gold miners, the forerunners of the cottage builders. In a few cases, these cabins were still occupied; and when that was the case, you could be sure the occupant was the very pioneer who had built the cabin; and another thing you could be sure of was that he was there because he once had the chance to go home to the States rich but didn’t; he had lost his fortune and, in his embarrassment, decided to cut off all contact with his family and friends back home, making himself a dead man to them. All around California at that time were many of these living dead men—proud yet poor guys, grizzled and old at forty, whose inner thoughts were filled with regrets and longings—regrets for their wasted lives and longings to escape the struggle and be done with it all.
It was a lonesome land! Not a sound in all those peaceful expanses of grass and woods but the drowsy hum of insects; no glimpse of man or beast; nothing to keep up your spirits and make you glad to be alive. And so, at last, in the early part of the afternoon, when I caught sight of a human creature, I felt a most grateful uplift. This person was a man about forty-five years old, and he was standing at the gate of one of those cozy little rose-clad cottages of the sort already referred to. However, this one hadn't a deserted look; it had the look of being lived in and petted and cared for and looked after; and so had its front yard, which was a garden of flowers, abundant, gay, and flourishing. I was invited in, of course, and required to make myself at home—it was the custom of the country.
It was a lonely land! Not a sound in all those peaceful stretches of grass and woods except for the sleepy buzz of insects; no sight of people or animals; nothing to lift your spirits and make you feel alive. So, finally, in the early afternoon, when I spotted another human, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. This person was a man around forty-five years old, standing at the gate of one of those charming little cottages covered in roses that I had mentioned before. But this one didn’t look abandoned; it seemed loved, cared for, and well-maintained; the front yard was a vibrant garden full of bright flowers. I was, of course, invited in and told to make myself at home—it was the custom of the area.
It was delightful to be in such a place, after long weeks of daily and nightly familiarity with miners' cabins—with all which this implies of dirt floor, never-made beds, tin plates and cups, bacon and beans and black coffee, and nothing of ornament but war pictures from the Eastern illustrated papers tacked to the log walls. That was all hard, cheerless, materialistic desolation, but here was a nest which had aspects to rest the tired eye and refresh that something in one's nature which, after long fasting, recognizes, when confronted by the belongings of art, howsoever cheap and modest they may be, that it has unconsciously been famishing and now has found nourishment. I could not have believed that a rag carpet could feast me so, and so content me; or that there could be such solace to the soul in wall-paper and framed lithographs, and bright-colored tidies and lamp-mats, and Windsor chairs, and varnished what-nots, with sea-shells and books and china vases on them, and the score of little unclassifiable tricks and touches that a woman's hand distributes about a home, which one sees without knowing he sees them, yet would miss in a moment if they were taken away. The delight that was in my heart showed in my face, and the man saw it and was pleased; saw it so plainly that he answered it as if it had been spoken.
It was wonderful to be in such a place, after weeks of being surrounded by miners' cabins—with all that implies: dirt floors, unmade beds, tin plates and cups, bacon and beans, black coffee, and nothing decorative except war pictures from Eastern illustrated papers pinned to the log walls. That was all tough, bleak, materialistic desolation, but here was a cozy spot with elements that soothed the weary eye and refreshed something inside you that, after a long drought, recognizes when faced with art—no matter how cheap and simple—that it has been unknowingly starving and has now found nourishment. I never would have believed that a rag carpet could satisfy me so much or that such comfort could exist in wallpaper, framed prints, bright-colored doilies, lamp mats, Windsor chairs, and polished knick-knacks adorned with seashells, books, and china vases, along with the countless little unclassifiable details that a woman's touch brings to a home, which you notice without realizing you notice them, but would miss instantly if they were gone. The joy in my heart was evident on my face, and the man saw it and was pleased; he recognized it so clearly that he responded as if I had spoken.
“All her work,” he said, caressingly; “she did it all herself—every bit,” and he took the room in with a glance which was full of affectionate worship. One of those soft Japanese fabrics with which women drape with careful negligence the upper part of a picture-frame was out of adjustment. He noticed it, and rearranged it with cautious pains, stepping back several times to gauge the effect before he got it to suit him. Then he gave it a light finishing pat or two with his hand, and said: “She always does that. You can't tell just what it lacks, but it does lack something until you've done that—you can see it yourself after it's done, but that is all you know; you can't find out the law of it. It's like the finishing pats a mother gives the child's hair after she's got it combed and brushed, I reckon. I've seen her fix all these things so much that I can do them all just her way, though I don't know the law of any of them. But she knows the law. She knows the why and the how both; but I don't know the why; I only know the how.”
“All her work,” he said gently, “she did it all herself—every bit,” and he looked around the room with a gaze filled with affection. One of those soft Japanese fabrics that women use to casually drape over the top of a picture frame was out of place. He noticed it and carefully adjusted it, stepping back several times to see how it looked until it was just right. Then he gave it a light pat or two with his hand and said: “She always does that. You can't really tell what it needs, but it does feel like something is missing until you've done that—once it's done, you can see it, but that’s all you know; you can’t figure out the reasoning behind it. It’s like the little finishing touches a mom gives her kid’s hair after she’s combed it, I guess. I’ve watched her do all these things so much that I can do them just like she does, even if I don’t understand the reasoning behind any of them. But she knows the reasoning. She knows the why and the how both; I just know the how.”
He took me into a bedroom so that I might wash my hands; such a bedroom as I had not seen for years: white counterpane, white pillows, carpeted floor, papered walls, pictures, dressing-table, with mirror and pin-cushion and dainty toilet things; and in the corner a wash-stand, with real china-ware bowl and pitcher, and with soap in a china dish, and on a rack more than a dozen towels—towels too clean and white for one out of practice to use without some vague sense of profanation. So my face spoke again, and he answered with gratified words:
He led me into a bedroom where I could wash my hands; a bedroom like I hadn't seen in years: a white bedspread, white pillows, a carpeted floor, wallpapered walls, pictures on the walls, a dressing table with a mirror, a pin cushion, and delicate toiletries; and in the corner, a washstand with a real china bowl and pitcher, soap in a china dish, and on a rack more than a dozen towels—towels too clean and white for someone out of practice to use without feeling slightly inappropriate. My face expressed my feelings again, and he responded with pleased words:
“All her work; she did it all herself—every bit. Nothing here that hasn't felt the touch of her hand. Now you would think—But I mustn't talk so much.”
“All her work; she did it all herself—every bit. Nothing here that hasn't felt the touch of her hand. Now you would think—But I shouldn't talk so much.”
By this time I was wiping my hands and glancing from detail to detail of the room's belongings, as one is apt to do when he is in a new place, where everything he sees is a comfort to his eye and his spirit; and I became conscious, in one of those unaccountable ways, you know, that there was something there somewhere that the man wanted me to discover for myself. I knew it perfectly, and I knew he was trying to help me by furtive indications with his eye, so I tried hard to get on the right track, being eager to gratify him. I failed several times, as I could see out of the corner of my eye without being told; but at last I knew I must be looking straight at the thing—knew it from the pleasure issuing in invisible waves from him. He broke into a happy laugh, and rubbed his hands together, and cried out:
At this point, I was wiping my hands and glancing around at all the items in the room, like you do when you're in a new place, where everything you see is a pleasure to your eyes and lifts your spirit. I suddenly realized, in one of those strange ways, that there was something he wanted me to find out for myself. I was totally aware of it, and I knew he was trying to guide me with subtle cues from his eyes, so I focused hard on figuring it out, wanting to make him happy. I stumbled several times, as I could tell from my peripheral vision without needing to be told, but eventually, I knew I was looking right at it—felt it from the joy radiating off him. He burst into a joyful laugh, rubbed his hands together, and exclaimed:
“That's it! You've found it. I knew you would. It's her picture.”
"That's it! You found it. I knew you would. It's her picture."
I went to the little black-walnut bracket on the farther wall, and did find there what I had not yet noticed—a daguerreotype-case. It contained the sweetest girlish face, and the most beautiful, as it seemed to me, that I had ever seen. The man drank the admiration from my face, and was fully satisfied.
I went over to the little black-walnut shelf on the far wall and found something I hadn’t noticed before—a daguerreotype case. Inside it was the sweetest young woman’s face, the most beautiful one I had ever seen. The man took in the admiration on my face and was completely satisfied.
“Nineteen her last birthday,” he said, as he put the picture back; “and that was the day we were married. When you see her—ah, just wait till you see her!”
“Nineteen on her last birthday,” he said, as he put the picture back; “and that was the day we got married. When you see her—oh, just wait until you see her!”
“Where is she? When will she be in?”
“Where is she? When is she coming?”
“Oh, she's away now. She's gone to see her people. They live forty or fifty miles from here. She's been gone two weeks today.”
“Oh, she's away now. She went to visit her family. They live about forty or fifty miles from here. She's been gone for two weeks today.”
“When do you expect her back?”
“When do you think she’ll be back?”
“This is Wednesday. She'll be back Saturday, in the evening—about nine o'clock, likely.”
“This is Wednesday. She'll be back on Saturday evening—around nine o'clock, probably.”
I felt a sharp sense of disappointment.
I felt a sudden wave of disappointment.
“I'm sorry, because I'll be gone then,” I said, regretfully.
“I'm sorry, because I won't be here then,” I said, regretfully.
“Gone? No—why should you go? Don't go. She'll be disappointed.”
“Gone? No—why would you leave? Don’t leave. She'll be let down.”
She would be disappointed—that beautiful creature! If she had said the words herself they could hardly have blessed me more. I was feeling a deep, strong longing to see her—a longing so supplicating, so insistent, that it made me afraid. I said to myself: “I will go straight away from this place, for my peace of mind's sake.”
She would be let down—that stunning person! If she had said those words herself, it wouldn't have meant more to me. I was feeling an intense, powerful desire to see her—a desire so desperate, so urgent, that it scared me. I told myself: “I need to leave this place right now, for my own peace of mind.”
“You see, she likes to have people come and stop with us—people who know things, and can talk—people like you. She delights in it; for she knows—oh, she knows nearly everything herself, and can talk, oh, like a bird—and the books she reads, why, you would be astonished. Don't go; it's only a little while, you know, and she'll be so disappointed.”
“You see, she loves having people come and stay with us—people who know things and can engage in conversation—people like you. She enjoys it so much; she knows—oh, she knows almost everything herself and can chatter away like a bird—and the books she reads, well, you’d be amazed. Don’t leave; it’s just for a little while, and she’ll be really disappointed.”
I heard the words, but hardly noticed them, I was so deep in my thinkings and strugglings. He left me, but I didn't know. Presently he was back, with the picture case in his hand, and he held it open before me and said:
I heard the words, but barely paid attention to them; I was lost in my thoughts and struggles. He left me, but I didn't realize it. Soon, he returned with the picture case in his hand, holding it open before me and said:
“There, now, tell her to her face you could have stayed to see her, and you wouldn't.”
“There, now, tell her directly that you could have stayed to see her, but you chose not to.”
That second glimpse broke down my good resolution. I would stay and take the risk. That night we smoked the tranquil pipe, and talked till late about various things, but mainly about her; and certainly I had had no such pleasant and restful time for many a day. The Thursday followed and slipped comfortably away. Toward twilight a big miner from three miles away came—one of the grizzled, stranded pioneers—and gave us warm salutation, clothed in grave and sober speech. Then he said:
That second look shattered my resolve. I decided to stick around and take the chance. That night we smoked the calming pipe and talked late into the night about various topics, but mainly about her; and I definitely hadn't had such a nice and relaxing time in quite a while. Thursday came and passed easily. As dusk approached, a big miner from three miles away arrived—one of the weathered, stranded pioneers—and greeted us warmly, speaking earnestly and soberly. Then he said:
“I only just dropped over to ask about the little madam, and when is she coming home. Any news from her?”
“I just stopped by to ask about the little lady, and when she's coming home. Any updates on her?”
“Oh, yes, a letter. Would you like to hear it, Tom?”
“Oh, yes, a letter. Do you want to hear it, Tom?”
“Well, I should think I would, if you don't mind, Henry!”
“Well, I think I would, if that's okay with you, Henry!”
Henry got the letter out of his wallet, and said he would skip some of the private phrases, if we were willing; then he went on and read the bulk of it—a loving, sedate, and altogether charming and gracious piece of handiwork, with a postscript full of affectionate regards and messages to Tom, and Joe, and Charley, and other close friends and neighbors.
Henry took the letter out of his wallet and said he would skip some of the personal parts if we were okay with that; then he continued reading most of it—a loving, calm, and completely charming and gracious piece of writing, with a postscript filled with warm regards and messages to Tom, Joe, Charley, and other close friends and neighbors.
As the reader finished, he glanced at Tom, and cried out:
As the reader wrapped up, he looked over at Tom and shouted:
“Oho, you're at it again! Take your hands away, and let me see your eyes. You always do that when I read a letter from her. I will write and tell her.”
“Oho, you're at it again! Take your hands off and let me see your eyes. You always do that when I read a letter from her. I’m going to write and tell her.”
“Oh no, you mustn't, Henry. I'm getting old, you know, and any little disappointment makes me want to cry. I thought she'd be here herself, and now you've got only a letter.”
“Oh no, you really shouldn’t, Henry. I'm getting older, you know, and even the smallest disappointment makes me want to cry. I thought she’d come herself, and now you only have a letter.”
“Well, now, what put that in your head? I thought everybody knew she wasn't coming till Saturday.”
“Well, what made you think that? I thought everyone knew she wasn't coming until Saturday.”
“Saturday! Why, come to think, I did know it. I wonder what's the matter with me lately? Certainly I knew it. Ain't we all getting ready for her? Well, I must be going now. But I'll be on hand when she comes, old man!”
“Saturday! Now that I think about it, I did know that. I wonder what’s been up with me lately? Of course I knew it. Aren't we all getting ready for her? Anyway, I have to go now. But I'll be here when she arrives, my friend!”
Late Friday afternoon another gray veteran tramped over from his cabin a mile or so away, and said the boys wanted to have a little gaiety and a good time Saturday night, if Henry thought she wouldn't be too tired after her journey to be kept up.
Late Friday afternoon, another gray-haired veteran walked over from his cabin about a mile away and said the guys wanted to have a little fun and a good time Saturday night, if Henry thought she wouldn't be too tired after her trip to stay up.
“Tired? She tired! Oh, hear the man! Joe, you know she'd sit up six weeks to please any one of you!”
“Tired? She's tired! Oh, listen to the guy! Joe, you know she’d stay up for six weeks to make any one of you happy!”
When Joe heard that there was a letter, he asked to have it read, and the loving messages in it for him broke the old fellow all up; but he said he was such an old wreck that that would happen to him if she only just mentioned his name. “Lord, we miss her so!” he said.
When Joe heard there was a letter, he asked to have it read, and the heartfelt messages in it for him really upset the old guy; but he said he was such a mess that that would happen to him even if she only mentioned his name. “Wow, we miss her so much!” he said.
Saturday afternoon I found I was taking out my watch pretty often. Henry noticed it, and said, with a startled look:
Saturday afternoon I realized I was checking my watch pretty often. Henry noticed this and said, with a surprised look:
“You don't think she ought to be here soon, do you?”
“You don't think she'll be here soon, do you?”
I felt caught, and a little embarrassed; but I laughed, and said it was a habit of mine when I was in a state of expenctancy. But he didn't seem quite satisfied; and from that time on he began to show uneasiness. Four times he walked me up the road to a point whence we could see a long distance; and there he would stand, shading his eyes with his hand, and looking. Several times he said:
I felt trapped and a bit embarrassed, but I laughed and said it was just a habit of mine when I was feeling anxious. He didn’t seem entirely convinced, and from then on, he started to appear uneasy. Four times he walked me up the road to a spot where we could see far ahead, and there he would stand, shading his eyes with his hand and looking around. A few times he said:
“I'm getting worried, I'm getting right down worried. I know she's not due till about nine o'clock, and yet something seems to be trying to warn me that something's happened. You don't think anything has happened, do you?”
“I'm really starting to worry. I know she’s not supposed to be here until around nine, but something feels like it’s trying to tell me that something's wrong. You don’t think anything’s happened, do you?”
I began to get pretty thoroughly ashamed of him for his childishness; and at last, when he repeated that imploring question still another time, I lost my patience for the moment, and spoke pretty brutally to him. It seemed to shrivel him up and cow him; and he looked so wounded and so humble after that, that I detested myself for having done the cruel and unnecessary thing. And so I was glad when Charley, another veteran, arrived toward the edge of the evening, and nestled up to Henry to hear the letter read, and talked over the preparations for the welcome. Charley fetched out one hearty speech after another, and did his best to drive away his friend's bodings and apprehensions.
I started to feel really embarrassed for him because of his childishness; and finally, when he asked that desperate question once more, I lost my patience for a moment and spoke quite harshly to him. It seemed to deflate him and make him submissive; he looked so hurt and so humble afterward that I hated myself for being cruel and unnecessary. So I was relieved when Charley, another veteran, showed up toward the end of the evening, cuddled up to Henry to hear the letter read, and talked about the preparations for the welcome. Charley brought out one enthusiastic speech after another and did his best to chase away his friend's worries and fears.
“Anything happened to her? Henry, that's pure nonsense. There isn't anything going to happen to her; just make your mind easy as to that. What did the letter say? Said she was well, didn't it? And said she'd be here by nine o'clock, didn't it? Did you ever know her to fail of her word? Why, you know you never did. Well, then, don't you fret; she'll be here, and that's absolutely certain, and as sure as you are born. Come, now, let's get to decorating—not much time left.”
“Did anything happen to her? Henry, that's just nonsense. Nothing's going to happen to her; just relax about that. What did the letter say? It said she was fine, right? And it said she’d be here by nine o’clock, didn’t it? Have you ever known her to break her promise? Of course not. So, don’t worry; she’ll be here, that’s guaranteed, and as sure as you’re alive. Come on, let’s start decorating—we don’t have much time left.”
Pretty soon Tom and Joe arrived, and then all hands set about adorning the house with flowers. Toward nine the three miners said that as they had brought their instruments they might as well tune up, for the boys and girls would soon be arriving now, and hungry for a good, old-fashioned break-down. A fiddle, a banjo, and a clarinet—these were the instruments. The trio took their places side by side, and began to play some rattling dance-music, and beat time with their big boots.
Pretty soon, Tom and Joe showed up, and everyone got to work decorating the house with flowers. Around nine, the three miners mentioned that since they had brought their instruments, they might as well tune up because the boys and girls would be arriving soon, eager for a good, old-fashioned dance. A fiddle, a banjo, and a clarinet—those were the instruments. The trio lined up next to each other and started playing some lively dance music, keeping time with their heavy boots.
It was getting very close to nine. Henry was standing in the door with his eyes directed up the road, his body swaying to the torture of his mental distress. He had been made to drink his wife's health and safety several times, and now Tom shouted:
It was almost nine. Henry stood in the doorway, staring up the road, his body swaying from the stress he was feeling. He had been forced to toast to his wife's health and safety several times, and now Tom shouted:
“All hands stand by! One more drink, and she's here!”
“All hands at the ready! One more drink, and she’ll be here!”
Joe brought the glasses on a waiter, and served the party. I reached for one of the two remaining glasses, but Joe growled under his breath:
Joe brought the glasses over on a tray and served the group. I reached for one of the two remaining glasses, but Joe muttered under his breath:
“Drop that! Take the other.”
“Drop that! Grab the other.”
Which I did. Henry was served last. He had hardly swallowed his drink when the clock began to strike. He listened till it finished, his face growing pale and paler; then he said:
Which I did. Henry was served last. He had barely swallowed his drink when the clock started striking. He listened until it finished, his face getting paler and paler; then he said:
“Boys, I'm sick with fear. Help me—I want to lie down!”
“Guys, I'm really scared. Please help me—I just want to lie down!”
They helped him to the sofa. He began to nestle and drowse, but presently spoke like one talking in his sleep, and said: “Did I hear horses' feet? Have they come?”
They helped him to the couch. He started to settle in and doze off, but soon he spoke as if he were dreaming and said, “Did I hear horses' hoofbeats? Have they arrived?”
One of the veterans answered, close to his ear: “It was Jimmy Parish come to say the party got delayed, but they're right up the road a piece, and coming along. Her horse is lame, but she'll be here in half an hour.”
One of the veterans replied, leaning in close: “It was Jimmy Parish who came to say the party got delayed, but they're just up the road a bit and on their way. Her horse is lame, but she’ll be here in about half an hour.”
“Oh, I'm so thankful nothing has happened!”
“Oh, I'm so grateful nothing has happened!”
He was asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth. In a moment those handy men had his clothes off, and had tucked him into his bed in the chamber where I had washed my hands. They closed the door and came back. Then they seemed preparing to leave; but I said: “Please don't go, gentlemen. She won't know me; I am a stranger.”
He was asleep almost as soon as he finished speaking. In no time, those helpful guys had taken off his clothes and tucked him into bed in the room where I had washed my hands. They closed the door and returned. Then they seemed ready to leave, but I said, “Please don't go, gentlemen. She won't recognize me; I'm a stranger.”
They glanced at each other. Then Joe said:
They looked at each other. Then Joe said:
“She? Poor thing, she's been dead nineteen years!”
“She? Poor thing, she’s been dead for nineteen years!”
“Dead?”
"Is it dead?"
“That or worse. She went to see her folks half a year after she was married, and on her way back, on a Saturday evening, the Indians captured her within five miles of this place, and she's never been heard of since.”
"That or something worse. She visited her family six months after she got married, and on her way back, one Saturday evening, the Indians captured her just five miles from here, and no one has heard from her since."
“And he lost his mind in consequence?”
“And he went crazy because of that?”
“Never has been sane an hour since. But he only gets bad when that time of year comes round. Then we begin to drop in here, three days before she's due, to encourage him up, and ask if he's heard from her, and Saturday we all come and fix up the house with flowers, and get everything ready for a dance. We've done it every year for nineteen years. The first Saturday there was twenty-seven of us, without counting the girls; there's only three of us now, and the girls are gone. We drug him to sleep, or he would go wild; then he's all right for another year—thinks she's with him till the last three or four days come round; then he begins to look for her, and gets out his poor old letter, and we come and ask him to read it to us. Lord, she was a darling!”
"He's been unstable ever since. He only acts out during this time of year. That’s when we start coming by, three days before she’s due, to cheer him up and see if he’s heard from her. Then on Saturday, we all come over and decorate the house with flowers, getting everything ready for a dance. We’ve done this every year for nineteen years. The first Saturday, there were twenty-seven of us, not counting the girls; now there are just three of us, and the girls are gone. We have to help him sleep, or he would go crazy; then he’s fine for another year—he thinks she’s with him until the last three or four days come around. Then he starts looking for her, pulls out his old letter, and we ask him to read it to us. Wow, she was a sweetheart!"
A HELPLESS SITUATION
Once or twice a year I get a letter of a certain pattern, a pattern that never materially changes, in form and substance, yet I cannot get used to that letter—it always astonishes me. It affects me as the locomotive always affects me: I say to myself, “I have seen you a thousand times, you always look the same way, yet you are always a wonder, and you are always impossible; to contrive you is clearly beyond human genius—you can't exist, you don't exist, yet here you are!”
Once or twice a year, I receive a certain type of letter, one that never really changes in form or content, yet I can never get used to it—it always surprises me. It hits me the same way a locomotive does: I think to myself, “I’ve seen you a thousand times, you always look the same, yet you’re always amazing, and you’re always impossible; creating you is clearly beyond human ability—you shouldn't exist, you don’t exist, yet here you are!”
I have a letter of that kind by me, a very old one. I yearn to print it, and where is the harm? The writer of it is dead years ago, no doubt, and if I conceal her name and address—her this-world address—I am sure her shade will not mind. And with it I wish to print the answer which I wrote at the time but probably did not send. If it went—which is not likely—it went in the form of a copy, for I find the original still here, pigeonholed with the said letter. To that kind of letters we all write answers which we do not send, fearing to hurt where we have no desire to hurt; I have done it many a time, and this is doubtless a case of the sort.
I have an old letter like that, and I really want to print it. What's the harm in that? The writer has been dead for years, and if I keep her name and address—her real-world address—private, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Along with it, I want to print the reply I wrote back then but probably never sent. If it was sent—which is unlikely—it was probably a copy, because I still have the original saved with that letter. We all write replies to those kinds of letters that we don't send, worried about hurting someone when we mean no harm; I've done it many times, and this is definitely one of those cases.
THE LETTER
THE LETTER
X———, California, JUNE 3, 1879.
X———, California, June 3, 1879.
Mr. S. L. Clemens, HARTFORD, CONN.:
Mr. S. L. Clemens, HARTFORD, CT:
Dear Sir,—You will doubtless be surprised to know who has presumed to write and ask a favor of you. Let your memory go back to your days in the Humboldt mines—'62-'63. You will remember, you and Clagett and Oliver and the old blacksmith Tillou lived in a lean-to which was half-way up the gulch, and there were six log cabins in the camp—strung pretty well separated up the gulch from its mouth at the desert to where the last claim was, at the divide. The lean-to you lived in was the one with a canvas roof that the cow fell down through one night, as told about by you in Roughing It—my uncle Simmons remembers it very well. He lived in the principal cabin, half-way up the divide, along with Dixon and Parker and Smith. It had two rooms, one for kitchen and the other for bunks, and was the only one that had. You and your party were there on the great night, the time they had dried-apple-pie, Uncle Simmons often speaks of it. It seems curious that dried-apple-pie should have seemed such a great thing, but it was, and it shows how far Humboldt was out of the world and difficult to get to, and how slim the regular bill of fare was. Sixteen years ago—it is a long time. I was a little girl then, only fourteen. I never saw you, I lived in Washoe. But Uncle Simmons ran across you every now and then, all during those weeks that you and party were there working your claim which was like the rest. The camp played out long and long ago, there wasn't silver enough in it to make a button. You never saw my husband, but he was there after you left, and lived in that very lean-to, a bachelor then but married to me now. He often wishes there had been a photographer there in those days, he would have taken the lean-to. He got hurt in the old Hal Clayton claim that was abandoned like the others, putting in a blast and not climbing out quick enough, though he scrambled the best he could. It landed him clear down on the train and hit a Piute. For weeks they thought he would not get over it but he did, and is all right, now. Has been ever since. This is a long introduction but it is the only way I can make myself known. The favor I ask I feel assured your generous heart will grant: Give me some advice about a book I have written. I do not claim anything for it only it is mostly true and as interesting as most of the books of the times. I am unknown in the literary world and you know what that means unless one has some one of influence (like yourself) to help you by speaking a good word for you. I would like to place the book on royalty basis plan with any one you would suggest.
Dear Sir,–You’ll probably be surprised to hear who has taken the liberty to write and ask you for a favor. Think back to your days in the Humboldt mines—'62-'63. You’ll remember that you, Clagett, Oliver, and the old blacksmith Tillou lived in a lean-to halfway up the gulch, with six log cabins scattered along the gulch from where it meets the desert to the divide at the last claim. The lean-to you lived in had a canvas roof that a cow fell through one night, as you recounted in Roughing It—my uncle Simmons remembers it well. He lived in the main cabin halfway up the divide with Dixon, Parker, and Smith. It had two rooms: one for the kitchen and the other for bunk beds, and it was the only one that did. You and your group were there on that memorable night when they served dried-apple pie; Uncle Simmons often talks about it. It seems strange that dried-apple pie would be such a big deal, but it was, highlighting how remote Humboldt was and how limited the usual menu was. That was sixteen years ago—a long time. I was just a little girl back then, only fourteen. I never saw you; I lived in Washoe. But Uncle Simmons ran into you now and then during those weeks you and your group were working your claim, just like the others. The camp ran out of steam long ago; there wasn’t enough silver to make even a button. You never met my husband, but he was there after you left, and lived in that very lean-to, a bachelor back then but now married to me. He often wishes there had been a photographer around back then; he would have captured the lean-to. He got injured in the old Hal Clayton claim, which was also abandoned, while setting off a blast. He didn’t climb out quickly enough, but he scrambled out as best he could. It landed him way down on the train and hit a Piute. For weeks, they thought he wouldn’t make it, but he did and is fine now. He has been ever since. This is a long introduction, but it’s the only way I can introduce myself. The favor I’m asking is something I’m sure your kind heart will grant: give me some advice about a book I’ve written. I don’t claim much for it except that it’s mostly true and as interesting as many books these days. I’m unknown in the literary world, and you know what that means unless you have someone influential (like you) to lend a hand by giving a good word. I’d like to set the book up on a royalty basis with anyone you might suggest.
This is a secret from my husband and family. I intend it as a surprise in case I get it published.
This is a secret from my husband and family. I plan to keep it a surprise if I manage to get it published.
Feeling you will take an interest in this and if possible write me a letter to some publisher, or, better still, if you could see them for me and then let me hear.
I have a feeling you’ll be interested in this, and if you can, please write a letter to a publisher for me. Even better, if you could meet with them in person and then let me know what happens.
I appeal to you to grant me this favor. With deepest gratitude I think you for your attention.
I ask you to please grant me this favor. I sincerely thank you for your attention.
One knows, without inquiring, that the twin of that embarrassing letter is forever and ever flying in this and that and the other direction across the continent in the mails, daily, nightly, hourly, unceasingly, unrestingly. It goes to every well-known merchant, and railway official, and manufacturer, and capitalist, and Mayor, and Congressman, and Governor, and editor, and publisher, and author, and broker, and banker—in a word, to every person who is supposed to have “influence.” It always follows the one pattern: “You do not know me, but you once knew a relative of mine,” etc., etc. We should all like to help the applicants, we should all be glad to do it, we should all like to return the sort of answer that is desired, but—Well, there is not a thing we can do that would be a help, for not in any instance does that latter ever come from anyone who can be helped. The struggler whom you could help does his own helping; it would not occur to him to apply to you, stranger. He has talent and knows it, and he goes into his fight eagerly and with energy and determination—all alone, preferring to be alone. That pathetic letter which comes to you from the incapable, the unhelpable—how do you who are familiar with it answer it? What do you find to say? You do not want to inflict a wound; you hunt ways to avoid that. What do you find? How do you get out of your hard place with a content conscience? Do you try to explain? The old reply of mine to such a letter shows that I tried that once. Was I satisfied with the result? Possibly; and possibly not; probably not; almost certainly not. I have long ago forgotten all about it. But, anyway, I append my effort:
One knows, without asking, that the duplicate of that embarrassing letter is constantly flying across the continent in the mail, daily, nightly, hourly, without stopping or resting. It goes to every well-known merchant, railway official, manufacturer, capitalist, mayor, congressman, governor, editor, publisher, author, broker, and banker—in other words, to everyone who is thought to have “influence.” It always follows the same pattern: “You don’t know me, but you once knew a relative of mine,can be helped. The person you could help is the one who helps themselves; they wouldn’t think to reach out to you, a stranger. They have talent and are aware of it, and they dive into their struggle eagerly and with energy and determination—alone, preferring to be solo. That sad letter you receive from the incapable, the unhelpable—how do you who are familiar with it respond? What do you say? You don’t want to cause any pain; you search for ways to avoid that. What do you come up with? How do you navigate your way out of this tough situation with a clear conscience? Do you try to explain? My old response to such a letter shows that I attempted that once. Was I happy with the outcome? Maybe; or maybe not; probably not; almost certainly not. I forgot all about it long ago. But, anyway, I include my effort:
THE REPLY
THE RESPONSE
I know Mr. H., and I will go to him, dear madam, if upon reflection you find you still desire it. There will be a conversation. I know the form it will take. It will be like this:
I know Mr. H., and I’ll go see him, dear madam, if after thinking it over you still want to. There will be a discussion. I know how it will go. It will be like this:
MR. H. How do her books strike you?
MR. H. What do you think of her books?
MR. CLEMENS. I am not acquainted with them.
MR. CLEMENS. I'm not familiar with them.
H. Who has been her publisher?
H. Who has published her work?
C. I don't know.
C. I have no idea.
H. She has one, I suppose?
H. She has one, I guess?
C. I—I think not.
C. I—I don't think so.
H. Ah. You think this is her first book?
H. Ah. You think this is her debut book?
C. Yes—I suppose so. I think so.
C. Yeah—I guess so. I think so.
H. What is it about? What is the character of it?
H. What is it about? What is its nature?
C. I believe I do not know.
C. I don’t think I know.
H. Have you seen it?
H. Have you checked it out?
C. Well—no, I haven't.
C. Well—nope, I haven't.
H. Ah-h. How long have you known her?
H. Ah-h. How long have you known her?
C. I don't know her.
C. I don't know her.
H. Don't know her?
H. Don't know her yet?
C. No.
C. No.
H. Ah-h. How did you come to be interested in her book, then?
H. Ah-h. How did you get interested in her book, then?
C. Well, she—she wrote and asked me to find a publisher for her, and mentioned you.
C. Well, she wrote to me asking if I could find a publisher for her, and mentioned you.
H. Why should she apply to you instead of me?
H. Why should she choose to apply to you instead of me?
C. She wished me to use my influence.
C. She wanted me to use my influence.
H. Dear me, what has influence to do with such a matter?
H. Goodness, what does influence have to do with this?
C. Well, I think she thought you would be more likely to examine her book if you were influenced.
C. Well, I think she believed you'd be more likely to check out her book if you were influenced.
H. Why, what we are here for is to examine books—anybody's book that comes along. It's our business. Why should we turn away a book unexamined because it's a stranger's? It would be foolish. No publisher does it. On what ground did she request your influence, since you do not know her? She must have thought you knew her literature and could speak for it. Is that it?
H. Why, what we're here for is to check out books—anyone's book that comes our way. It's our business. Why should we ignore a book just because it's by someone we don't know? That would be silly. No publisher does that. On what basis did she ask for your support, since you don't know her? She must have thought you were familiar with her writing and could vouch for it. Is that it?
C. No; she knew I didn't.
C. No; she knew I didn’t.
H. Well, what then? She had a reason of some sort for believing you competent to recommend her literature, and also under obligations to do it?
H. Well, what’s next? She had some kind of reason for thinking you were capable of recommending her literature, and she also felt obligated to do it?
C. Yes, I—I knew her uncle.
C. Yes, I—I knew her uncle.
H. Knew her uncle?
H. Knew her uncle?
C. Yes.
C. Yeah.
H. Upon my word! So, you knew her uncle; her uncle knows her literature; he endorses it to you; the chain is complete, nothing further needed; you are satisfied, and therefore—
H. I swear! So, you knew her uncle; her uncle knows her work; he recommends it to you; the connection is clear, nothing more needed; you're satisfied, and so—
C. No, that isn't all, there are other ties. I know the cabin her uncle lived in, in the mines; I knew his partners, too; also I came near knowing her husband before she married him, and I did know the abandoned shaft where a premature blast went off and he went flying through the air and clear down to the trail and hit an Indian in the back with almost fatal consequences.
C. No, that's not everything; there are more connections. I know the cabin where her uncle lived in the mines; I also knew his partners. I almost got to know her husband before she married him, and I did know the abandoned shaft where an early blast went off, sending him flying through the air all the way down to the trail, where he struck an Indian in the back with nearly fatal results.
H. To him, or to the Indian?
H. To him, or to the Indian?
C. She didn't say which it was.
C. She didn’t specify which one it was.
H. (With a sigh). It certainly beats the band! You don't know her, you don't know her literature, you don't know who got hurt when the blast went off, you don't know a single thing for us to build an estimate of her book upon, so far as I—
H. (With a sigh). It definitely outshines everything! You have no clue who she is, you don't know her writing, you don't know who was affected when the explosion happened, you don't know anything we could use to evaluate her book, as far as I—
C. I knew her uncle. You are forgetting her uncle.
C. I knew her uncle. You're forgetting her uncle.
H. Oh, what use is he? Did you know him long? How long was it?
H. Oh, what good is he? Did you know him for a long time? How long was it?
C. Well, I don't know that I really knew him, but I must have met him, anyway. I think it was that way; you can't tell about these things, you know, except when they are recent.
C. Well, I don't know if I actually knew him, but I must have met him at some point. I think it was like that; you can't really tell about these things, you know, unless they're recent.
H. Recent? When was all this?
H. Recent? When did all this happen?
C. Sixteen years ago.
C. Sixteen years ago.
H. What a basis to judge a book upon! As first you said you knew him, and now you don't know whether you did or not.
H. What a way to judge a book! At first, you said you knew him, and now you're not sure if you did or not.
C. Oh yes, I know him; anyway, I think I thought I did; I'm perfectly certain of it.
C. Oh yeah, I know him; well, at least I thought I did; I'm totally sure of it.
H. What makes you think you thought you knew him?
H. What makes you think you actually knew him?
C. Why, she says I did, herself.
C. Why, she says I did, herself.
H. She says so!
H. She says that!
C. Yes, she does, and I did know him, too, though I don't remember it now.
C. Yes, she does, and I did know him as well, although I don't remember it now.
H. Come—how can you know it when you don't remember it.
H. Come—how can you know it if you don't remember it?
C. I don't know. That is, I don't know the process, but I do know lots of things that I don't remember, and remember lots of things that I don't know. It's so with every educated person.
C. I don't know. That is, I don't know the process, but I do know lots of things that I don't remember, and remember lots of things that I don't know. It's the same with every educated person.
H. (After a pause). Is your time valuable?
H. (After a pause). Is your time important?
C. No—well, not very.
C. No—not really.
H. Mine is.
Mine is.
So I came away then, because he was looking tired. Overwork, I reckon; I never do that; I have seen the evil effects of it. My mother was always afraid I would overwork myself, but I never did.
So I left then, because he looked worn out. Probably due to overworking; I never do that. I've seen the negative effects. My mom was always worried I'd push myself too hard, but I never did.
Dear madam, you see how it would happen if I went there. He would ask me those questions, and I would try to answer them to suit him, and he would hunt me here and there and yonder and get me embarrassed more and more all the time, and at last he would look tired on account of overwork, and there it would end and nothing done. I wish I could be useful to you, but, you see, they do not care for uncles or any of those things; it doesn't move them, it doesn't have the least effect, they don't care for anything but the literature itself, and they as good as despise influence. But they do care for books, and are eager to get them and examine them, no matter whence they come, nor from whose pen. If you will send yours to a publisher—any publisher—he will certainly examine it, I can assure you of that.
Dear Madam, you can imagine what would happen if I went there. He would ask me those questions, and I would try to answer them in a way he'd like, and he would chase me around, getting me more and more embarrassed, and eventually, he'd just look worn out from the effort, and that would be the end of it—nothing accomplished. I wish I could be of help to you, but as you know, they don't care about uncles or any of that; it doesn't matter to them, it has no impact at all. They only care about the literature itself and practically look down on influence. However, they do care about books and are eager to get their hands on them and check them out, regardless of where they come from or who wrote them. If you send yours to a publisher—any publisher—they will definitely take a look at it, I can guarantee that.
A TELEPHONIC CONVERSATION
Consider that a conversation by telephone—when you are simply sitting by and not taking any part in that conversation—is one of the solemnest curiosities of modern life. Yesterday I was writing a deep article on a sublime philosophical subject while such a conversation was going on in the room. I notice that one can always write best when somebody is talking through a telephone close by. Well, the thing began in this way. A member of our household came in and asked me to have our house put into communication with Mr. Bagley's downtown. I have observed, in many cities, that the sex always shrink from calling up the central office themselves. I don't know why, but they do. So I touched the bell, and this talk ensued:
Consider that a phone conversation—when you’re just sitting by and not participating—might be one of the most intriguing oddities of modern life. Yesterday, I was writing an in-depth article on a profound philosophical topic while such a conversation was happening in the room. I’ve noticed that I can always write my best when someone is talking on the phone nearby. So, it started like this: a member of our household came in and asked me to connect our home to Mr. Bagley’s downtown. I’ve observed, in many cities, that women often hesitate to call the central office themselves. I’m not sure why, but they do. So, I hit the bell, and this conversation followed:
Central Office. (Gruffly.) Hello!
Central Office. (Gruffly.) Hi!
I. Is it the Central Office?
I. Is this the Central Office?
C. O. Of course it is. What do you want?
C. O. Of course it is. What do you need?
I. Will you switch me on to the Bagleys, please?
I. Can you connect me to the Bagleys, please?
C. O. All right. Just keep your ear to the telephone.
C. O. Okay. Just stay close to the phone.
Then I heard k-look, k-look, k'look—klook-klook-klook-look-look! then a horrible “gritting” of teeth, and finally a piping female voice: Y-e-s? (Rising inflection.) Did you wish to speak to me?
Then I heard k-look, k-look, k'look—klook-klook-klook-look-look! then a terrible grinding of teeth, and finally a high-pitched female voice: Y-e-s? (Rising inflection.) Did you want to talk to me?
Without answering, I handed the telephone to the applicant, and sat down. Then followed that queerest of all the queer things in this world—a conversation with only one end to it. You hear questions asked; you don't hear the answer. You hear invitations given; you hear no thanks in return. You have listening pauses of dead silence, followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations of glad surprise or sorrow or dismay. You can't make head or tail of the talk, because you never hear anything that the person at the other end of the wire says. Well, I heard the following remarkable series of observations, all from the one tongue, and all shouted—for you can't ever persuade the sex to speak gently into a telephone:
Without answering, I handed the phone to the applicant and sat down. Then came one of the strangest experiences in the world—a conversation with only one side. You hear questions being asked, but you don't hear the answers. You hear invitations extended, but you get no thanks in return. There are awkward pauses of complete silence, followed by seemingly random bursts of excitement, sadness, or shock. You can't make sense of the conversation, because you never hear what the person on the other end says. Well, I heard the following notable series of comments, all from one person, and all shouted—because you can never convince women to speak softly into a phone:
Yes? Why, how did that happen?
Yes? How did that happen?
Pause.
Hold on.
What did you say?
What did you say?
Pause.
Pause.
Oh no, I don't think it was.
Oh no, I don't think so.
Pause.
Pause.
No! Oh no, I didn't mean that. I meant, put it in while it is still boiling—or just before it comes to a boil.
No! Oh no, I didn't mean that. I meant, put it in while it's still boiling—or just before it comes to a boil.
Pause.
Pause.
What?
What?
Pause.
Hold on.
I turned it over with a backstitch on the selvage edge.
I flipped it over with a backstitch on the raw edge.
Pause.
Hold on.
Yes, I like that way, too; but I think it's better to baste it on with Valenciennes or bombazine, or something of that sort. It gives it such an air—and attracts so much noise.
Yes, I like it that way, too; but I think it's better to attach it with Valenciennes or bombazine, or something like that. It gives it such a vibe—and draws so much attention.
Pause.
Pause.
It's forty-ninth Deuteronomy, sixty-forth to ninety-seventh inclusive. I think we ought all to read it often.
It's Deuteronomy 49, chapters 64 to 97 inclusive. I think we should all read it often.
Pause.
Pause.
Perhaps so; I generally use a hair pin.
Perhaps that's true; I usually use a hairpin.
Pause.
Pause.
What did you say? (_Aside_.) Children, do be quiet!
What did you say? (_Aside_.) Kids, please be quiet!
Pause
Hold on
Oh! B flat! Dear me, I thought you said it was the cat!
Oh! B flat! Oh no, I thought you said it was the cat!
Pause.
Pause.
Since when?
Since when?
Pause.
Pause.
Why, I never heard of it.
Wow, I’ve never heard of it.
Pause.
Pause.
You astound me! It seems utterly impossible!
You amaze me! It seems completely impossible!
Pause.
Pause.
Who did?
Who did it?
Pause.
Pause.
Good-ness gracious!
Goodness gracious!
Pause.
Pause.
Well, what is this world coming to? Was it right in church?
Well, what is this world coming to? Was it right in church?
Pause.
Pause.
And was her mother there?
And was her mom there?
Pause.
Pause.
Why, Mrs. Bagley, I should have died of humiliation! What did they do?
Why, Mrs. Bagley, I would have died of embarrassment! What did they do?
Long pause.
Long pause.
I can't be perfectly sure, because I haven't the notes by me; but I think it goes something like this: te-rolly-loll-loll, loll lolly-loll-loll, O tolly-loll-loll-lee-ly-li-i-do! And then repeat, you know.
I can't be completely sure since I don't have the notes with me, but I think it goes something like this: te-rolly-loll-loll, loll lolly-loll-loll, O tolly-loll-loll-lee-ly-li-i-do! And then repeat, you know.
Pause.
Pause.
Yes, I think it is very sweet—and very solemn and impressive, if you get the andantino and the pianissimo right.
Yes, I think it is very sweet—and very serious and moving, if you get the andantino and the pianissimo just right.
Pause.
Pause.
Oh, gum-drops, gum-drops! But I never allow them to eat striped candy. And of course they can't, till they get their teeth, anyway.
Oh, gummy candies, gummy candies! But I never let them eat striped candy. And of course they can't until they get their teeth, anyway.
Pause.
Pause.
What?
What?
Pause.
Hold on.
Oh, not in the least—go right on. He's here writing—it doesn't bother him.
Oh, not at all—keep going. He’s here writing—it doesn’t bother him.
Pause.
Pause.
Very well, I'll come if I can. (Aside.) Dear me, how it does tire a person's arm to hold this thing up so long! I wish she'd—
Very well, I'll come if I can. (Aside.) Wow, it really tires a person's arm to hold this up for so long! I wish she'd—
Pause.
Stop.
Oh no, not at all; I like to talk—but I'm afraid I'm keeping you from your affairs.
Oh no, not at all; I like to talk—but I’m worried I’m keeping you from what you need to do.
Pause.
Hold on.
Visitors?
Guests?
Pause.
Pause.
No, we never use butter on them.
No, we never put butter on them.
Pause.
Pause.
Yes, that is a very good way; but all the cook-books say they are very unhealthy when they are out of season. And he doesn't like them, anyway—especially canned.
Yes, that's a great way to do it; but all the cookbooks say they're really unhealthy when they're out of season. And he doesn't like them anyway—especially the canned ones.
Pause.
Pause.
Oh, I think that is too high for them; we have never paid over fifty cents a bunch.
Oh, I think that is too expensive for them; we’ve never paid more than fifty cents a bunch.
Pause.
Pause.
Must you go? Well, good-by.
Must you leave? Well, goodbye.
Pause.
Pause.
Yes, I think so. good-by.
Yes, I think so. Goodbye.
Pause.
Pause.
Four o'clock, then—I'll be ready. good-by.
Four o'clock, then—I'll be ready. good-bye.
Pause.
Pause.
Thank you ever so much. good-by.
Thanks a lot. good-by.
Pause.
Pause.
Oh, not at all!—just as fresh—which? Oh, I'm glad to hear you say that. Good-by.
Oh, not at all!—just as fresh—which? Oh, I'm happy to hear you say that. Good-bye.
(Hangs up the telephone and says, “Oh, it does tire a person's arm so!”)
(Hangs up the phone and says, “Oh, it really tires a person's arm so!”)
A man delivers a single brutal “Good-by,” and that is the end of it. Not so with the gentle sex—I say it in their praise; they cannot abide abruptness.
A man says a harsh “Goodbye,” and that's it. But it’s different with women—I say this to their credit; they can’t stand suddenness.
EDWARD MILLS AND GEORGE BENTON: A TALE
These two were distantly related to each other—seventh cousins, or something of that sort. While still babies they became orphans, and were adopted by the Brants, a childless couple, who quickly grew very fond of them. The Brants were always saying: “Be pure, honest, sober, industrious, and considerate of others, and success in life is assured.” The children heard this repeated some thousands of times before they understood it; they could repeat it themselves long before they could say the Lord's Prayer; it was painted over the nursery door, and was about the first thing they learned to read. It was destined to be the unswerving rule of Edward Mills's life. Sometimes the Brants changed the wording a little, and said: “Be pure, honest, sober, industrious, considerate, and you will never lack friends.”
These two were distant relatives—seventh cousins or something like that. As babies, they lost their parents and were taken in by the Brants, a couple who couldn't have kids and quickly grew very attached to them. The Brants often said, “Be pure, honest, sober, hardworking, and considerate of others, and you'll find success in life.” The kids heard this repeated thousands of times before they fully understood it; they could recite it long before they could say the Lord's Prayer. It was painted above the nursery door, and it was one of the first things they learned to read. It became the guiding principle of Edward Mills's life. Sometimes the Brants changed the wording a bit and would say, “Be pure, honest, sober, hardworking, considerate, and you’ll never be without friends.”
Baby Mills was a comfort to everybody about him. When he wanted candy and could not have it, he listened to reason, and contented himself without it. When Baby Benton wanted candy, he cried for it until he got it. Baby Mills took care of his toys; Baby Benton always destroyed his in a very brief time, and then made himself so insistently disagreeable that, in order to have peace in the house, little Edward was persuaded to yield up his play-things to him.
Baby Mills was a comfort to everyone around him. When he wanted candy and couldn’t have it, he accepted the situation and was okay without it. But when Baby Benton wanted candy, he cried for it until he got it. Baby Mills took care of his toys; Baby Benton always broke his in no time and then became so insistently unpleasant that, to keep the peace in the house, little Edward was convinced to give up his toys to him.
When the children were a little older, Georgie became a heavy expense in one respect: he took no care of his clothes; consequently, he shone frequently in new ones, which was not the case with Eddie. The boys grew apace. Eddie was an increasing comfort, Georgie an increasing solicitude. It was always sufficient to say, in answer to Eddie's petitions, “I would rather you would not do it”—meaning swimming, skating, picnicking, berrying, circusing, and all sorts of things which boys delight in. But no answer was sufficient for Georgie; he had to be humored in his desires, or he would carry them with a high hand. Naturally, no boy got more swimming skating, berrying, and so forth than he; no body ever had a better time. The good Brants did not allow the boys to play out after nine in summer evenings; they were sent to bed at that hour; Eddie honorably remained, but Georgie usually slipped out of the window toward ten, and enjoyed himself until midnight. It seemed impossible to break Georgie of this bad habit, but the Brants managed it at last by hiring him, with apples and marbles, to stay in. The good Brants gave all their time and attention to vain endeavors to regulate Georgie; they said, with grateful tears in their eyes, that Eddie needed no efforts of theirs, he was so good, so considerate, and in all ways so perfect.
When the kids got a bit older, Georgie became a big expense in one way: he didn't take care of his clothes, so he often showed up in new ones, unlike Eddie. The boys were growing fast. Eddie was a growing source of comfort, while Georgie was a growing source of concern. It was usually enough to say "I’d rather you not do that" in response to Eddie's requests, whether it was swimming, skating, picnicking, berry picking, circus going, or anything else boys love. But no response was enough for Georgie; he had to have his wishes catered to, or he would throw a fit. Naturally, no boy had more fun swimming, skating, berry picking, and so on than he did. The kind Brants didn’t allow the boys to stay out after nine in the summer evenings; they were sent to bed at that time. Eddie honorably stayed put, but Georgie would usually sneak out of the window around ten and have fun until midnight. It seemed impossible to break Georgie of this bad habit, but the Brants finally managed it by enticing him to stay in with apples and marbles. The kind Brants devoted all their time and effort to trying to manage Georgie; they said, with grateful tears in their eyes, that Eddie required no effort from them—he was so good, so considerate, and perfect in every way.
By and by the boys were big enough to work, so they were apprenticed to a trade: Edward went voluntarily; George was coaxed and bribed. Edward worked hard and faithfully, and ceased to be an expense to the good Brants; they praised him, so did his master; but George ran away, and it cost Mr. Brant both money and trouble to hunt him up and get him back. By and by he ran away again—more money and more trouble. He ran away a third time—and stole a few things to carry with him. Trouble and expense for Mr. Brant once more; and, besides, it was with the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in persuading the master to let the youth go unprosecuted for the theft.
Eventually, the boys were old enough to work, so they were apprenticed to a trade: Edward went willingly; George was persuaded with coaxing and bribes. Edward worked hard and honestly, and stopped being a burden to the good Brants; they praised him, as did his master. However, George ran away, and it cost Mr. Brant both money and effort to find him and bring him back. Then he ran away again—more money and more trouble. He ran away a third time—and stole a few things to take with him. Once again, trouble and expense for Mr. Brant; in addition, it was extremely difficult to convince the master to let the young man go without facing charges for the theft.
Edward worked steadily along, and in time became a full partner in his master's business. George did not improve; he kept the loving hearts of his aged benefactors full of trouble, and their hands full of inventive activities to protect him from ruin. Edward, as a boy, had interested himself in Sunday-schools, debating societies, penny missionary affairs, anti-tobacco organizations, anti-profanity associations, and all such things; as a man, he was a quiet but steady and reliable helper in the church, the temperance societies, and in all movements looking to the aiding and uplifting of men. This excited no remark, attracted no attention—for it was his “natural bent.”
Edward worked diligently and eventually became a full partner in his master's business. George, on the other hand, didn't change; he kept worrying his elderly benefactors and had them constantly busy trying to protect him from disaster. As a boy, Edward was involved in Sunday schools, debate clubs, penny missionary projects, anti-tobacco campaigns, anti-profanity groups, and similar causes. As an adult, he became a quiet yet dependable supporter of the church, temperance organizations, and any efforts aimed at helping and uplifting people. No one commented on it or paid much attention—it was just his “natural bent.”
Finally, the old people died. The will testified their loving pride in Edward, and left their little property to George—because he “needed it”; whereas, “owing to a bountiful Providence,” such was not the case with Edward. The property was left to George conditionally: he must buy out Edward's partner with it; else it must go to a benevolent organization called the Prisoner's Friend Society. The old people left a letter, in which they begged their dear son Edward to take their place and watch over George, and help and shield him as they had done.
Finally, the old people passed away. Their will showed their loving pride in Edward and left their small property to George—because he “needed it”; while, “thanks to a generous Providence,” Edward did not. The property was left to George on the condition that he must buy out Edward's partner with it; otherwise, it would go to a charity called the Prisoner's Friend Society. The old people left a letter asking their dear son Edward to step in for them, look after George, and help and protect him as they had done.
Edward dutifully acquiesced, and George became his partner in the business. He was not a valuable partner: he had been meddling with drink before; he soon developed into a constant tippler now, and his flesh and eyes showed the fact unpleasantly. Edward had been courting a sweet and kindly spirited girl for some time. They loved each other dearly, and—But about this period George began to haunt her tearfully and imploringly, and at last she went crying to Edward, and said her high and holy duty was plain before her—she must not let her own selfish desires interfere with it: she must marry “poor George” and “reform him.” It would break her heart, she knew it would, and so on; but duty was duty. So she married George, and Edward's heart came very near breaking, as well as her own. However, Edward recovered, and married another girl—a very excellent one she was, too.
Edward reluctantly agreed, and George became his business partner. He wasn't a valuable partner; he had struggled with alcohol before, and soon became a regular drinker again, which showed uncomfortably on his body and in his eyes. Edward had been in a relationship with a sweet and kind-hearted girl for a while. They were deeply in love, but then George started to pursue her in a desperate and tearful way. Eventually, she went to Edward crying and said she felt it was her duty—she couldn't let her own selfish desires get in the way: she had to marry “poor George” and “fix him.” She knew it would break her heart, and so on; but duty was duty. So, she married George, and Edward’s heart was almost broken, just like hers. However, Edward moved on and married another girl—a very great one, too.
Children came to both families. Mary did her honest best to reform her husband, but the contract was too large. George went on drinking, and by and by he fell to misusing her and the little ones sadly. A great many good people strove with George—they were always at it, in fact—but he calmly took such efforts as his due and their duty, and did not mend his ways. He added a vice, presently—that of secret gambling. He got deeply in debt; he borrowed money on the firm's credit, as quietly as he could, and carried this system so far and so successfully that one morning the sheriff took possession of the establishment, and the two cousins found themselves penniless.
Children visited both families. Mary tried her best to change her husband, but the situation was too overwhelming. George continued drinking, and eventually, he began to mistreat her and the kids badly. Many good people tried to help George—they were constantly working on it, in fact—but he saw their efforts as something he deserved and that they were obligated to do, and he didn’t change at all. He even picked up another bad habit—secret gambling. He got deeply in debt; he borrowed money using the company’s credit, as discreetly as he could, and continued this scheme so far and so effectively that one morning the sheriff took over the business, leaving both cousins broke.
Times were hard, now, and they grew worse. Edward moved his family into a garret, and walked the streets day and night, seeking work. He begged for it, but it was really not to be had. He was astonished to see how soon his face became unwelcome; he was astonished and hurt to see how quickly the ancient interest which people had had in him faded out and disappeared. Still, he must get work; so he swallowed his chagrin, and toiled on in search of it. At last he got a job of carrying bricks up a ladder in a hod, and was a grateful man in consequence; but after that nobody knew him or cared anything about him. He was not able to keep up his dues in the various moral organizations to which he belonged, and had to endure the sharp pain of seeing himself brought under the disgrace of suspension.
Times were tough now, and they only got worse. Edward moved his family into a small attic and walked the streets day and night, looking for work. He begged for it, but it was really impossible to find. He was shocked at how quickly people began to avoid him; it hurt to realize how fast the interest they once had in him faded away. Still, he had to find work; so he pushed aside his disappointment and kept searching. Eventually, he landed a job carrying bricks up a ladder in a hod, and felt grateful for it; but after that, nobody recognized him or cared about him. He couldn’t keep up with his dues for the various organizations he was part of and had to endure the painful shame of being suspended.
But the faster Edward died out of public knowledge and interest, the faster George rose in them. He was found lying, ragged and drunk, in the gutter one morning. A member of the Ladies' Temperance Refuge fished him out, took him in hand, got up a subscription for him, kept him sober a whole week, then got a situation for him. An account of it was published.
But as Edward quickly faded from public knowledge and interest, George rose in their eyes. One morning, he was discovered lying in the gutter, ragged and drunk. A member of the Ladies' Temperance Refuge rescued him, took charge of him, organized a fundraiser for him, kept him sober for an entire week, and then found him a job. An article about it was published.
General attention was thus drawn to the poor fellow, and a great many people came forward and helped him toward reform with their countenance and encouragement. He did not drink a drop for two months, and meantime was the pet of the good. Then he fell—in the gutter; and there was general sorrow and lamentation. But the noble sisterhood rescued him again. They cleaned him up, they fed him, they listened to the mournful music of his repentances, they got him his situation again. An account of this, also, was published, and the town was drowned in happy tears over the re-restoration of the poor beast and struggling victim of the fatal bowl. A grand temperance revival was got up, and after some rousing speeches had been made the chairman said, impressively: “We are not about to call for signers; and I think there is a spectacle in store for you which not many in this house will be able to view with dry eyes.” There was an eloquent pause, and then George Benton, escorted by a red-sashed detachment of the Ladies of the Refuge, stepped forward upon the platform and signed the pledge. The air was rent with applause, and everybody cried for joy. Everybody wrung the hand of the new convert when the meeting was over; his salary was enlarged next day; he was the talk of the town, and its hero. An account of it was published.
General attention was drawn to the poor guy, and a lot of people stepped up to help him improve with their support and encouragement. He didn’t drink a single drop for two months, and in the meantime, he was the favorite of the good folks. Then he fell—in the gutter; and there was widespread sadness and mourning. But the wonderful women’s group rescued him again. They cleaned him up, fed him, listened to his sorrowful apologies, and helped him get his job back. An account of this was published, and the town was flooded with happy tears over the revival of the poor guy and the struggling victim of the damaging drink. A big temperance revival was organized, and after some inspiring speeches, the chairman said, seriously: “We’re not going to ask for signers; and I think there’s going to be a sight before you that not many in this room will be able to watch without shedding tears.” There was a dramatic pause, and then George Benton, escorted by a red-sashed group from the Ladies of the Refuge, stepped up to the platform and signed the pledge. The room erupted in applause, and everyone cried tears of joy. After the meeting, everyone shook hands with the new convert; his salary was increased the next day; he became the talk of the town and its hero. An account of it was published.
George Benton fell, regularly, every three months, but was faithfully rescued and wrought with, every time, and good situations were found for him. Finally, he was taken around the country lecturing, as a reformed drunkard, and he had great houses and did an immense amount of good.
George Benton fell, regularly, every three months, but was faithfully rescued and helped every time, and good opportunities were found for him. Eventually, he was taken on a nationwide lecture tour as a reformed alcoholic, drawing large crowds and doing a tremendous amount of good.
He was so popular at home, and so trusted—during his sober intervals—that he was enabled to use the name of a principal citizen, and get a large sum of money at the bank. A mighty pressure was brought to bear to save him from the consequences of his forgery, and it was partially successful—he was “sent up” for only two years. When, at the end of a year, the tireless efforts of the benevolent were crowned with success, and he emerged from the penitentiary with a pardon in his pocket, the Prisoner's Friend Society met him at the door with a situation and a comfortable salary, and all the other benevolent people came forward and gave him advice, encouragement and help. Edward Mills had once applied to the Prisoner's Friend Society for a situation, when in dire need, but the question, “Have you been a prisoner?” made brief work of his case.
He was really popular at home and trusted—during his sober times—so much so that he could use the name of a prominent citizen and get a large amount of money from the bank. A lot of pressure was put on to save him from the fallout of his forgery, and it kind of worked—he ended up “doing” just two years. At the end of a year, when the tireless efforts of the kind-hearted people paid off, he got out of the penitentiary with a pardon in his pocket. The Prisoner's Friend Society welcomed him at the door with a job and a decent salary, and all the other kind souls stepped up to offer him advice, encouragement, and help. Edward Mills had once reached out to the Prisoner's Friend Society for a job when he was in desperate need, but the question, “Have you been a prisoner?” quickly ended his chance.
While all these things were going on, Edward Mills had been quietly making head against adversity. He was still poor, but was in receipt of a steady and sufficient salary, as the respected and trusted cashier of a bank. George Benton never came near him, and was never heard to inquire about him. George got to indulging in long absences from the town; there were ill reports about him, but nothing definite.
While all these things were happening, Edward Mills had been quietly overcoming challenges. He was still poor, but he received a steady and decent salary as the respected and trusted cashier of a bank. George Benton never approached him and never seemed to ask about him. George started taking long breaks away from town; there were rumors about him, but nothing concrete.
One winter's night some masked burglars forced their way into the bank, and found Edward Mills there alone. They commanded him to reveal the “combination,” so that they could get into the safe. He refused. They threatened his life. He said his employers trusted him, and he could not be traitor to that trust. He could die, if he must, but while he lived he would be faithful; he would not yield up the “combination.” The burglars killed him.
One winter night, some masked burglars broke into the bank and found Edward Mills there all alone. They ordered him to give them the "combination" to open the safe. He refused. They threatened his life. He said his employers trusted him, and he couldn’t betray that trust. He could die if he had to, but as long as he lived, he would stay loyal; he wouldn’t give up the "combination." The burglars killed him.
The detectives hunted down the criminals; the chief one proved to be George Benton. A wide sympathy was felt for the widow and orphans of the dead man, and all the newspapers in the land begged that all the banks in the land would testify their appreciation of the fidelity and heroism of the murdered cashier by coming forward with a generous contribution of money in aid of his family, now bereft of support. The result was a mass of solid cash amounting to upward of five hundred dollars—an average of nearly three-eights of a cent for each bank in the Union. The cashier's own bank testified its gratitude by endeavoring to show (but humiliatingly failed in it) that the peerless servant's accounts were not square, and that he himself had knocked his brains out with a bludgeon to escape detection and punishment.
The detectives tracked down the criminals, with the main one being George Benton. There was widespread sympathy for the widow and children of the deceased man, and all the newspapers across the country urged that every bank show their appreciation for the loyalty and bravery of the murdered cashier by stepping up with a generous contribution to support his family, now left without financial support. The result was a substantial amount of cash totaling over five hundred dollars—an average of nearly three-eighths of a cent for each bank in the country. The cashier's own bank tried to express its gratitude by attempting (but failing miserably) to prove that the exemplary employee's accounts were not in order and that he had taken his own life with a bludgeon to avoid being caught and punished.
George Benton was arraigned for trial. Then everybody seemed to forget the widow and orphans in their solicitude for poor George. Everything that money and influence could do was done to save him, but it all failed; he was sentenced to death. Straightway the Governor was besieged with petitions for commutation or pardon; they were brought by tearful young girls; by sorrowful old maids; by deputations of pathetic widows; by shoals of impressive orphans. But no, the Governor—for once—would not yield.
George Benton was brought to trial. Then everyone seemed to forget about the widow and orphans in their concern for poor George. Everything that money and influence could do was done to save him, but it all failed; he was sentenced to death. Immediately, the Governor was bombarded with petitions for clemency or a pardon; they came from tearful young women, sad old maids, groups of heartbroken widows, and crowds of serious orphans. But no, the Governor—for once—would not give in.
Now George Benton experienced religion. The glad news flew all around. From that time forth his cell was always full of girls and women and fresh flowers; all the day long there was prayer, and hymn-singing, and thanksgiving, and homilies, and tears, with never an interruption, except an occasional five-minute intermission for refreshments.
Now George Benton found religion. The good news spread quickly. From that point on, his cell was constantly filled with girls and women and fresh flowers; all day long there were prayers, hymn-singing, gratitude, talks, and tears, with never a break, except for the occasional five-minute pause for snacks.
This sort of thing continued up to the very gallows, and George Benton went proudly home, in the black cap, before a wailing audience of the sweetest and best that the region could produce. His grave had fresh flowers on it every day, for a while, and the head-stone bore these words, under a hand pointing aloft: “He has fought the good fight.”
This kind of thing went on right up to the gallows, and George Benton went home proudly, wearing the black cap, in front of a grieving crowd of the finest people the area could offer. His grave had fresh flowers on it every day for a while, and the headstone had these words engraved on it, beneath a hand pointing upwards: “He has fought the good fight.”
The brave cashier's head-stone has this inscription: “Be pure, honest, sober, industrious, considerate, and you will never—”
The brave cashier's headstone has this inscription: “Be pure, honest, sober, hardworking, considerate, and you will never—”
Nobody knows who gave the order to leave it that way, but it was so given.
Nobody knows who made the call to leave it like that, but it happened.
The cashier's family are in stringent circumstances, now, it is said; but no matter; a lot of appreciative people, who were not willing that an act so brave and true as his should go unrewarded, have collected forty-two thousand dollars—and built a Memorial Church with it.
The cashier's family is in tough situations now, it’s said; but it doesn’t matter; many thankful people, who didn’t want an act as brave and genuine as his to go unrewarded, have raised forty-two thousand dollars—and built a Memorial Church with it.
THE FIVE BOONS OF LIFE
Chapter I
In the morning of life came a good fairy with her basket, and said:
In the morning of life, a kind fairy arrived with her basket and said:
“Here are gifts. Take one, leave the others. And be wary, choose wisely; oh, choose wisely! for only one of them is valuable.”
“Here are some gifts. Take one, leave the rest. And be careful, choose wisely; oh, choose wisely! because only one of them is valuable.”
The gifts were five: Fame, Love, Riches, Pleasure, Death. The youth said, eagerly:
The gifts were five: Fame, Love, Riches, Pleasure, Death. The young man said, eagerly:
“There is no need to consider”; and he chose Pleasure.
“There’s no need to think twice”; and he picked Pleasure.
He went out into the world and sought out the pleasures that youth delights in. But each in its turn was short-lived and disappointing, vain and empty; and each, departing, mocked him. In the end he said: “These years I have wasted. If I could but choose again, I would choose wisely.”
He stepped out into the world and chased after the pleasures that young people enjoy. But each one was fleeting and disappointing, worthless and hollow; and as they left, they taunted him. In the end, he said, “I’ve wasted these years. If I could choose again, I would make better choices.”
Chapter II
The fairy appeared, and said:
The fairy showed up and said:
“Four of the gifts remain. Choose once more; and oh, remember—time is flying, and only one of them is precious.”
“Four of the gifts are left. Choose again; and remember—time is ticking, and only one of them is valuable.”
The man considered long, then chose Love; and did not mark the tears that rose in the fairy's eyes.
The man thought for a long time, then chose Love; and he didn’t notice the tears that filled the fairy’s eyes.
After many, many years the man sat by a coffin, in an empty home. And he communed with himself, saying: “One by one they have gone away and left me; and now she lies here, the dearest and the last. Desolation after desolation has swept over me; for each hour of happiness the treacherous trader, Love, has sold me I have paid a thousand hours of grief. Out of my heart of hearts I curse him.”
After many years, the man sat by a coffin in an empty home. He reflected inwardly, saying: “One by one they have all left me; and now she lies here, the dearest and the last. Desolation after desolation has hit me; for each hour of happiness that the deceitful trader, Love, has given me, I have paid with a thousand hours of grief. From the depths of my heart, I curse him.”
Chapter III
“Choose again.” It was the fairy speaking.
“Choose again.” It was the fairy talking.
“The years have taught you wisdom—surely it must be so. Three gifts remain. Only one of them has any worth—remember it, and choose warily.”
“The years have given you wisdom—there's no doubt about it. Three gifts are left. Only one of them is truly valuable—keep that in mind, and choose carefully.”
The man reflected long, then chose Fame; and the fairy, sighing, went her way.
The man thought for a long time, then chose Fame; and the fairy, with a sigh, went on her way.
Years went by and she came again, and stood behind the man where he sat solitary in the fading day, thinking. And she knew his thought:
Years went by, and she returned, standing behind the man as he sat alone in the fading light, deep in thought. And she understood his thoughts:
“My name filled the world, and its praises were on every tongue, and it seemed well with me for a little while. How little a while it was! Then came envy; then detraction; then calumny; then hate; then persecution. Then derision, which is the beginning of the end. And last of all came pity, which is the funeral of fame. Oh, the bitterness and misery of renown! target for mud in its prime, for contempt and compassion in its decay.”
"My name was known everywhere, and people were singing its praises, and for a short time, I felt good about it. But how brief that time was! Then came envy; then slander; then false accusations; then hate; then persecution. Then came mockery, which marks the start of the decline. Finally, pity arrived, which is the death of fame. Oh, the bitterness and sadness of being famous! A target for mud during its peak, and for disdain and sympathy as it fades."
Chapter IV
“Chose yet again.” It was the fairy's voice.
“Choose again.” It was the fairy's voice.
“Two gifts remain. And do not despair. In the beginning there was but one that was precious, and it is still here.”
“Two gifts are left. And don’t lose hope. In the beginning, there was only one that was valuable, and it’s still here.”
“Wealth—which is power! How blind I was!” said the man. “Now, at last, life will be worth the living. I will spend, squander, dazzle. These mockers and despisers will crawl in the dirt before me, and I will feed my hungry heart with their envy. I will have all luxuries, all joys, all enchantments of the spirit, all contentments of the body that man holds dear. I will buy, buy, buy! deference, respect, esteem, worship—every pinchbeck grace of life the market of a trivial world can furnish forth. I have lost much time, and chosen badly heretofore, but let that pass; I was ignorant then, and could but take for best what seemed so.”
“Wealth—which is power! How blind I was!” said the man. “Now, finally, life will be worth living. I will spend, waste, and impress. Those who mocked me will crawl in the dirt before me, and I will satisfy my needy heart with their envy. I will have all the luxuries, joys, wonders of the spirit, and comforts of the body that people cherish. I will buy, buy, buy! deference, respect, esteem, worship—every superficial grace of life that a shallow world can offer. I have wasted a lot of time and made poor choices before, but let that go; I was clueless back then and could only accept what seemed best.”
Three short years went by, and a day came when the man sat shivering in a mean garret; and he was gaunt and wan and hollow-eyed, and clothed in rags; and he was gnawing a dry crust and mumbling:
Three short years passed, and one day the man sat shivering in a cramped attic; he looked thin, pale, and hollow-eyed, dressed in rags; and he was chewing on a dry piece of bread and mumbling:
“Curse all the world's gifts, for mockeries and gilded lies! And miscalled, every one. They are not gifts, but merely lendings. Pleasure, Love, Fame, Riches: they are but temporary disguises for lasting realities—Pain, Grief, Shame, Poverty. The fairy said true; in all her store there was but one gift which was precious, only one that was not valueless. How poor and cheap and mean I know those others now to be, compared with that inestimable one, that dear and sweet and kindly one, that steeps in dreamless and enduring sleep the pains that persecute the body, and the shames and griefs that eat the mind and heart. Bring it! I am weary, I would rest.”
“Curse all the world's gifts, for they are nothing but illusions and pretty lies! And they’re misnamed, every single one. They aren’t gifts, just temporary loans. Pleasure, Love, Fame, Riches: they’re merely temporary masks for lasting truths—Pain, Grief, Shame, Poverty. The fairy was right; in all her treasures, there was only one gift that truly mattered, only one that had real value. How poor, cheap, and insignificant I now see the others to be, compared to that invaluable one, that dear, sweet, and kind one, that brings dreamless and lasting sleep to the pains that torment the body and the shames and sorrows that haunt the mind and heart. Bring it! I’m exhausted, I just want to rest.”
Chapter V
The fairy came, bringing again four of the gifts, but Death was wanting. She said:
The fairy arrived, once more bringing four of the gifts, but Death was missing. She said:
“I gave it to a mother's pet, a little child. It was ignorant, but trusted me, asking me to choose for it. You did not ask me to choose.”
“I gave it to a mother's favorite, a small child. It didn’t know any better, but it trusted me, asking me to make a choice for it. You didn’t ask me to choose.”
“Oh, miserable me! What is left for me?”
“Oh, poor me! What do I have left?”
“What not even you have deserved: the wanton insult of Old Age.”
“What you don’t even deserve: the cruel insult of Old Age.”
THE FIRST WRITING-MACHINES
From My Unpublished Autobiography
From My Unpublished Memoir
Some days ago a correspondent sent in an old typewritten sheet, faded by age, containing the following letter over the signature of Mark Twain:
Some days ago, a correspondent sent in an old typewritten sheet, faded by age, containing the following letter signed by Mark Twain:
“Hartford, March 10, 1875.
“Please do not use my name in any way. Please do not even divulge that fact that I own a machine. I have entirely stopped using the typewriter, for the reason that I never could write a letter with it to anybody without receiving a request by return mail that I would not only describe the machine, but state what progress I had made in the use of it, etc., etc. I don't like to write letters, and so I don't want people to know I own this curiosity-breeding little joker.”
“Hartford, March 10, 1875.
“Please don’t mention my name at all. Don't even say I have a machine. I've completely stopped using the typewriter because I always get replies asking me to explain the machine and tell them about my progress with it, and so on. I don’t like writing letters, so I want to keep it a secret that I own this little curiosity.”
A note was sent to Mr. Clemens asking him if the letter was genuine and whether he really had a typewriter as long ago as that. Mr. Clemens replied that his best answer is the following chapter from his unpublished autobiography:
A note was sent to Mr. Clemens asking him if the letter was real and whether he actually had a typewriter back then. Mr. Clemens replied that his best answer is the following chapter from his unpublished autobiography:
1904. VILLA QUARTO, FLORENCE, JANUARY.
Dictating autobiography to a typewriter is a new experience for me, but it goes very well, and is going to save time and “language”—the kind of language that soothes vexation.
I have dictated to a typewriter before—but not autobiography. Between that experience and the present one there lies a mighty gap—more than thirty years! It is a sort of lifetime. In that wide interval much has happened—to the type-machine as well as to the rest of us. At the beginning of that interval a type-machine was a curiosity. The person who owned one was a curiosity, too. But now it is the other way about: the person who doesn't own one is a curiosity. I saw a type-machine for the first time in—what year? I suppose it was 1873—because Nasby was with me at the time, and it was in Boston. We must have been lecturing, or we could not have been in Boston, I take it. I quitted the platform that season.
But never mind about that, it is no matter. Nasby and I saw the machine through a window, and went in to look at it. The salesman explained it to us, showed us samples of its work, and said it could do fifty-seven words a minute—a statement which we frankly confessed that we did not believe. So he put his type-girl to work, and we timed her by the watch. She actually did the fifty-seven in sixty seconds. We were partly convinced, but said it probably couldn't happen again. But it did. We timed the girl over and over again—with the same result always: she won out. She did her work on narrow slips of paper, and we pocketed them as fast as she turned them out, to show as curiosities. The price of the machine was one hundred and twenty-five dollars. I bought one, and we went away very much excited.
At the hotel we got out our slips and were a little disappointed to find that they contained the same words. The girl had economized time and labor by using a formula which she knew by heart. However, we argued—safely enough—that the first type-girl must naturally take rank with the first billiard-player: neither of them could be expected to get out of the game any more than a third or a half of what was in it. If the machine survived—_if_ it survived—experts would come to the front, by and by, who would double the girl's output without a doubt. They would do one hundred words a minute—my talking speed on the platform. That score has long ago been beaten.
At home I played with the toy, repeating and repeating and repeating “The Boy stood on the Burning Deck,” until I could turn that boy's adventure out at the rate of twelve words a minute; then I resumed the pen, for business, and only worked the machine to astonish inquiring visitors. They carried off many reams of the boy and his burning deck.
By and by I hired a young woman, and did my first dictating (letters, merely), and my last until now. The machine did not do both capitals and lower case (as now), but only capitals. Gothic capitals they were, and sufficiently ugly. I remember the first letter I dictated, it was to Edward Bok, who was a boy then. I was not acquainted with him at that time. His present enterprising spirit is not new—he had it in that early day. He was accumulating autographs, and was not content with mere signatures, he wanted a whole autograph letter. I furnished it—in type-written capitals, signature and all. It was long; it was a sermon; it contained advice; also reproaches. I said writing was my trade, my bread-and-butter; I said it was not fair to ask a man to give away samples of his trade; would he ask the blacksmith for a horseshoe? would he ask the doctor for a corpse?
Now I come to an important matter—as I regard it. In the year '74 the young woman copied a considerable part of a book of mine on the machine. In a previous chapter of this Autobiography I have claimed that I was the first person in the world that ever had a telephone in the house for practical purposes; I will now claim—until dispossessed—that I was the first person in the world to apply the type-machine to literature. That book must have been The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer. I wrote the first half of it in '72, the rest of it in '74. My machinist type-copied a book for me in '74, so I concluded it was that one.
That early machine was full of caprices, full of defects—devilish ones. It had as many immoralities as the machine of today has virtues. After a year or two I found that it was degrading my character, so I thought I would give it to Howells. He was reluctant, for he was suspicious of novelties and unfriendly toward them, and he remains so to this day. But I persuaded him. He had great confidence in me, and I got him to believe things about the machine that I did not believe myself. He took it home to Boston, and my morals began to improve, but his have never recovered.
He kept it six months, and then returned it to me. I gave it away twice after that, but it wouldn't stay; it came back. Then I gave it to our coachman, Patrick McAleer, who was very grateful, because he did not know the animal, and thought I was trying to make him wiser and better. As soon as he got wiser and better he traded it to a heretic for a side-saddle which he could not use, and there my knowledge of its history ends.
1904. VILLA QUARTO, FLORENCE, JANUARY.
Dictating my autobiography to a typewriter is a new experience for me, but it’s going well and is going to save time and “language”—the kind of language that eases frustration.
I’ve used a typewriter before, but I’ve never written an autobiography. There’s a huge gap between that experience and now—over thirty years! It feels like a lifetime. A lot has changed during that time—for the typewriter and for all of us. When I first encountered a typewriter, it was a novelty. The owner was also a curiosity. But now it’s the opposite: the person who doesn’t have one is the odd one out. I first saw a typewriter in—what year? I think it was 1873—because Nasby was with me, and it was in Boston. We must have been giving lectures, or else we wouldn’t have been in Boston, I assume. I stepped away from the stage that season.
But never mind about that, it doesn’t matter. Nasby and I saw the machine through a window and went inside to check it out. The salesman explained it to us, showed us samples of its work, and claimed it could type fifty-seven words a minute—a claim we honestly admitted we didn’t believe. So, he had his typist start working, and we timed her with a watch. She actually typed fifty-seven words in sixty seconds. We were somewhat convinced but thought it probably wouldn’t happen again. But it did. We timed the girl repeatedly—with the same result each time: she delivered. She typed on narrow slips of paper, and we pocketed them quickly as she produced them, to keep as curios. The price of the machine was one hundred and twenty-five dollars. I bought one, and we left feeling really excited.
At the hotel, we looked at our slips and felt a bit let down to see that they had the same phrases. The girl had saved time and effort by using a formula she had memorized. However, we argued—safely enough—that the first typist should naturally be considered on par with the first billiard player: neither could be expected to extract more from the game than a third or half of what it offered. If the machine lasted—if it lasted—experts would eventually emerge who would definitely double the girl’s output. They would type one hundred words a minute—my speaking speed on stage. That record has long since been surpassed.
At home, I played with the toy, repeating “The Boy stood on the Burning Deck” over and over until I could recite that boy's adventure at twelve words a minute. Then I picked up the pen for work and only used the machine to impress curious visitors. They took away many reams of the boy and his burning deck.
Eventually, I hired a young woman and did my first dictation (just letters), which was also my last until now. The machine didn’t do both uppercase and lowercase (like now), only uppercase. They were Gothic capitals, and quite ugly. I remember the first letter I dictated; it was to Edward Bok, who was just a kid back then. I didn’t know him at that time. His current ambitious spirit wasn’t new—he had it even back then. He was collecting autographs and wasn’t satisfied with just signatures; he wanted an entire autograph letter. I provided it—in typewritten uppercase, signature and all. It was long; it was a sermon; it contained advice and also criticisms. I said writing was my trade, my livelihood; I said it wasn’t fair to ask someone to give away samples of their trade; would he ask the blacksmith for a horseshoe? Would he ask the doctor for a corpse?
Now I want to address something important, as I see it. In 1874, a young woman typed out a significant portion of one of my books. In a previous chapter of this autobiography, I mentioned that I was the first person in the world to have a telephone in my home for practical use; now I will claim—until proven otherwise—that I was also the first person in the world to use a typewriter for literature. That book must have been *The Adventures of Tom Sawyer*. I wrote the first half in 1872 and the second half in 1874. My typist typed a book for me in 1874, so I assumed it was that one.
That early machine was full of quirks and flaws—really troublesome ones. It had as many shortcomings as today's machines have benefits. After a year or two, I realized it was affecting my character, so I decided to give it to Howells. He hesitated because he was wary of new things and had a negative attitude toward them, and he still feels that way today. But I managed to convince him. He had a lot of trust in me, and I got him to believe things about the machine that I didn’t even believe myself. He took it home to Boston, and my morals started to improve, but his have never bounced back.
He had it for six months and then returned it to me. I gave it away twice after that, but it always came back. Then I gave it to our coachman, Patrick McAleer, who was really grateful because he didn’t know the animal and thought I was trying to help him be wiser and better. As soon as he felt wiser and better, he traded it to a heretic for a side-saddle he couldn’t use, and that’s where my knowledge of its history stops.
ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER
It is almost a fortnight now that I am domiciled in a medieval villa in the country, a mile or two from Florence. I cannot speak the language; I am too old now to learn how, also too busy when I am busy, and too indolent when I am not; wherefore some will imagine that I am having a dull time of it. But it is not so. The “help” are all natives; they talk Italian to me, I answer in English; I do not understand them, they do not understand me, consequently no harm is done, and everybody is satisfied.
I've been living in a medieval villa in the countryside, about a mile or two from Florence, for almost two weeks now. I can't speak the language; I'm too old to learn, too busy when I am busy, and too lazy when I’m not. Because of this, some might think I'm having a boring time. But that's not true. The staff are all locals; they speak Italian to me, and I reply in English. I don’t understand them, and they don’t understand me, so there’s no harm done, and everyone is happy.
In order to be just and fair, I throw in an Italian word when I have one, and this has a good influence. I get the word out of the morning paper. I have to use it while it is fresh, for I find that Italian words do not keep in this climate. They fade toward night, and next morning they are gone. But it is no matter; I get a new one out of the paper before breakfast, and thrill the domestics with it while it lasts. I have no dictionary, and I do not want one; I can select words by the sound, or by orthographic aspect. Many of them have French or German or English look, and these are the ones I enslave for the day's service. That is, as a rule. Not always. If I find a learnable phrase that has an imposing look and warbles musically along I do not care to know the meaning of it; I pay it out to the first applicant, knowing that if I pronounce it carefully he will understand it, and that's enough.
To be fair, I like to toss in an Italian word when I can, and it makes a nice impression. I pick the word from the morning paper. I have to use it while it's still fresh because I’ve noticed that Italian words don’t last long here. They tend to fade by evening, and by the next morning, they’re gone. But that's okay; I grab a new one from the paper before breakfast and impress the household staff with it while I can. I don't have a dictionary, nor do I need one; I can pick words based on how they sound or how they look. Many of them have a French, German, or English vibe, and those are the ones I use for the day. Generally speaking. Not always. If I come across a catchy phrase that looks impressive and sounds nice, I don’t bother to find out its meaning; I give it to the first person who asks, knowing that if I say it carefully, he will get it, and that’s good enough for me.
Yesterday's word was avanti. It sounds Shakespearian, and probably means Avaunt and quit my sight. Today I have a whole phrase: sono dispiacentissimo. I do not know what it means, but it seems to fit in everywhere and give satisfaction. Although as a rule my words and phrases are good for one day and train only, I have several that stay by me all the time, for some unknown reason, and these come very handy when I get into a long conversation and need things to fire up with in monotonous stretches. One of the best ones is dov `e il gatto. It nearly always produces a pleasant surprise, therefore I save it up for places where I want to express applause or admiration. The fourth word has a French sound, and I think the phrase means “that takes the cake.”
Yesterday's word was avanti. It sounds like something from Shakespeare, and probably means "Go away and leave me alone." Today I have a whole phrase: sono dispiacentissimo. I don’t know what it means, but it seems to fit in everywhere and makes people happy. Even though my words and phrases are usually good for just one day, I have a few that stick with me for some reason, and they come in handy during long conversations when I need something to spice things up. One of the best ones is dov `e il gatto. It almost always gets a nice reaction, so I save it for moments when I want to show appreciation or admiration. The fourth word has a French vibe, and I think the phrase means “that takes the cake.”
During my first week in the deep and dreamy stillness of this woodsy and flowery place I was without news of the outside world, and was well content without it. It had been four weeks since I had seen a newspaper, and this lack seemed to give life a new charm and grace, and to saturate it with a feeling verging upon actual delight. Then came a change that was to be expected: the appetite for news began to rise again, after this invigorating rest. I had to feed it, but I was not willing to let it make me its helpless slave again; I determined to put it on a diet, and a strict and limited one. So I examined an Italian paper, with the idea of feeding it on that, and on that exclusively. On that exclusively, and without help of a dictionary. In this way I should surely be well protected against overloading and indigestion.
During my first week in the deep, dreamy stillness of this woodsy, flowery place, I was cut off from the outside world, and I was totally fine with it. It had been four weeks since I’d seen a newspaper, and this absence seemed to give life a new charm and elegance, filling it with a sense of joy. Then came an expected change: my craving for news started to return after this refreshing break. I needed to satisfy it, but I wasn't about to let it turn me into a helpless slave again; I decided to put it on a strict diet. So, I looked at an Italian paper, planning to focus exclusively on that, without using a dictionary. This way, I figured I’d be safe from overload and indigestion.
A glance at the telegraphic page filled me with encouragement. There were no scare-heads. That was good—supremely good. But there were headings—one-liners and two-liners—and that was good too; for without these, one must do as one does with a German paper—pay out precious time in finding out what an article is about, only to discover, in many cases, that there is nothing in it of interest to you. The headline is a valuable thing.
A quick look at the news page gave me a boost of confidence. There were no alarming headlines. That was great—really great. But there were some shorter headlines, and that was good too; because without those, you have to spend precious time figuring out what an article is about, only to find out, in many cases, that it has nothing interesting for you. The headline is an important thing.
Necessarily we are all fond of murders, scandals, swindles, robberies, explosions, collisions, and all such things, when we know the people, and when they are neighbors and friends, but when they are strangers we do not get any great pleasure out of them, as a rule. Now the trouble with an American paper is that it has no discrimination; it rakes the whole earth for blood and garbage, and the result is that you are daily overfed and suffer a surfeit. By habit you stow this muck every day, but you come by and by to take no vital interest in it—indeed, you almost get tired of it. As a rule, forty-nine-fiftieths of it concerns strangers only—people away off yonder, a thousand miles, two thousand miles, ten thousand miles from where you are. Why, when you come to think of it, who cares what becomes of those people? I would not give the assassination of one personal friend for a whole massacre of those others. And, to my mind, one relative or neighbor mixed up in a scandal is more interesting than a whole Sodom and Gomorrah of outlanders gone rotten. Give me the home product every time.
We all tend to be interested in murders, scandals, swindles, robberies, explosions, collisions, and similar things when they involve people we know, like neighbors and friends. But when they're about strangers, we usually don’t find much enjoyment in them. The problem with American newspapers is they have no filters; they dig up every story for shock value, and as a result, you're overwhelmed with all the negativity every day. You end up consuming this junk daily, but then you stop caring about it—actually, you start getting tired of it. Most of it is about people you’ll never meet—thousands of miles away from you. Honestly, who cares what happens to those people? I wouldn’t trade the murder of a close friend for a whole massacre of strangers. In my opinion, one relative or neighbor involved in a scandal is way more interesting than a whole town full of distant strangers in chaos. I always prefer the stories that hit home.
Very well. I saw at a glance that the Florentine paper would suit me: five out of six of its scandals and tragedies were local; they were adventures of one's very neighbors, one might almost say one's friends. In the matter of world news there was not too much, but just about enough. I subscribed. I have had no occasion to regret it. Every morning I get all the news I need for the day; sometimes from the headlines, sometimes from the text. I have never had to call for a dictionary yet. I read the paper with ease. Often I do not quite understand, often some of the details escape me, but no matter, I get the idea. I will cut out a passage or two, then you see how limpid the language is:
Very well. I could quickly tell that the Florentine paper would be perfect for me: five out of six of its scandals and tragedies were local; they were stories about my very own neighbors, you could almost say friends. There wasn't a lot of world news, but just enough. I signed up. I have never regretted it. Every morning I get all the news I need for the day; sometimes from the headlines, sometimes from the articles. I've never had to reach for a dictionary. I read the paper easily. Often I don’t completely understand, and sometimes I miss some details, but that’s okay; I get the gist. I’ll cut out a passage or two, and then you’ll see how clear the language is:
Il ritorno dei Beati d'Italia
The return of the Blessed of Italy
Elargizione del Re all' Ospedale italiano
Elargizione del Re all' Ospedale italiano
The first line means that the Italian sovereigns are coming back—they have been to England. The second line seems to mean that they enlarged the King at the Italian hospital. With a banquet, I suppose. An English banquet has that effect. Further:
The first line means that the Italian rulers are returning—they’ve been to England. The second line seems to suggest that they made the King larger at the Italian hospital. Probably with a feast. An English feast has that effect. Further:
Il ritorno dei Sovrani
The Return of the Sovereigns
a Roma
a Romani
ROMA, 24, ore 22,50.—I Sovrani e le Principessine Reali si attendono a Roma domani alle ore 15,51.
ROMA, 24, 10:50 PM.—The Monarchs and the Royal Princesses are expected in Rome tomorrow at 3:51 PM.
Return of the sovereigns to Rome, you see. Date of the telegram, Rome, November 24, ten minutes before twenty-three o'clock. The telegram seems to say, “The Sovereigns and the Royal Children expect themselves at Rome tomorrow at fifty-one minutes after fifteen o'clock.”
Return of the royals to Rome, you see. Date of the telegram, Rome, November 24, ten minutes before 11 PM. The telegram reads, "The royals and the royal children expect to arrive in Rome tomorrow at 3:51 PM."
I do not know about Italian time, but I judge it begins at midnight and runs through the twenty-four hours without breaking bulk. In the following ad, the theaters open at half-past twenty. If these are not matinees, 20.30 must mean 8.30 P.M., by my reckoning.
I’m not sure how Italians keep time, but I assume it starts at midnight and goes through the whole day without interruption. In the ad below, the theaters open at 8:30 PM. If these aren’t matinees, then 20:30 must be 8:30 PM, by my calculations.
Spettacolli del di 25
TEATRO DELLA PERGOLA—(Ore 20,30)—Opera. Boheme.
TEATRO ALFIERI.—Compagnia drammatica Drago—(Ore 20,30)—La Legge.
ALHAMBRA—(Ore 20,30)—Spettacolo variato.
SALA EDISON—Grandioso spettacolo Cinematografico: Quo-Vadis?—Inaugurazione della Chiesa Russa — In coda al Direttissimo — Vedute di Firenze con gran movimeno — America: Transporto tronchi giganteschi — I ladri in casa del Diavolo — Scene comiche.
CINEMATOGRAFO — Via Brunelleschi n. 4.—Programma straordinario, Don Chisciotte — Prezzi populari.
TEATRO DELLA PERGOLA—(8:30 PM)—Opera. La Bohème.
TEATRO ALFIERI.—Drago Theater Company—(8:30 PM)—The Law.
ALHAMBRA—(8:30 PM)—Variety show.
SALA EDISON—Grand film showcase: Quo-Vadis?—Opening of the Russian Church — At the end of the Direct Line — Scenic views of Florence with lots of activity — America: Transporting giant logs — Burglars in the Devil's house — Funny scenes.
CINEMATOGRAPH—Via Brunelleschi 4.—Special program, Don Quixote—Low prices.
The whole of that is intelligible to me—and sane and rational, too—except the remark about the Inauguration of a Russian Cheese. That one oversizes my hand. Gimme me five cards.
The whole thing makes sense to me—and it’s logical and reasonable, too—except for the comment about the Inauguration of a Russian Cheese. That one is beyond me. Give me five cards.
This is a four-page paper; and as it is set in long primer leaded and has a page of advertisements, there is no room for the crimes, disasters, and general sweepings of the outside world—thanks be! Today I find only a single importation of the off-color sort:
This is a four-page paper; and since it's printed in long primer leaded and includes a page of ads, there's no space for the crimes, disasters, and general overflow from the outside world—thank goodness! Today, I only see one instance of the questionable kind:
Una Principessa
che fugge con un cocchiere
PARIGI, 24.—Il MATIN ha da Berlino che la principessa Schovenbare-Waldenbure scomparve il 9 novembre. Sarebbe partita col suo cocchiere.
La Principassa ha 27 anni.
she runs away with a coachman
PARIS, 24.—The MATIN reports from Berlin that Princess Schovenbare-Waldenbure went missing on November 9. It's reported that she left with her coachman.
The Princess is 27 years old.
Twenty-seven years old, and scomparve—scampered—on the 9th November. You see by the added detail that she departed with her coachman. I hope Sarebbe has not made a mistake, but I am afraid the chances are that she has. Sono dispiacentissimo.
Twenty-seven years old, and she disappeared—ran away—on the 9th of November. You can tell from the extra detail that she left with her coachman. I hope Sarebbe hasn’t made a mistake, but I’m afraid the chances are that she has. I’m very sorry.
There are several fires: also a couple of accidents. This is one of them:
There are several fires, and a couple of accidents too. This is one of them:
Grave Disgrazia Sul Ponte Vecchio
Stammattina, circe le 7,30, mentre Giuseppe Sciatti, di anni 55, di Casellina e Torri, passava dal Ponte Vecchio, stando seduto sopra un barroccio carico di verdura, perse l' equilibrio e cadde al suolo, rimanendo con la gamba destra sotto una ruota del veicolo.
Lo Sciatti fu subito raccolto da alcuni cittadini, che, per mezzo della pubblica vettura n. 365, lo transporto a San Giovanni di Dio.
Ivi il medico di guardia gli riscontro la frattura della gamba destra e alcune lievi escoriazioni giudicandolo guaribile in 50 giorni salvo complicazioni.
This morning, around 7:30, Giuseppe Sciatti, 55, from Casellina e Torri, was passing by the Ponte Vecchio when he lost his balance while sitting on a cart full of vegetables and fell to the ground, trapping his right leg under a wheel of the vehicle.
Some bystanders quickly helped him and took him on public transport number 365 to San Giovanni di Dio.
There, the on-call doctor confirmed that he had a fracture in his right leg and some minor abrasions, estimating a recovery time of 50 days unless there were complications.
What it seems to say is this: “Serious Disgrace on the Old Old Bridge. This morning about 7.30, Mr. Joseph Sciatti, aged 55, of Casellina and Torri, while standing up in a sitting posture on top of a carico barrow of vedure (foliage? hay? vegetables?), lost his equilibrium and fell on himself, arriving with his left leg under one of the wheels of the vehicle.
What it appears to be saying is this: “Serious Disgrace on the Old Old Bridge. This morning around 7:30, Mr. Joseph Sciatti, 55, from Casellina and Torri, while balancing on top of a cart full of vegetation, lost his balance and fell on himself, landing with his left leg under one of the wheels of the vehicle.
“Said Sciatti was suddenly harvested (gathered in?) by several citizens, who by means of public cab No. 365 transported him to St. John of God.”
“Several citizens suddenly picked up Sciatti and transported him to St. John of God in public cab No. 365.”
Paragraph No. 3 is a little obscure, but I think it says that the medico set the broken left leg—right enough, since there was nothing the matter with the other one—and that several are encouraged to hope that fifty days well fetch him around in quite giudicandolo-guaribile way, if no complications intervene.
Paragraph No. 3 is a bit unclear, but I think it says that the doctor treated the broken left leg—makes sense since the other one was fine—and that many are hopeful that in fifty days he’ll recover in a pretty good way, as long as no complications come up.
I am sure I hope so myself.
I really hope so as well.
There is a great and peculiar charm about reading news-scraps in a language which you are not acquainted with—the charm that always goes with the mysterious and the uncertain. You can never be absolutely sure of the meaning of anything you read in such circumstances; you are chasing an alert and gamy riddle all the time, and the baffling turns and dodges of the prey make the life of the hunt. A dictionary would spoil it. Sometimes a single word of doubtful purport will cast a veil of dreamy and golden uncertainty over a whole paragraph of cold and practical certainties, and leave steeped in a haunting and adorable mystery an incident which had been vulgar and commonplace but for that benefaction. Would you be wise to draw a dictionary on that gracious word? would you be properly grateful?
There’s a unique and fascinating charm in reading snippets of news in a language you don’t know—the allure that comes with the mysterious and the unknown. You can never be completely sure of what anything means in that context; you’re constantly pursuing a lively and tricky puzzle, and the confusing twists and turns of the chase make the experience thrilling. Looking up words would ruin it. Sometimes, just one ambiguous word can cast a dreamy and golden uncertainty over an entire paragraph filled with cold, hard facts, transforming an incident that would have been ordinary and mundane into something haunting and beautiful because of that little gift. Would it be wise to consult a dictionary for that delightful word? Would you really be able to appreciate it?
After a couple of days' rest I now come back to my subject and seek a case in point. I find it without trouble, in the morning paper; a cablegram from Chicago and Indiana by way of Paris. All the words save one are guessable by a person ignorant of Italian:
After a few days of rest, I return to my topic and look for a relevant example. I find it easily in the morning newspaper: a telegram from Chicago and Indiana via Paris. All the words except one are understandable to someone who doesn’t know Italian:
Revolverate in teatro
PARIGI, 27.—La PATRIE ha da Chicago:
Il guardiano del teatro dell'opera di Walace (Indiana), avendo voluto espellare uno spettatore che continuava a fumare malgrado il diviety, questo spalleggiato dai suoi amici tir`o diversi colpi di rivoltella. Il guardiano ripose. Nacque una scarica generale. Grande panico tra gli spettatori. Nessun ferito.
PARIS, 27.—La PATRIE reports from Chicago:
The security guard at the Walace opera house in Indiana, trying to remove a spectator who kept smoking despite the ban, ended up confronting the guy, who was backed by his friends, and fired several gunshots. The guard responded. A general shootout followed. There was great panic among the audience. No injuries were reported.
Translation.—“Revolveration in Theater. Paris, 27th. La Patrie has from Chicago: The cop of the theater of the opera of Wallace, Indiana, had willed to expel a spectator which continued to smoke in spite of the prohibition, who, spalleggiato by his friends, tire (Fr. Tire, Anglice Pulled) manifold revolver-shots; great panic among the spectators. Nobody hurt.”
Translation.—“Revolver incident in Theater. Paris, 27th. La Patrie reports from Chicago: The police at the opera theater in Wallace, Indiana, attempted to remove a spectator who continued to smoke despite the ban. Encouraged by his friends, he pulled out a gun and fired multiple shots, leading to a huge panic among the audience. No one was injured.”
It is bettable that that harmless cataclysm in the theater of the opera of Wallace, Indiana, excited not a person in Europe but me, and so came near to not being worth cabling to Florence by way of France. But it does excite me. It excites me because I cannot make out, for sure, what it was that moved the spectator to resist the officer. I was gliding along smoothly and without obstruction or accident, until I came to that word “spalleggiato,” then the bottom fell out. You notice what a rich gloom, what a somber and pervading mystery, that word sheds all over the whole Wallachian tragedy. That is the charm of the thing, that is the delight of it. This is where you begin, this is where you revel. You can guess and guess, and have all the fun you like; you need not be afraid there will be an end to it; none is possible, for no amount of guessing will ever furnish you a meaning for that word that you can be sure is the right one. All the other words give you hints, by their form, their sound, or their spelling—this one doesn't, this one throws out no hints, this one keeps its secret. If there is even the slightest slight shadow of a hint anywhere, it lies in the very meagerly suggestive fact that “spalleggiato” carries our word “egg” in its stomach. Well, make the most out of it, and then where are you at? You conjecture that the spectator which was smoking in spite of the prohibition and become reprohibited by the guardians, was “egged on” by his friends, and that was owing to that evil influence that he initiated the revolveration in theater that has galloped under the sea and come crashing through the European press without exciting anybody but me. But are you sure, are you dead sure, that that was the way of it? No. Then the uncertainty remains, the mystery abides, and with it the charm. Guess again.
It’s likely that the harmless incident at the opera in Wallace, Indiana, didn’t interest anyone in Europe except me, and it almost wasn’t worth sending a cable to Florence through France. But it does intrigue me. It intrigues me because I can’t quite figure out what prompted the audience member to stand up against the officer. I was moving along smoothly and without any issues until I hit that word “spalleggiato,” and then everything fell apart. You can see how rich and darkly mysterious that word makes the entire Wallachian tragedy feel. That’s what makes it so captivating; that’s where the joy lies. You can guess and guess, enjoying the process, and there’s no need to worry about it ever ending; it’s impossible, because no amount of guessing will ever give you a meaning for that word that you can be absolutely sure about. All the other words offer clues through their forms, sounds, or spellings—this one doesn’t; it keeps its secret. If there’s even the slightest hint anywhere, it’s in the somewhat suggestive fact that “spalleggiato” contains our word “egg.” Well, make the most of that, and where does that leave you? You might assume that the audience member who was smoking despite the ban and being stopped by the guards was “egged on” by his friends, and that their bad influence led him to start the commotion in the theater that has spread across the ocean and made headlines in the European press without stirring interest in anyone but me. But are you certain, absolutely certain, that that’s what happened? No. So the uncertainty lingers, the mystery remains, and with it the allure. Guess again.
If I had a phrase-book of a really satisfactory sort I would study it, and not give all my free time to undictionarial readings, but there is no such work on the market. The existing phrase-books are inadequate. They are well enough as far as they go, but when you fall down and skin your leg they don't tell you what to say.
If I had a really good phrasebook, I would use it to study instead of spending all my free time on poorly sourced readings, but there's no such thing available. The current phrasebooks just aren't good enough. They do fine for basic things, but when you trip and scrape your leg, they don't tell you what to say.
ITALIAN WITH GRAMMAR
I found that a person of large intelligence could read this beautiful language with considerable facility without a dictionary, but I presently found that to such a person a grammar could be of use at times. It is because, if he does not know the were's and the was's and the maybe's and the has-beens's apart, confusions and uncertainties can arise. He can get the idea that a thing is going to happen next week when the truth is that it has already happened week before last. Even more previously, sometimes. Examination and inquiry showed me that the adjectives and such things were frank and fair-minded and straightforward, and did not shuffle; it was the Verb that mixed the hands, it was the Verb that lacked stability, it was the Verb that had no permanent opinion about anything, it was the Verb that was always dodging the issue and putting out the light and making all the trouble.
I realized that a highly intelligent person could read this beautiful language quite easily without a dictionary, but I soon discovered that even they could find grammar useful at times. This is because, without knowing the were's and the was's and the maybe's and the has-beens's, confusion and uncertainty can creep in. They might think something is going to happen next week when the reality is that it actually occurred the week before last. Sometimes even earlier. My investigation revealed that adjectives and similar elements were clear, fair, and straightforward, not misleading; it was the Verb that created the confusion, the Verb that was unstable, the Verb that had no consistent opinion about anything, the Verb that was always avoiding the point and dimming the light and causing all the problems.
Further examination, further inquiry, further reflection, confirmed this judgment, and established beyond peradventure the fact that the Verb was the storm-center. This discovery made plain the right and wise course to pursue in order to acquire certainty and exactness in understanding the statements which the newspaper was daily endeavoring to convey to me: I must catch a Verb and tame it. I must find out its ways, I must spot its eccentricities, I must penetrate its disguises, I must intelligently foresee and forecast at least the commoner of the dodges it was likely to try upon a stranger in given circumstances, I must get in on its main shifts and head them off, I must learn its game and play the limit.
Further examination, inquiry, and reflection confirmed this judgment and established beyond a doubt that the Verb was the center of attention. This discovery clarified the best approach to gain certainty and clarity in understanding the messages the newspaper was trying to convey to me daily: I needed to catch a Verb and tame it. I had to learn its ways, identify its quirks, see through its disguises, intelligently anticipate and predict at least the common tricks it might use on someone unfamiliar in specific situations, get in on its main tactics and counter them, and learn its game to play it well.
I had noticed, in other foreign languages, that verbs are bred in families, and that the members of each family have certain features or resemblances that are common to that family and distinguish it from the other families—the other kin, the cousins and what not. I had noticed that this family-mark is not usually the nose or the hair, so to speak, but the tail—the Termination—and that these tails are quite definitely differentiated; insomuch that an expert can tell a Pluperfect from a Subjunctive by its tail as easily and as certainly as a cowboy can tell a cow from a horse by the like process, the result of observation and culture. I should explain that I am speaking of legitimate verbs, those verbs which in the slang of the grammar are called Regular. There are others—I am not meaning to conceal this; others called Irregulars, born out of wedlock, of unknown and uninteresting parentage, and naturally destitute of family resemblances, as regards to all features, tails included. But of these pathetic outcasts I have nothing to say. I do not approve of them, I do not encourage them; I am prudishly delicate and sensitive, and I do not allow them to be used in my presence.
I noticed that in other languages, verbs come in families, and each family has certain features or similarities that set it apart from other families—like cousins and whatnot. I've observed that this family mark isn't usually the nose or hair, but rather the ending—the Termination—and these endings are clearly different. An expert can distinguish a Pluperfect from a Subjunctive by its ending just as easily and surely as a cowboy can tell a cow from a horse through observation and experience. I should clarify that I'm referring to standard verbs, the ones that grammar enthusiasts call Regular. There are others—I'm not trying to hide this; others known as Irregulars, born out of wedlock, with unknown and unremarkable origins, and naturally lacking any family resemblances, including in their endings. But I have nothing to say about these unfortunate outcasts. I don't approve of them, I don't encourage them; I'm prudishly delicate and sensitive, and I don't permit them to be used in my presence.
But, as I have said, I decided to catch one of the others and break it into harness. One is enough. Once familiar with its assortment of tails, you are immune; after that, no regular verb can conceal its specialty from you and make you think it is working the past or the future or the conditional or the unconditional when it is engaged in some other line of business—its tail will give it away. I found out all these things by myself, without a teacher.
But, as I mentioned, I decided to catch one of the others and break it into harness. One is enough. Once you get to know its different forms, you become immune; after that, no regular verb can hide its unique form from you or trick you into thinking it's in the past, future, conditional, or unconditional when it’s actually doing something else—its form will reveal it. I discovered all this on my own, without a teacher.
I selected the verb amare, to love. Not for any personal reason, for I am indifferent about verbs; I care no more for one verb than for another, and have little or no respect for any of them; but in foreign languages you always begin with that one. Why, I don't know. It is merely habit, I suppose; the first teacher chose it, Adam was satisfied, and there hasn't been a successor since with originality enough to start a fresh one. For they are a pretty limited lot, you will admit that? Originality is not in their line; they can't think up anything new, anything to freshen up the old moss-grown dullness of the language lesson and put life and “go” into it, and charm and grace and picturesqueness.
I chose the verb amare, to love. Not for any personal reason, since I’m indifferent about verbs; I care no more for one verb than another and have little or no respect for any of them. But in foreign languages, you always start with that one. I don’t really know why. It’s just a habit, I guess; the first teacher picked it, Adam was fine with it, and no one since has been creative enough to choose a different one. They are a pretty limited bunch, don't you think? Originality isn’t in their nature; they can’t come up with anything new, nothing to refresh the old, stale dullness of the language lesson and bring it to life with energy, charm, grace, and vividness.
I knew I must look after those details myself; therefore I thought them out and wrote them down, and sent for the facchino and explained them to him, and said he must arrange a proper plant, and get together a good stock company among the contadini, and design the costumes, and distribute the parts; and drill the troupe, and be ready in three days to begin on this Verb in a shipshape and workman-like manner. I told him to put each grand division of it under a foreman, and each subdivision under a subordinate of the rank of sergeant or corporal or something like that, and to have a different uniform for each squad, so that I could tell a Pluperfect from a Compound Future without looking at the book; the whole battery to be under his own special and particular command, with the rank of Brigadier, and I to pay the freight.
I knew I had to take care of those details myself, so I thought them through, wrote them down, and called for the facchino. I explained everything to him, saying he needed to set up a proper plan, gather a good group of contadini, design the costumes, assign the roles, train the cast, and be ready in three days to start this Verb in a neat and professional way. I told him to put each major part under a leader, and each smaller part under someone like a sergeant or corporal, and to give each team different uniforms so I could tell a Pluperfect from a Compound Future without checking the book; the whole operation would be under his direct command, with the rank of Brigadier, and I would cover the expenses.
I then inquired into the character and possibilities of the selected verb, and was much disturbed to find that it was over my size, it being chambered for fifty-seven rounds—fifty-seven ways of saying I love without reloading; and yet none of them likely to convince a girl that was laying for a title, or a title that was laying for rocks.
I then asked about the nature and possibilities of the chosen verb, and I was quite troubled to discover that it was beyond my capability, as it could hold fifty-seven rounds—fifty-seven ways to say I love without having to reload; yet none of them were likely to convince a girl who was after a title, or a title that was chasing after wealth.
It seemed to me that with my inexperience it would be foolish to go into action with this mitrailleuse, so I ordered it to the rear and told the facchino to provide something a little more primitive to start with, something less elaborate, some gentle old-fashioned flint-lock, smooth-bore, double-barreled thing, calculated to cripple at two hundred yards and kill at forty—an arrangement suitable for a beginner who could be satisfied with moderate results on the offstart and did not wish to take the whole territory in the first campaign.
It seemed to me that with my lack of experience, it would be silly to go into action with this machine gun, so I sent it to the back and asked the porter to get me something a bit more basic to start with, something simpler, like an old-fashioned flintlock, smooth-bore, double-barreled gun, effective enough to injure at two hundred yards and lethal at forty—something suitable for a beginner who would be happy with modest results at the start and didn’t want to conquer everything in the first attempt.
But in vain. He was not able to mend the matter, all the verbs being of the same build, all Gatlings, all of the same caliber and delivery, fifty-seven to the volley, and fatal at a mile and a half. But he said the auxiliary verb avere, to have, was a tidy thing, and easy to handle in a seaway, and less likely to miss stays in going about than some of the others; so, upon his recommendation I chose that one, and told him to take it along and scrape its bottom and break out its spinnaker and get it ready for business.
But it was pointless. He couldn't fix the issue, with all the verbs being the same type, all Gatlings, all of the same caliber and delivery, fifty-seven shots per volley, and deadly at a mile and a half. However, he mentioned that the auxiliary verb avere, to have, was a neat option, easy to manage in rough waters, and less likely to lose its course than some of the others; so, based on his advice, I chose that one and told him to take it along, clean its bottom, unfurl its spinnaker, and get it ready for action.
I will explain that a facchino is a general-utility domestic. Mine was a horse-doctor in his better days, and a very good one.
I will explain that a facchino is a general-purpose domestic worker. Mine was a veterinarian in his prime, and he was really good at it.
At the end of three days the facchino-doctor-brigadier was ready. I was also ready, with a stenographer. We were in a room called the Rope-Walk. This is a formidably long room, as is indicated by its facetious name, and is a good place for reviews. At 9:30 the F.-D.-B. took his place near me and gave the word of command; the drums began to rumble and thunder, the head of the forces appeared at an upper door, and the “march-past” was on. Down they filed, a blaze of variegated color, each squad gaudy in a uniform of its own and bearing a banner inscribed with its verbal rank and quality: first the Present Tense in Mediterranean blue and old gold, then the Past Definite in scarlet and black, then the Imperfect in green and yellow, then the Indicative Future in the stars and stripes, then the Old Red Sandstone Subjunctive in purple and silver—and so on and so on, fifty-seven privates and twenty commissioned and non-commissioned officers; certainly one of the most fiery and dazzling and eloquent sights I have ever beheld. I could not keep back the tears. Presently:
At the end of three days, the porter-doctor-brigadier was ready. I was also set to go, with a stenographer by my side. We were in a room called the Rope-Walk. This is an impressively long room, as suggested by its playful name, and it’s a great place for reviews. At 9:30, the P.-D.-B. took his place next to me and gave the command; the drums started to rumble and thunder, and the head of the forces appeared at an upper door, starting the “march-past.” They filed down in a blaze of vibrant color, each squad looking striking in their unique uniforms and carrying a banner marked with their rank and designation: first, the Present Tense in Mediterranean blue and old gold, then the Past Definite in scarlet and black, followed by the Imperfect in green and yellow, then the Indicative Future in stars and stripes, and then the Old Red Sandstone Subjunctive in purple and silver—and so on, and so forth, fifty-seven privates and twenty commissioned and non-commissioned officers; it was certainly one of the most fiery, dazzling, and eloquent sights I have ever seen. I couldn’t hold back the tears. Presently:
“Halt!” commanded the Brigadier.
“Stop!” commanded the Brigadier.
“Front—face!”
"Attention, face front!"
“Right dress!”
“Right outfit!”
“Stand at ease!”
"Stand down!"
“One—two—three. In unison—recite!”
“One—two—three. Together—recite!”
It was fine. In one noble volume of sound of all the fifty-seven Haves in the Italian language burst forth in an exalting and splendid confusion. Then came commands:
It was great. All fifty-seven sounds of the Italian language erupted together in a thrilling and magnificent chaos. Then came the orders:
“About—face! Eyes—front! Helm alee—hard aport! Forward—march!” and the drums let go again.
“About—face! Eyes—front! Turn the helm hard to port! Forward—march!” and the drums started up again.
When the last Termination had disappeared, the commander said the instruction drill would now begin, and asked for suggestions. I said:
When the last Termination was gone, the commander announced that the instruction drill would start now and asked for suggestions. I said:
“They say I have, thou hast, he has, and so on, but they don't say what. It will be better, and more definite, if they have something to have; just an object, you know, a something—anything will do; anything that will give the listener a sort of personal as well as grammatical interest in their joys and complaints, you see.”
“They say I have, you have, he has, and so on, but they don't say what. It would be better and clearer if they had something to possess; just an object, you know, a something—anything will do; anything that will give the listener a kind of personal as well as grammatical interest in their joys and complaints, you see.”
He said:
He said:
“It is a good point. Would a dog do?”
"It’s a good point. Would a dog work?"
I said I did not know, but we could try a dog and see. So he sent out an aide-de-camp to give the order to add the dog.
I said I didn't know, but we could try using a dog and see what happens. So he sent out an aide-de-camp to give the order to add the dog.
The six privates of the Present Tense now filed in, in charge of Sergeant Avere (to have), and displaying their banner. They formed in line of battle, and recited, one at a time, thus:
The six privates of the Present Tense now entered, led by Sergeant Avere (to have), and showing their banner. They lined up for battle and recited, one after another, like this:
“Io ho un cane, I have a dog.”
I have a dog.
“Tu hai un cane, thou hast a dog.”
“Tu hai un cane, you have a dog.”
“Egli ha un cane, he has a dog.”
“He has a dog,” he has a dog.”
“Noi abbiamo un cane, we have a dog.”
“We have a dog,” we have a dog.
“Voi avete un cane, you have a dog.”
“You have a dog.”
“Eglino hanno un cane, they have a dog.”
“Eglino have a dog, they have a dog.”
No comment followed. They returned to camp, and I reflected a while. The commander said:
No one said anything. They went back to camp, and I thought for a bit. The commander said:
“I fear you are disappointed.”
“I think you're disappointed.”
“Yes,” I said; “they are too monotonous, too singsong, to dead-and-alive; they have no expression, no elocution. It isn't natural; it could never happen in real life. A person who had just acquired a dog is either blame' glad or blame' sorry. He is not on the fence. I never saw a case. What the nation do you suppose is the matter with these people?”
“Yes,” I said; “they’re too monotonous, too singsong, too lifeless; they have no expression, no delivery. It’s not natural; that could never happen in real life. Someone who just got a dog is either really happy or really upset. They’re not undecided. I’ve never seen anything like it. What on earth do you think is wrong with these people?”
He thought maybe the trouble was with the dog. He said:
He thought maybe the problem was with the dog. He said:
“These are contadini, you know, and they have a prejudice against dogs—that is, against marimane. Marimana dogs stand guard over people's vines and olives, you know, and are very savage, and thereby a grief and an inconvenience to persons who want other people's things at night. In my judgment they have taken this dog for a marimana, and have soured on him.”
“These are contadini, you know, and they have a prejudice against dogs—that is, against marimane. Marimana dogs guard people's vineyards and olive groves, you know, and are very fierce, causing trouble and inconvenience for those who want to steal from others at night. In my opinion, they’ve mistaken this dog for a marimana and have turned against him.”
I saw that the dog was a mistake, and not functionable: we must try something else; something, if possible, that could evoke sentiment, interest, feeling.
I realized that the dog was a mistake and not useful: we need to try something else; something, if possible, that could evoke emotion, interest, and feeling.
“What is cat, in Italian?” I asked.
“What is cat in Italian?” I asked.
“Gatto.”
“Cat.”
“Is it a gentleman cat, or a lady?”
“Is it a male cat or a female?”
“Gentleman cat.”
“Dapper cat.”
“How are these people as regards that animal?”
“How do these people feel about that animal?”
“We-ll, they—they—”
“Well, they—”
“You hesitate: that is enough. How are they about chickens?”
“You're hesitating: that's enough. What do they think about chickens?”
He tilted his eyes toward heaven in mute ecstasy. I understood.
He looked up at the sky in wordless bliss. I got it.
“What is chicken, in Italian?” I asked.
“What’s chicken in Italian?” I asked.
“Pollo, Podere.” (Podere is Italian for master. It is a title of courtesy, and conveys reverence and admiration.) “Pollo is one chicken by itself; when there are enough present to constitute a plural, it is polli.”
“Pollo, Podere.” (Podere is Italian for master. It’s a title of courtesy that shows respect and admiration.) “Pollo refers to one chicken; when there are enough to be considered a plural, it’s polli.”
“Very well, polli will do. Which squad is detailed for duty next?”
“Alright, polli will work. Which squad is assigned for duty next?”
“The Past Definite.”
"The Simple Past."
“Send out and order it to the front—with chickens. And let them understand that we don't want any more of this cold indifference.”
“Send it out and have it brought to the front—with chickens. And let them know that we don’t want any more of this cold indifference.”
He gave the order to an aide, adding, with a haunting tenderness in his tone and a watering mouth in his aspect:
He gave the order to an aide, adding, with a haunting softness in his voice and a moist look on his face:
“Convey to them the conception that these are unprotected chickens.” He turned to me, saluting with his hand to his temple, and explained, “It will inflame their interest in the poultry, sire.”
“Let them know that these are defenseless chickens.” He turned to me, saluting with his hand to his forehead, and explained, “It will spark their interest in the poultry, sir.”
A few minutes elapsed. Then the squad marched in and formed up, their faces glowing with enthusiasm, and the file-leader shouted:
A few minutes went by. Then the squad marched in and lined up, their faces beaming with excitement, and the file-leader shouted:
“Ebbi polli, I had chickens!”
“Ebbi polli, I raised chickens!”
“Good!” I said. “Go on, the next.”
“Great!” I said. “Next one, let's go.”
“Avest polli, thou hadst chickens!”
“Avest polli, you had chickens!”
“Fine! Next!”
"Okay! Next!"
“Ebbe polli, he had chickens!”
“Ebbe polli, he had chickens!”
“Moltimoltissimo! Go on, the next!”
“Very much! Go ahead, next!”
“Avemmo polli, we had chickens!”
“We had chickens!”
“Basta-basta aspettatto avanti—last man—charge!”
"Enough, enough, forward—last man—charge!”
“Ebbero polli, they had chickens!”
“Ebbero polli, they had chickens!”
Then they formed in echelon, by columns of fours, refused the left, and retired in great style on the double-quick. I was enchanted, and said:
Then they lined up in formation, in columns of four, turned left, and quickly retreated with impressive speed. I was thrilled and said:
“Now, doctor, that is something like! Chickens are the ticket, there is no doubt about it. What is the next squad?”
“Now, doctor, that is something like! Chickens are the way to go, no doubt about it. What’s the next squad?”
“The Imperfect.”
"The Imperfect."
“How does it go?”
“How does it work?”
“Io Aveva, I had, tu avevi, thou hadst, egli aveva, he had, noi av—”
“Io Aveva, I had, tu avevi, you had, egli aveva, he had, noi av—”
“Wait—we've just had the hads. What are you giving me?”
“Wait—we just had the hads. What are you giving me?”
“But this is another breed.”
“But this is a different breed.”
“What do we want of another breed? Isn't one breed enough? Had is had, and your tricking it out in a fresh way of spelling isn't going to make it any hadder than it was before; now you know that yourself.”
“What do we need with another breed? Isn't one breed enough? Had is had, and changing how it's spelled isn't going to make it any more hadder than it was before; you know that yourself.”
“But there is a distinction—they are not just the same Hads.”
“But there is a difference—they are not just the same Hads.”
“How do you make it out?”
“How do you view it?”
“Well, you use that first Had when you are referring to something that happened at a named and sharp and perfectly definite moment; you use the other when the thing happened at a vaguely defined time and in a more prolonged and indefinitely continuous way.”
"Well, you use that first 'Had' when you’re talking about something that happened at a specific, clearly defined moment; you use the other one when it happened at an unclear time and in a more extended, ongoing way."
“Why, doctor, it is pure nonsense; you know it yourself. Look here: If I have had a had, or have wanted to have had a had, or was in a position right then and there to have had a had that hadn't had any chance to go out hadding on account of this foolish discrimination which lets one Had go hadding in any kind of indefinite grammatical weather but restricts the other one to definite and datable meteoric convulsions, and keeps it pining around and watching the barometer all the time, and liable to get sick through confinement and lack of exercise, and all that sort of thing, why—why, the inhumanity of it is enough, let alone the wanton superfluity and uselessness of any such a loafing consumptive hospital-bird of a Had taking up room and cumbering the place for nothing. These finical refinements revolt me; it is not right, it is not honorable; it is constructive nepotism to keep in office a Had that is so delicate it can't come out when the wind's in the nor'west—I won't have this dude on the payroll. Cancel his exequator; and look here—”
“Why, doctor, it’s pure nonsense; you know it yourself. Look, if I’ve had a had, or wanted to have had a had, or was in a position right then and there to have had a had that didn’t have a chance to go out hadding because of this ridiculous discrimination that lets one Had go hadding in any kind of vague grammatical weather but restricts the other to specific and measurable convulsions, keeping it stuck around always watching the barometer and likely to get sick from being cooped up and inactive, all that sort of thing—well, the inhumanity of it is just too much, not to mention the pointless excess and uselessness of a lazy, sickly hospital-bird of a Had taking up space and cluttering the place for no reason. These overly picky details disgust me; it’s not right, it’s not honorable; it’s like having favoritism to keep a Had in office that’s so fragile it can’t come out when the wind’s blowing from the northwest—I won’t have this pretentiousness on the payroll. Cancel his exequatur; and listen—”
“But you miss the point. It is like this. You see—”
"But you're missing the point. It's like this. You see—"
“Never mind explaining, I don't care anything about it. Six Hads is enough for me; anybody that needs twelve, let him subscribe; I don't want any stock in a Had Trust. Knock out the Prolonged and Indefinitely Continuous; four-fifths of it is water, anyway.”
“Forget explaining, I don’t care about any of it. Six Hads is plenty for me; if someone needs twelve, they can subscribe; I don’t want any shares in a Had Trust. Remove the Prolonged and Indefinitely Continuous; four-fifths of it is just water, anyway.”
“But I beg you, podere! It is often quite indispensable in cases where—”
"But I urge you, please! It's often absolutely necessary in situations where—"
“Pipe the next squad to the assault!”
“Send in the next team for the attack!”
But it was not to be; for at that moment the dull boom of the noon gun floated up out of far-off Florence, followed by the usual softened jangle of church-bells, Florentine and suburban, that bursts out in murmurous response; by labor-union law the colazione (1) must stop; stop promptly, stop instantly, stop definitely, like the chosen and best of the breed of Hads.
But it wasn’t meant to be; at that moment, the dull boom of the noon cannon rang out from far-off Florence, followed by the familiar gentle chime of church bells, both from Florence and the suburbs, that responded in a soft chorus; by labor-union law, the colazione (1) must come to an end; it must end promptly, it must end instantly, it must end definitely, like the chosen and best of the breed of Hads.
1. Colazione is Italian for a collection, a meeting, a seance, a sitting.—M.T.
1. Colazione is Italian for a gathering, a meeting, a session, a sitting.—M.T.
A BURLESQUE BIOGRAPHY
Two or three persons having at different times intimated that if I would write an autobiography they would read it when they got leisure, I yield at last to this frenzied public demand and herewith tender my history.
Two or three people have mentioned at various times that they would read my autobiography when they had the chance, so I finally give in to this enthusiastic request from the public and present my story.
Ours is a noble house, and stretches a long way back into antiquity. The earliest ancestor the Twains have any record of was a friend of the family by the name of Higgins. This was in the eleventh century, when our people were living in Aberdeen, county of Cork, England. Why it is that our long line has ever since borne the maternal name (except when one of them now and then took a playful refuge in an alias to avert foolishness), instead of Higgins, is a mystery which none of us has ever felt much desire to stir. It is a kind of vague, pretty romance, and we leave it alone. All the old families do that way.
Our family is a noble one with a long history. The earliest ancestor the Twains have any record of was a family friend named Higgins. This was in the eleventh century when our people lived in Aberdeen, County Cork, England. It’s a mystery why our lineage has always carried the maternal name (except for the occasional playful use of an alias to avoid nonsense), instead of Higgins, and none of us has really wanted to dig into it. It's a kind of vague, charming romance, and we just let it be. All the old families do that.
Arthour Twain was a man of considerable note—a solicitor on the highway in William Rufus's time. At about the age of thirty he went to one of those fine old English places of resort called Newgate, to see about something, and never returned again. While there he died suddenly.
Arthour Twain was a well-known man— a lawyer during the time of William Rufus. At around thirty years old, he visited one of those classic English resorts called Newgate to take care of something and never came back. While there, he died unexpectedly.
Augustus Twain seems to have made something of a stir about the year 1160. He was as full of fun as he could be, and used to take his old saber and sharpen it up, and get in a convenient place on a dark night, and stick it through people as they went by, to see them jump. He was a born humorist.
Augustus Twain caused quite a commotion around the year 1160. He was all about fun and would sharpen his old saber, find a good spot on a dark night, and stab it through people as they walked by just to see their reaction. He was a natural comedian.
But he got to going too far with it; and the first time he was found stripping one of these parties, the authorities removed one end of him, and put it up on a nice high place on Temple Bar, where it could contemplate the people and have a good time. He never liked any situation so much or stuck to it so long.
But he took it too far; and the first time he was caught robbing one of these gatherings, the authorities took one end of him and put it up on a nice high spot at Temple Bar, where it could watch the people and have a good time. He never enjoyed any situation as much or stayed in it for so long.
Then for the next two hundred years the family tree shows a succession of soldiers—noble, high-spirited fellows, who always went into battle singing, right behind the army, and always went out a-whooping, right ahead of it.
Then for the next two hundred years, the family tree shows a line of soldiers—noble, spirited guys, who always went into battle singing, right behind the army, and always went out whooping, right ahead of it.
This is a scathing rebuke to old dead Froissart's poor witticism that our family tree never had but one limb to it, and that that one stuck out at right angles, and bore fruit winter and summer.
This is a harsh criticism of old, long-gone Froissart's weak joke that our family tree only had one branch, and that it stuck out at odd angles, producing fruit all year round.
Early in the fifteenth century we have Beau Twain, called “the Scholar.” He wrote a beautiful, beautiful hand. And he could imitate anybody's hand so closely that it was enough to make a person laugh his head off to see it. He had infinite sport with his talent. But by and by he took a contract to break stone for a road, and the roughness of the work spoiled his hand. Still, he enjoyed life all the time he was in the stone business, which, with inconsiderable intervals, was some forty-two years. In fact, he died in harness. During all those long years he gave such satisfaction that he never was through with one contract a week till the government gave him another. He was a perfect pet. And he was always a favorite with his fellow-artists, and was a conspicuous member of their benevolent secret society, called the Chain Gang. He always wore his hair short, had a preference for striped clothes, and died lamented by the government. He was a sore loss to his country. For he was so regular.
Early in the fifteenth century, there was Beau Twain, known as “the Scholar.” He had beautiful handwriting, and he could perfectly imitate anyone’s handwriting to the point that it would make people laugh out loud just to see it. He had endless fun with his talent. But eventually, he took a job breaking stones for a road, and the tough nature of the work ruined his handwriting. Still, he enjoyed life during his time in the stone business, which lasted about forty-two years, with only a few brief breaks. In fact, he died while still working. Throughout those many years, he was so reliable that he never finished one contract in a week without the government giving him another. He was a real favorite. He was always well-liked by his fellow artists and was a prominent member of their charitable secret society, called the Chain Gang. He always kept his hair short, preferred striped clothing, and was mourned by the government when he passed. His loss was deeply felt by the country because he was so dependable.
Some years later we have the illustrious John Morgan Twain. He came over to this country with Columbus in 1492 as a passenger. He appears to have been of a crusty, uncomfortable disposition. He complained of the food all the way over, and was always threatening to go ashore unless there was a change. He wanted fresh shad. Hardly a day passed over his head that he did not go idling about the ship with his nose in the air, sneering about the commander, and saying he did not believe Columbus knew where he was going to or had ever been there before. The memorable cry of “Land ho!” thrilled every heart in the ship but his. He gazed awhile through a piece of smoked glass at the penciled line lying on the distant water, and then said: “Land be hanged—it's a raft!”
Some years later, we have the notable John Morgan Twain. He arrived in this country with Columbus in 1492 as a passenger. He seemed to have a grumpy, unpleasant attitude. He complained about the food the whole journey and was always threatening to jump ship unless things changed. He wanted fresh shad. Not a day went by without him wandering around the ship with his nose in the air, mocking the captain and claiming he didn’t think Columbus knew where he was headed or had ever been there before. The famous shout of “Land ho!” excited everyone on the ship but him. He looked for a while through a piece of smoked glass at the faint line on the distant water and then remarked, “Land be damned—it’s a raft!”
When this questionable passenger came on board the ship, he brought nothing with him but an old newspaper containing a handkerchief marked “B. G.,” one cotton sock marked “L. W. C.,” one woolen one marked “D. F.,” and a night-shirt marked “O. M. R.” And yet during the voyage he worried more about his “trunk,” and gave himself more airs about it, than all the rest of the passengers put together. If the ship was “down by the head,” and would not steer, he would go and move his “trunk” further aft, and then watch the effect. If the ship was “by the stern,” he would suggest to Columbus to detail some men to “shift that baggage.” In storms he had to be gagged, because his wailings about his “trunk” made it impossible for the men to hear the orders. The man does not appear to have been openly charged with any gravely unbecoming thing, but it is noted in the ship's log as a “curious circumstance” that albeit he brought his baggage on board the ship in a newspaper, he took it ashore in four trunks, a queensware crate, and a couple of champagne baskets. But when he came back insinuating, in an insolent, swaggering way, that some of this things were missing, and was going to search the other passengers' baggage, it was too much, and they threw him overboard. They watched long and wonderingly for him to come up, but not even a bubble rose on the quietly ebbing tide. But while every one was most absorbed in gazing over the side, and the interest was momentarily increasing, it was observed with consternation that the vessel was adrift and the anchor-cable hanging limp from the bow. Then in the ship's dimmed and ancient log we find this quaint note:
When this suspicious passenger boarded the ship, he brought nothing with him except an old newspaper that had a handkerchief labeled “B. G.,” one cotton sock labeled “L. W. C.,” one wool sock labeled “D. F.,” and a nightshirt labeled “O. M. R.” Yet throughout the voyage, he fretted more about his “trunk” and acted more important about it than all the other passengers combined. If the ship was “down by the head” and wouldn’t steer, he would go and move his “trunk” further back, then watch what happened. If the ship was “by the stern,” he would suggest to Columbus that some men be assigned to “move that baggage.” In storms, he had to be gagged because his wailing about his “trunk” made it impossible for the crew to hear the orders. The man doesn’t seem to have been openly accused of anything seriously inappropriate, but it’s noted in the ship's log as a “curious circumstance” that although he brought his belongings on board in a newspaper, he took them ashore in four trunks, a queensware crate, and a couple of champagne baskets. However, when he returned, insinuating in a rude, arrogant way that some of his things were missing and planning to search the other passengers' bags, it was too much, and they threw him overboard. They watched for a long time, wondering if he would resurface, but not even a bubble appeared on the gently receding tide. While everyone was deeply focused on looking over the side, and the interest was growing by the moment, it was noticed with alarm that the ship was adrift, and the anchor cable was hanging uselessly from the bow. Then in the ship's faded and old log, we find this odd note:
“In time it was discouvered yt ye troblesome passenger hadde gone downe and got ye anchor, and toke ye same and solde it to ye dam sauvages from ye interior, saying yt he hadde founde it, ye sonne of a ghun!”
“In time, it was discovered that the troublesome passenger had gone down and retrieved the anchor, and he took it and sold it to the damn savages from the interior, claiming that he had found it, the son of a gun!”
Yet this ancestor had good and noble instincts, and it is with pride that we call to mind the fact that he was the first white person who ever interested himself in the work of elevating and civilizing our Indians. He built a commodious jail and put up a gallows, and to his dying day he claimed with satisfaction that he had had a more restraining and elevating influence on the Indians than any other reformer that ever labored among them. At this point the chronicle becomes less frank and chatty, and closes abruptly by saying that the old voyager went to see his gallows perform on the first white man ever hanged in America, and while there received injuries which terminated in his death.
Yet this ancestor had good and noble instincts, and we take pride in the fact that he was the first white person to genuinely care about the effort to uplift and civilize our Indigenous people. He built a spacious jail and set up a gallows, and until his dying day, he claimed with satisfaction that he had a greater restraining and uplifting influence on the Indigenous peoples than any other reformer who ever worked with them. At this point, the story becomes less straightforward and casual, ending abruptly by stating that the old voyager went to witness his gallows used on the first white man ever hanged in America, and while there, he sustained injuries that led to his death.
The great-grandson of the “Reformer” flourished in sixteen hundred and something, and was known in our annals as “the old Admiral,” though in history he had other titles. He was long in command of fleets of swift vessels, well armed and manned, and did great service in hurrying up merchantmen. Vessels which he followed and kept his eagle eye on, always made good fair time across the ocean. But if a ship still loitered in spite of all he could do, his indignation would grow till he could contain himself no longer—and then he would take that ship home where he lived and keep it there carefully, expecting the owners to come for it, but they never did. And he would try to get the idleness and sloth out of the sailors of that ship by compelling them to take invigorating exercise and a bath. He called it “walking a plank.” All the pupils liked it. At any rate, they never found any fault with it after trying it. When the owners were late coming for their ships, the Admiral always burned them, so that the insurance money should not be lost. At last this fine old tar was cut down in the fullness of his years and honors. And to her dying day, his poor heart-broken widow believed that if he had been cut down fifteen minutes sooner he might have been resuscitated.
The great-grandson of the "Reformer" thrived in the early 1600s and was known in our records as "the old Admiral," although he had other titles in history. He commanded fleets of fast, well-armed ships for a long time and played a crucial role in speeding up merchant vessels. The ships he monitored with his sharp gaze always made good time across the ocean. But if a ship lingered despite all his efforts, his frustration would build until he couldn't hold it in any longer—then he would take that ship back to his home and keep it there, waiting for the owners to collect it, though they never did. He tried to get rid of the laziness and slackness in the sailors of that ship by forcing them to exercise and take a bath, which he called "walking the plank." All the crew liked it. At the very least, they never complained after trying it. When the owners were late picking up their ships, the Admiral always burned them to ensure the insurance money wouldn't be lost. Eventually, this fine old sailor passed away in his later years, after achieving much honor. And until her dying day, his poor, heartbroken widow believed that if he had passed away just fifteen minutes earlier, he might have been revived.
Charles Henry Twain lived during the latter part of the seventeenth century, and was a zealous and distinguished missionary. He converted sixteen thousand South Sea islanders, and taught them that a dog-tooth necklace and a pair of spectacles was not enough clothing to come to divine service in. His poor flock loved him very, very dearly; and when his funeral was over, they got up in a body (and came out of the restaurant) with tears in their eyes, and saying, one to another, that he was a good tender missionary, and they wished they had some more of him.
Charles Henry Twain lived during the late seventeenth century and was a passionate and notable missionary. He converted sixteen thousand South Sea islanders and taught them that a dog-tooth necklace and a pair of glasses weren’t enough clothing to attend divine service. His poor congregation loved him dearly, and after his funeral, they all gathered (and came out of the restaurant) with tears in their eyes, saying to each other that he was a good, caring missionary, and they wished they could have more like him.
Pah-go-to-wah-wah-pukketekeewis (Mighty-Hunter-with-a-Hog-Eye-Twain) adorned the middle of the eighteenth century, and aided General Braddock with all his heart to resist the oppressor Washington. It was this ancestor who fired seventeen times at our Washington from behind a tree. So far the beautiful romantic narrative in the moral story-books is correct; but when that narrative goes on to say that at the seventeenth round the awe-stricken savage said solemnly that that man was being reserved by the Great Spirit for some mighty mission, and he dared not lift his sacrilegious rifle against him again, the narrative seriously impairs the integrity of history. What he did say was:
Pah-go-to-wah-wah-pukketekeewis (Mighty-Hunter-with-a-Hog-Eye-Twain) was active in the mid-eighteenth century and wholeheartedly supported General Braddock in resisting the oppressor Washington. This ancestor fired seventeen shots at Washington from behind a tree. So far, the beautiful romantic story in the moral storybooks is accurate; but when the story continues to say that after the seventeenth shot, the awe-struck Native American solemnly remarked that the Great Spirit was reserving that man for some grand mission, and he wouldn’t dare lift his sacrilegious rifle against him again, it seriously distorts the truth of history. What he actually said was:
“It ain't no (hic) no use. 'At man's so drunk he can't stan' still long enough for a man to hit him. I (hic) I can't 'ford to fool away any more am'nition on him.”
“It’s no use. That guy is so drunk he can’t stand still long enough for someone to hit him. I can’t afford to waste any more ammunition on him.”
That was why he stopped at the seventeenth round, and it was a good, plain, matter-of-fact reason, too, and one that easily commends itself to us by the eloquent, persuasive flavor of probability there is about it.
That’s why he stopped at the seventeenth round, and it was a good, straightforward reason, too, one that easily makes sense to us thanks to the convincing vibe of probability it carries.
I also enjoyed the story-book narrative, but I felt a marring misgiving that every Indian at Braddock's Defeat who fired at a soldier a couple of times (two easily grows to seventeen in a century), and missed him, jumped to the conclusion that the Great Spirit was reserving that soldier for some grand mission; and so I somehow feared that the only reason why Washington's case is remembered and the others forgotten is, that in his the prophecy came true, and in that of the others it didn't. There are not books enough on earth to contain the record of the prophecies Indians and other unauthorized parties have made; but one may carry in his overcoat pockets the record of all the prophecies that have been fulfilled.
I also liked the storybook style, but I had a nagging worry that every Indian at Braddock's Defeat who shot at a soldier a couple of times (and over time, those two could easily become seventeen) and missed, thought the Great Spirit was saving that soldier for some important mission. So, I worried that the only reason Washington's case is remembered while the others are forgotten is that in his, the prophecy came true, and in the others, it didn’t. There aren’t enough books in the world to hold all the prophecies made by Indians and others who weren’t officially recognized, but you could easily fit the record of the fulfilled prophecies in your overcoat pockets.
I will remark here, in passing, that certain ancestors of mine are so thoroughly well-known in history by their aliases, that I have not felt it to be worth while to dwell upon them, or even mention them in the order of their birth. Among these may be mentioned Richard Brinsley Twain, alias Guy Fawkes; John Wentworth Twain, alias Sixteen-String Jack; William Hogarth Twain, alias Jack Sheppard; Ananias Twain, alias Baron Munchausen; John George Twain, alias Captain Kydd; and then there are George Francis Twain, Tom Pepper, Nebuchadnezzar, and Baalam's Ass—they all belong to our family, but to a branch of it somewhat distinctly removed from the honorable direct line—in fact, a collateral branch, whose members chiefly differ from the ancient stock in that, in order to acquire the notoriety we have always yearned and hungered for, they have got into a low way of going to jail instead of getting hanged.
I’ll just mention briefly that some of my ancestors are so famous in history by their nicknames that I haven't thought it necessary to elaborate on them or even list them by their birth order. Among these are Richard Brinsley Twain, also known as Guy Fawkes; John Wentworth Twain, known as Sixteen-String Jack; William Hogarth Twain, aka Jack Sheppard; Ananias Twain, known as Baron Munchausen; John George Twain, also referred to as Captain Kydd; and then there are George Francis Twain, Tom Pepper, Nebuchadnezzar, and Balaam’s Ass—they all belong to our family but are from a branch that’s quite separate from the honorable direct line. In fact, it’s a collateral branch, whose members mainly differ from the main lineage by having chosen a more disreputable path to gain the notoriety we have always desired, ending up in jail instead of being hanged.
It is not well, when writing an autobiography, to follow your ancestry down too close to your own time—it is safest to speak only vaguely of your great-grandfather, and then skip from there to yourself, which I now do.
It's not ideal, when writing an autobiography, to trace your lineage too closely to your own time—it's better to speak only generally about your great-grandfather and then jump straight to yourself, which is what I will do now.
I was born without teeth—and there Richard III. had the advantage of me; but I was born without a humpback, likewise, and there I had the advantage of him. My parents were neither very poor nor conspicuously honest.
I was born without teeth—and Richard III had the upper hand there; but I was born without a hunchback as well, and I had the advantage over him. My parents weren't very poor nor especially honest.
But now a thought occurs to me. My own history would really seem so tame contrasted with that of my ancestors, that it is simply wisdom to leave it unwritten until I am hanged. If some other biographies I have read had stopped with the ancestry until a like event occurred, it would have been a felicitous thing for the reading public. How does it strike you?
But now a thought comes to mind. My own story would seem so dull compared to that of my ancestors that it just makes sense to leave it unwritten until I’m hanged. If some other biographies I’ve read had ended with the family background until a similar event happened, it would have been a great thing for readers. What do you think?
HOW TO TELL A STORY
The Humorous Story an American Development.—Its Difference from Comic and Witty Stories
I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told. I only claim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been almost daily in the company of the most expert story-tellers for many years.
I don’t claim that I can tell a story the way it should be told. I just know how a story is supposed to be told because I’ve spent almost every day with some of the best storytellers for many years.
There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind—the humorous. I will talk mainly about that one. The humorous story is American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the manner of the telling; the comic story and the witty story upon the matter.
There are several types of stories, but only one challenging type—the humorous one. I'll focus mainly on that. The humorous story is American, the comic story is English, and the witty story is French. The humor in a humorous story relies on the way it’s told, while the comic and witty stories depend on the content.
The humorous story may be spun out to great length, and may wander around as much as it pleases, and arrive nowhere in particular; but the comic and witty stories must be brief and end with a point. The humorous story bubbles gently along, the others burst.
The funny story can go on for a long time, meandering wherever it wants, and not really get to any specific point; however, the comedic and clever stories should be short and end with a punchline. The humorous story flows slowly, while the others pop.
The humorous story is strictly a work of art—high and delicate art—and only an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling the comic and the witty story; anybody can do it. The art of telling a humorous story—understand, I mean by word of mouth, not print—was created in America, and has remained at home.
The humorous story is purely a work of art—high and delicate art—and only an artist can tell it; but no artistry is required to tell a funny or witty story; anyone can do that. The skill of telling a humorous story—just to be clear, I mean verbally, not in writing—was developed in America and has stayed here.
The humorous story is told gravely; the teller does his best to conceal the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny about it; but the teller of the comic story tells you beforehand that it is one of the funniest things he has ever heard, then tells it with eager delight, and is the first person to laugh when he gets through. And sometimes, if he has had good success, he is so glad and happy that he will repeat the “nub” of it and glance around from face to face, collecting applause, and then repeat it again. It is a pathetic thing to see.
The funny story is told seriously; the storyteller tries hard to hide the fact that he even slightly thinks there's anything funny about it. But the person telling the comic story lets you know right away that it's one of the funniest things he’s ever heard, then shares it with excitement and is the first to laugh when he finishes. Sometimes, if he's done well, he gets so happy that he will repeat the punchline and look around to see everyone's reactions, gathering applause, and then tell it again. It’s a sad sight to witness.
Very often, of course, the rambling and disjointed humorous story finishes with a nub, point, snapper, or whatever you like to call it. Then the listener must be alert, for in many cases the teller will divert attention from that nub by dropping it in a carefully casual and indifferent way, with the pretense that he does not know it is a nub.
Very often, the winding and disconnected funny story wraps up with a punchline or a twist, however you want to call it. Then the listener needs to be on their toes, because in many cases, the storyteller will subtly shift focus away from that punchline, pretending they don’t realize it’s a punchline at all.
Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal; then when the belated audience presently caught the joke he would look up with innocent surprise, as if wondering what they had found to laugh at. Dan Setchell used it before him, Nye and Riley and others use it today.
Artemus Ward used that trick a lot; then when the late audience finally got the joke, he'd look up with feigned surprise, as if he was curious about what they found funny. Dan Setchell did it before him, and Nye and Riley and others use it today.
But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub; he shouts it at you—every time. And when he prints it, in England, France, Germany, and Italy, he italicizes it, puts some whopping exclamation-points after it, and sometimes explains it in a parenthesis. All of which is very depressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.
But the storyteller of the comic tale doesn’t hold back the punchline; he throws it at you—every single time. And when he publishes it in England, France, Germany, and Italy, he italicizes it, adds a bunch of exclamation points after it, and sometimes explains it in a parenthesis. All of this is really discouraging and makes you want to give up joking and live a more meaningful life.
Let me set down an instance of the comic method, using an anecdote which has been popular all over the world for twelve or fifteen hundred years. The teller tells it in this way:
Let me give you an example of the comic method, using a story that has been popular around the world for twelve to fifteen hundred years. The storyteller shares it like this:
THE WOUNDED SOLDIER
In the course of a certain battle a soldier whose leg had been shot off appealed to another soldier who was hurrying by to carry him to the rear, informing him at the same time of the loss which he had sustained; whereupon the generous son of Mars, shouldering the unfortunate, proceeded to carry out his desire. The bullets and cannon-balls were flying in all directions, and presently one of the latter took the wounded man's head off—without, however, his deliverer being aware of it. In no long time he was hailed by an officer, who said:
During a certain battle, a soldier with a severed leg called out to another soldier rushing by, asking him to carry him to safety while telling him about his injury. The heroic soldier, embodying the spirit of bravery, picked up the injured man and started to fulfill his request. Bullets and cannonballs were flying everywhere, and soon one of the cannonballs struck the wounded man’s head—without the rescuer realizing it. Before long, he was approached by an officer, who said:
“Where are you going with that carcass?”
“Where are you taking that dead animal?”
“To the rear, sir—he's lost his leg!”
“To the back, sir—he's lost a leg!”
“His leg, forsooth?” responded the astonished officer; “you mean his head, you booby.”
“His leg, really?” replied the shocked officer; “you mean his head, you fool.”
Whereupon the soldier dispossessed himself of his burden, and stood looking down upon it in great perplexity. At length he said:
Whereupon the soldier got rid of his load and stood there, looking down at it in confusion. Finally, he said:
“It is true, sir, just as you have said.” Then after a pause he added, “But he TOLD me IT WAS HIS LEG!!!!!”
“It’s true, sir, just as you said.” Then after a pause, he added, “But he TOLD me IT WAS HIS LEG!!!!!”
Here the narrator bursts into explosion after explosion of thunderous horse-laughter, repeating that nub from time to time through his gasping and shriekings and suffocatings.
Here the narrator bursts into loud fits of horse laughter, repeating that line every now and then through his gasping, shrieking, and struggling to breathe.
It takes only a minute and a half to tell that in its comic-story form; and isn't worth the telling, after all. Put into the humorous-story form it takes ten minutes, and is about the funniest thing I have ever listened to—as James Whitcomb Riley tells it.
It only takes a minute and a half to share it as a comic story, and honestly, it's not even worth sharing. When told as a humorous story, it takes ten minutes, and it's one of the funniest things I've ever heard—just the way James Whitcomb Riley tells it.
He tells it in the character of a dull-witted old farmer who has just heard it for the first time, thinks it is unspeakably funny, and is trying to repeat it to a neighbor. But he can't remember it; so he gets all mixed up and wanders helplessly round and round, putting in tedious details that don't belong in the tale and only retard it; taking them out conscientiously and putting in others that are just as useless; making minor mistakes now and then and stopping to correct them and explain how he came to make them; remembering things which he forgot to put in in their proper place and going back to put them in there; stopping his narrative a good while in order to try to recall the name of the soldier that was hurt, and finally remembering that the soldier's name was not mentioned, and remarking placidly that the name is of no real importance, anyway—better, of course, if one knew it, but not essential, after all—and so on, and so on, and so on.
He tells it in the voice of a slow-witted old farmer who just heard it for the first time, thinks it’s unbelievably funny, and is trying to share it with a neighbor. But he can’t remember it, so he gets all mixed up and wanders aimlessly, adding boring details that don't fit the story and only slow it down; removing them carefully and putting in others that are just as pointless; making small mistakes now and then and stopping to correct them and explain how he made them; remembering things he forgot to mention at the right time and going back to include them; pausing his story for quite a while to try to recall the name of the injured soldier, and finally realizing that the soldier's name wasn’t mentioned, and casually noting that the name isn't really important anyway—better if he knew it, of course, but not essential, after all—and so on, and so on, and so on.
The teller is innocent and happy and pleased with himself, and has to stop every little while to hold himself in and keep from laughing outright; and does hold in, but his body quakes in a jelly-like way with interior chuckles; and at the end of the ten minutes the audience have laughed until they are exhausted, and the tears are running down their faces.
The teller is innocent, cheerful, and proud of himself, and has to pause every so often to keep himself together and avoid bursting out laughing; he manages to hold it in, but his body shakes like jelly with suppressed chuckles; by the end of the ten minutes, the audience has laughed so much that they’re completely worn out, with tears streaming down their faces.
The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness of the old farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result is a performance which is thoroughly charming and delicious. This is art—and fine and beautiful, and only a master can compass it; but a machine could tell the other story.
The simplicity, innocence, sincerity, and naivety of the old farmer are perfectly captured, resulting in a performance that is utterly charming and delightful. This is art—refined and beautiful, achieved only by a master; but a machine could tell a different story.
To string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering and sometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that they are absurdities, is the basis of the American art, if my position is correct. Another feature is the slurring of the point. A third is the dropping of a studied remark apparently without knowing it, as if one where thinking aloud. The fourth and last is the pause.
To connect inconsistencies and ridiculousness in a meandering and sometimes aimless manner, while appearing blissfully unaware of their absurdity, is the essence of American art, if I'm right. Another aspect is the vague expression of the main idea. A third is the casual drop of a carefully considered comment without realizing it, as if one is speaking their thoughts out loud. The fourth and final element is the pause.
Artemus Ward dealt in numbers three and four a good deal. He would begin to tell with great animation something which he seemed to think was wonderful; then lose confidence, and after an apparently absent-minded pause add an incongruous remark in a soliloquizing way; and that was the remark intended to explode the mine—and it did.
Artemus Ward often talked about numbers three and four a lot. He would start sharing something he thought was amazing with great energy, then he'd lose his confidence and, after a seemingly distracted pause, throw in a random comment as if he were thinking out loud; and that was the comment meant to set off the joke—and it did.
For instance, he would say eagerly, excitedly, “I once knew a man in New Zealand who hadn't a tooth in his head”—here his animation would die out; a silent, reflective pause would follow, then he would say dreamily, and as if to himself, “and yet that man could beat a drum better than any man I ever saw.”
For example, he would say eagerly, excitedly, “I once knew a guy in New Zealand who didn’t have a single tooth in his mouth”—then his energy would fade away; after a silent, thoughtful pause, he would say softly, almost to himself, “and yet that guy could play the drums better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story, and a frequently recurring feature, too. It is a dainty thing, and delicate, and also uncertain and treacherous; for it must be exactly the right length—no more and no less—or it fails of its purpose and makes trouble. If the pause is too short the impressive point is passed, and the audience have had time to divine that a surprise is intended—and then you can't surprise them, of course.
The pause is a very important element in any story, and it often appears as well. It's a fine and delicate thing, but also uncertain and tricky; it has to be just the right length—neither too long nor too short—or it misses the mark and causes problems. If the pause is too short, the key moment is lost, and the audience has time to guess that a surprise is coming—and then you can't surprise them, obviously.
On the platform I used to tell a negro ghost story that had a pause in front of the snapper on the end, and that pause was the most important thing in the whole story. If I got it the right length precisely, I could spring the finishing ejaculation with effect enough to make some impressible girl deliver a startled little yelp and jump out of her seat—and that was what I was after. This story was called “The Golden Arm,” and was told in this fashion. You can practice with it yourself—and mind you look out for the pause and get it right.
On the platform, I used to tell a ghost story that involved a suspenseful moment at the end, and that pause was the most crucial part of the entire tale. If I timed it perfectly, I could deliver the final punchline with enough impact to make some impressionable girl let out a startled yelp and hop out of her seat—and that was my goal. This story was called “The Golden Arm,” and it was told this way. You can practice it yourself—just make sure to pay attention to the pause and get it right.
THE GOLDEN ARM
Once 'pon a time dey wuz a monsus mean man, en he live 'way out in de prairie all 'lone by hisself, 'cep'n he had a wife. En bimeby she died, en he tuck en toted her way out dah in de prairie en buried her. Well, she had a golden arm—all solid gold, fum de shoulder down. He wuz pow'ful mean—pow'ful; en dat night he couldn't sleep, caze he want dat golden arm so bad.
Once upon a time, there was a really mean man who lived all alone in the prairie, except for his wife. Eventually, she died, and he carried her out to the prairie and buried her. She had a golden arm—solid gold from the shoulder down. He was incredibly mean—very mean; and that night he couldn’t sleep because he wanted that golden arm so badly.
When it come midnight he couldn't stan' it no mo'; so he git up, he did, en tuck his lantern en shoved out thoo de storm en dug her up en got de golden arm; en he bent his head down 'gin de win', en plowed en plowed en plowed thoo de snow. Den all on a sudden he stop (make a considerable pause here, and look startled, and take a listening attitude) en say: “My lan', what's dat?”
When it hit midnight, he couldn't stand it anymore; so he got up, he did, and took his lantern and pushed through the storm and dug her up and got the golden arm; and he bent his head down against the wind, and plowed and plowed and plowed through the snow. Then all of a sudden he stopped (make a considerable pause here, and look startled, and take a listening position) and said: “My land, what's that?”
En he listen—en listen—en de win' say (set your teeth together and imitate the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind), “Bzzz-z-zzz”—en den, way back yonder whah de grave is, he hear a voice!—he hear a voice all mix' up in de win'—can't hardly tell 'em 'part— “Bzzz—zzz—W-h-o—g-o-t—m-y—g-o-l-d-e-n arm?” (You must begin to shiver violently now.)
En he listens—en listens—en the wind says (clench your teeth together and mimic the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind), “Bzzz-z-zzz”—en then, far back where the grave is, he hears a voice!—he hears a voice all mixed up in the wind—you can hardly tell them apart— “Bzzz—zzz—W-h-o—g-o-t—m-y—g-o-l-d-e-n arm?” (You need to start shivering uncontrollably now.)
En he begin to shiver en shake, en say, “Oh, my! Oh, my lan'!” en de win' blow de lantern out, en de snow en sleet blow in his face en mos' choke him, en he start a-plowin' knee-deep toward home mos' dead, he so sk'yerd—en pooty soon he hear de voice agin, en (pause) it 'us comin after him! “Bzzz—zzz—zzz W-h-o—g-o-t—m-y—g-o-l-d-e-n—arm?”
And he starts to shiver and shake, and says, “Oh, my! Oh, my land!” and the wind blows out the lantern, and the snow and sleet blow into his face and almost choke him, and he begins to struggle his way home, practically dead from fear—he's so scared—and pretty soon he hears the voice again, and (pause) it’s coming after him! “Bzzz—zzz—zzz W-h-o—g-o-t—m-y—g-o-l-d-e-n—arm?”
When he git to de pasture he hear it agin—closter now, en a-comin'!—a-comin' back dah in de dark en de storm—(repeat the wind and the voice). When he git to de house he rush upstairs en jump in de bed en kiver up, head and years, en lay da shiverin' en shakin'—en den way out dah he hear it agin!—en a-comin'! En bimeby he hear (pause—awed, listening attitude)—pat—pat—pat Hit's a-comin' upstairs! Den he hear de latch, en he know it's in de room!
When he got to the pasture, he heard it again—closer now, and coming!—coming back there in the dark and the storm—(repeat the wind and the voice). When he got to the house, he rushed upstairs and jumped into bed, covering up, head and ears, and lay there shivering and shaking—and then way out there, he heard it again!—and a-coming! And after a bit, he heard (pause—awed, listening attitude)—pat—pat—pat It's coming upstairs! Then he heard the latch, and he knew it was in the room!
Den pooty soon he know it's a-stannin' by de bed! (Pause.) Den—he know it's a-bendin' down over him—en he cain't skasely git his breath! Den—den—he seem to feel someth'n' c-o-l-d, right down 'most agin his head! (Pause.)
Den pooty soon he knows it's a-standing by the bed! (Pause.) Then—he knows it's a-bending down over him—and he can barely catch his breath! Then—then—he seems to feel something c-o-l-d, right down almost against his head! (Pause.)
Den de voice say, right at his year—“W-h-o—g-o-t—m-y g-o-l-d-e-n arm?” (You must wail it out very plaintively and accusingly; then you stare steadily and impressively into the face of the farthest-gone auditor—a girl, preferably—and let that awe-inspiring pause begin to build itself in the deep hush. When it has reached exactly the right length, jump suddenly at that girl and yell, “You've got it!”)
Den the voice says, right in his ear—“W-h-o—g-o-t—m-y g-o-l-d-e-n arm?” (You have to say it very sadly and accusingly; then you stare intensely and impressively into the face of the most distant listener—a girl, if possible—and let that dramatic pause start to build in the deep silence. When it has reached just the right length, suddenly jump at that girl and shout, “You have it!”)
If you've got the pause right, she'll fetch a dear little yelp and spring right out of her shoes. But you must get the pause right; and you will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and uncertain thing you ever undertook.
If you've got the pause just right, she'll let out a cute little yelp and jump right out of her shoes. But you must get the pause right; and you'll find it to be the most frustrating and annoying and unpredictable thing you've ever tried to do.
GENERAL WASHINGTON'S NEGRO BODY-SERVANT
A Biographical Sketch
The stirring part of this celebrated colored man's life properly began with his death—that is to say, the notable features of his biography began with the first time he died. He had been little heard of up to that time, but since then we have never ceased to hear of him; we have never ceased to hear of him at stated, unfailing intervals. His was a most remarkable career, and I have thought that its history would make a valuable addition to our biographical literature. Therefore, I have carefully collated the materials for such a work, from authentic sources, and here present them to the public. I have rigidly excluded from these pages everything of a doubtful character, with the object in view of introducing my work into the schools for the instruction of the youth of my country.
The exciting part of this well-known man's life really started with his death—that is to say, the significant aspects of his story began the first time he died. Before that, he hadn’t been widely recognized, but since then, we haven’t stopped hearing about him; his name keeps coming up at regular intervals. His career was truly outstanding, and I believe that his story would make a valuable addition to our biographical literature. So, I have carefully gathered the information for such a work from reliable sources, and I present it to the public here. I have strictly left out anything questionable, intending to make this work suitable for schools to educate the youth of my country.
The name of the famous body-servant of General Washington was George. After serving his illustrious master faithfully for half a century, and enjoying throughout this long term his high regard and confidence, it became his sorrowful duty at last to lay that beloved master to rest in his peaceful grave by the Potomac. Ten years afterward—in 1809—full of years and honors, he died himself, mourned by all who knew him. The Boston Gazette of that date thus refers to the event:
The name of the famous personal servant of General Washington was George. After serving his esteemed master faithfully for fifty years and enjoying his respect and trust throughout that time, it became George's sad duty to finally lay that beloved master to rest in his peaceful grave by the Potomac. Ten years later—in 1809—having lived a long and honorable life, he passed away himself, mourned by everyone who knew him. The Boston Gazette from that time mentions the event as follows:
George, the favorite body-servant of the lamented Washington, died in Richmond, Va., last Tuesday, at the ripe age of 95 years. His intellect was unimpaired, and his memory tenacious, up to within a few minutes of his decease. He was present at the second installation of Washington as President, and also at his funeral, and distinctly remembered all the prominent incidents connected with those noted events.
George, the cherished servant of the late Washington, passed away in Richmond, VA, last Tuesday at 95 years old. His mind was sharp and his memory strong right up until just a few minutes before he died. He was present at Washington's second inauguration as President and also at his funeral, and he clearly remembered all the key events related to those important occasions.
From this period we hear no more of the favorite body-servant of General Washington until May, 1825, at which time he died again. A Philadelphia paper thus speaks of the sad occurrence:
From this time, we no longer hear about General Washington's favorite body servant until May 1825, when he passed away again. A Philadelphia newspaper reported on this tragic event:
At Macon, Ga., last week, a colored man named George, who was the favorite body-servant of General Washington, died at the advanced age of 95 years. Up to within a few hours of his dissolution he was in full possession of all his faculties, and could distinctly recollect the second installation of Washington, his death and burial, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battle of Trenton, the griefs and hardships of Valley Forge, etc. Deceased was followed to the grave by the entire population of Macon.
Last week in Macon, Georgia, a Black man named George, who was General Washington's favorite servant, died at the age of 95. Up until just a few hours before his passing, he was mentally sharp and could vividly recall Washington's second inauguration, his death and burial, Cornwallis's surrender, the battle of Trenton, and the challenges faced at Valley Forge, among other significant events. The entire community of Macon came to his funeral.
On the Fourth of July, 1830, and also of 1834 and 1836, the subject of this sketch was exhibited in great state upon the rostrum of the orator of the day, and in November of 1840 he died again. The St. Louis Republican of the 25th of that month spoke as follows:
On July 4th, 1830, and again in 1834 and 1836, the person this sketch is about was showcased prominently on the stage of the speaker of the day, and in November 1840, he passed away once more. The St. Louis Republican on the 25th of that month reported the following:
“ANOTHER RELIC OF THE REVOLUTION GONE.”
“George, once the favorite body-servant of General Washington, died yesterday at the house of Mr. John Leavenworth in this city, at the venerable age of 95 years. He was in the full possession of his faculties up to the hour of his death, and distinctly recollected the first and second installations and death of President Washington, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth, the sufferings of the patriot army at Valley Forge, the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence, the speech of Patrick Henry in the Virginia House of Delegates, and many other old-time reminiscences of stirring interest. Few white men die lamented as was this aged negro. The funeral was very largely attended.”
“ANOTHER RELIC OF THE REVOLUTION GONE.”
“George, once the beloved servant of General Washington, passed away yesterday at the home of Mr. John Leavenworth in this city, at the impressive age of 95. He was mentally sharp until the very end and vividly recalled Washington's first and second inaugurations, his death, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth, the struggles the patriot army faced at Valley Forge, the announcement of the Declaration of Independence, Patrick Henry's speech in the Virginia House of Delegates, and many other important memories from the past. Few white men are mourned as deeply as this elderly Black man. The funeral had a large turnout.”
During the next ten or eleven years the subject of this sketch appeared at intervals at Fourth-of-July celebrations in various parts of the country, and was exhibited upon the rostrum with flattering success. But in the fall of 1855 he died again. The California papers thus speak of the event:
During the next ten or eleven years, the subject of this sketch showed up periodically at Fourth of July celebrations across the country and was presented on stage with great success. However, in the fall of 1855, he died once more. The California newspapers described the event as follows:
ANOTHER OLD HERO GONE
Died, at Dutch Flat, on the 7th of March, George (once the confidential body-servant of General Washington), at the great age of 95 years. His memory, which did not fail him till the last, was a wonderful storehouse of interesting reminiscences. He could distinctly recollect the first and second installations and death of President Washington, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth, and Bunker Hill, the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence, and Braddock's defeat. George was greatly respected in Dutch Flat, and it is estimated that there were 10,000 people present at his funeral.
ANOTHER OLD HERO GONE
George, who once served as General Washington's personal bodyguard, passed away in Dutch Flat on March 7th at the impressive age of 95. His memory, which remained sharp until the end, was filled with incredible stories. He could vividly recall the first and second inaugurations and death of President Washington, Cornwallis's surrender, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth, and Bunker Hill, the announcement of the Declaration of Independence, and Braddock's defeat. George was highly respected in Dutch Flat, and about 10,000 people are estimated to have attended his funeral.
The last time the subject of this sketch died was in June, 1864; and until we learn the contrary, it is just to presume that he died permanently this time. The Michigan papers thus refer to the sorrowful event:
The last time the person in this sketch died was in June 1864; and until we hear otherwise, it's fair to assume that he passed away for good this time. The Michigan newspapers describe the sad event this way:
ANOTHER CHERISHED REMNANT OF THE REVOLUTION GONE
George, a colored man, and once the favorite body-servant of George Washington, died in Detroit last week, at the patriarchal age of 95 years. To the moment of his death his intellect was unclouded, and he could distinctly remember the first and second installations and death of Washington, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth, and Bunker Hill, the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence, Braddock's defeat, the throwing over of the tea in Boston harbor, and the landing of the Pilgrims. He died greatly respected, and was followed to the grave by a vast concourse of people.
ANOTHER BELOVED REMNANT OF THE REVOLUTION LOST
George, a Black man and previously the favorite servant of George Washington, passed away in Detroit last week at the remarkable age of 95. Until his death, he had a sharp mind and vividly recalled Washington's first and second inaugurations, his death, Cornwallis's surrender, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth, Bunker Hill, the announcement of the Declaration of Independence, Braddock's defeat, the Boston Tea Party, and the Pilgrims' landing. He died respected and was honored at his funeral by a large gathering of people.
The faithful old servant is gone! We shall never see him more until he turns up again. He has closed his long and splendid career of dissolution, for the present, and sleeps peacefully, as only they sleep who have earned their rest. He was in all respects a remarkable man. He held his age better than any celebrity that has figured in history; and the longer he lived the stronger and longer his memory grew. If he lives to die again, he will distinctly recollect the discovery of America.
The loyal old servant is gone! We won't see him again until he shows up once more. He has finished his long and impressive life of letting go, for now, and rests peacefully, like those who truly deserve their rest. He was an exceptional man in every way. He aged better than any famous figure in history; and the longer he lived, the stronger and clearer his memories became. If he gets the chance to die again, he will distinctly remember the discovery of America.
The above resume of his biography I believe to be substantially correct, although it is possible that he may have died once or twice in obscure places where the event failed of newspaper notoriety. One fault I find in all the notices of his death I have quoted, and this ought to be corrected. In them he uniformly and impartially died at the age of 95. This could not have been. He might have done that once, or maybe twice, but he could not have continued it indefinitely. Allowing that when he first died, he died at the age of 95, he was 151 years old when he died last, in 1864. But his age did not keep pace with his recollections. When he died the last time, he distinctly remembered the landing of the Pilgrims, which took place in 1620. He must have been about twenty years old when he witnessed that event, wherefore it is safe to assert that the body-servant of General Washington was in the neighborhood of two hundred and sixty or seventy years old when he departed this life finally.
I believe the summary of his biography above is mostly accurate, though it’s possible he may have died once or twice in little-known places where the news didn’t get coverage. One issue I see in all the accounts of his death I’ve mentioned is that they all claim he died at the age of 95. That can’t be true. He might have done that once or maybe twice, but he couldn’t have kept doing it forever. Assuming that when he first died, he was 95, that would make him 151 years old when he died for the last time in 1864. However, his age didn’t match his memories. When he died the last time, he clearly remembered the landing of the Pilgrims in 1620. He must have been around twenty when that happened, so it’s safe to say that General Washington's body-servant was about two hundred and sixty or seventy years old when he finally passed away.
Having waited a proper length of time, to see if the subject of his sketch had gone from us reliably and irrevocably, I now publish his biography with confidence, and respectfully offer it to a mourning nation.
Having waited a suitable amount of time to see if the subject of his sketch was truly gone for good, I now confidently publish his biography and respectfully present it to a grieving nation.
P.S.—I see by the papers that this infamous old fraud has just died again, in Arkansas. This makes six times that he is known to have died, and always in a new place. The death of Washington's body-servant has ceased to be a novelty; it's charm is gone; the people are tired of it; let it cease. This well-meaning but misguided negro has now put six different communities to the expense of burying him in state, and has swindled tens of thousands of people into following him to the grave under the delusion that a select and peculiar distinction was being conferred upon them. Let him stay buried for good now; and let that newspaper suffer the severest censure that shall ever, in all the future time, publish to the world that General Washington's favorite colored body-servant has died again.
P.S.—I read in the news that this infamous old con artist has just “died” again, this time in Arkansas. That makes six times he’s known to have died, always in a different place. The death of Washington's body servant has lost its novelty; the excitement is over; people are tired of it; it needs to stop. This well-meaning but misguided man has now made six different communities pay to give him a grand burial and has tricked tens of thousands of people into following him to the grave, thinking they were receiving some special honor. Let him stay buried for real this time; and let that newspaper face serious consequences if it ever again announces to the world that General Washington's favorite body servant has died once more.
WIT INSPIRATIONS OF THE “TWO-YEAR-OLDS”
All infants appear to have an impertinent and disagreeable fashion nowadays of saying “smart” things on most occasions that offer, and especially on occasions when they ought not to be saying anything at all. Judging by the average published specimens of smart sayings, the rising generation of children are little better than idiots. And the parents must surely be but little better than the children, for in most cases they are the publishers of the sunbursts of infantile imbecility which dazzle us from the pages of our periodicals. I may seem to speak with some heat, not to say a suspicion of personal spite; and I do admit that it nettles me to hear about so many gifted infants in these days, and remember that I seldom said anything smart when I was a child. I tried it once or twice, but it was not popular. The family were not expecting brilliant remarks from me, and so they snubbed me sometimes and spanked me the rest. But it makes my flesh creep and my blood run cold to think what might have happened to me if I had dared to utter some of the smart things of this generation's “four-year-olds” where my father could hear me. To have simply skinned me alive and considered his duty at an end would have seemed to him criminal leniency toward one so sinning. He was a stern, unsmiling man, and hated all forms of precocity. If I had said some of the things I have referred to, and said them in his hearing, he would have destroyed me. He would, indeed. He would, provided the opportunity remained with him. But it would not, for I would have had judgment enough to take some strychnine first and say my smart thing afterward. The fair record of my life has been tarnished by just one pun. My father overheard that, and he hunted me over four or five townships seeking to take my life. If I had been full-grown, of course he would have been right; but, child as I was, I could not know how wicked a thing I had done.
All babies seem to have an annoying and unpleasant way of making "smart" remarks in almost every situation, especially when they really should just stay quiet. Judging by the typical examples of clever sayings published these days, the new generation of kids are barely any better than fools. And the parents can't be much better themselves since they often are the ones publishing these bursts of childish nonsense that blind us from the pages of our magazines. I may sound a bit heated, and perhaps a touch spiteful; I admit I'm irritated by all this talk of talented babies today, especially when I think that I rarely said anything clever as a child. I tried it once or twice, but it didn't go over well. My family didn’t expect brilliance from me, so they often shut me down or grounded me instead. It makes me shudder to think about what would have happened if I had dared to say some of the clever things today’s "four-year-olds" say in front of my dad. He would have skinned me alive and felt he had a duty to do so—it would have seemed to him like a serious crime to let a kid get away with that. He was a strict, serious guy and despised all forms of precociousness. If I had said some of the things I’m referring to in front of him, he would have destroyed me. He really would have, if he had the chance. But I would have been smart enough to take some poison beforehand and say my smart thing afterward. My otherwise clean record has only been marred by one pun. My father heard that, and he chased me through four or five towns trying to take me down. If I had been an adult, he would have been justified; but as a child, I couldn’t have understood how wrong my actions were.
I made one of those remarks ordinarily called “smart things” before that, but it was not a pun. Still, it came near causing a serious rupture between my father and myself. My father and mother, my uncle Ephraim and his wife, and one or two others were present, and the conversation turned on a name for me. I was lying there trying some India-rubber rings of various patterns, and endeavoring to make a selection, for I was tired of trying to cut my teeth on people's fingers, and wanted to get hold of something that would enable me to hurry the thing through and get something else. Did you ever notice what a nuisance it was cutting your teeth on your nurse's finger, or how back-breaking and tiresome it was trying to cut them on your big toe? And did you never get out of patience and wish your teeth were in Jerico long before you got them half cut? To me it seems as if these things happened yesterday. And they did, to some children. But I digress. I was lying there trying the India-rubber rings. I remember looking at the clock and noticing that in an hour and twenty-five minutes I would be two weeks old, and thinking how little I had done to merit the blessings that were so unsparingly lavished upon me. My father said:
I made one of those comments usually called "smart remarks" before that, but it wasn't a pun. Still, it almost caused a serious fallout between my dad and me. My dad and mom, my uncle Ephraim and his wife, and a couple of other people were there, and the conversation turned to what name to give me. I was lying there trying out some rubber rings of different shapes, trying to pick one because I was tired of biting down on people's fingers and wanted to grab something that would help me get through this teething phase faster and move on to something else. Have you ever noticed how annoying it is to chew on your nurse's finger, or how uncomfortable and exhausting it is to try to chew on your big toe? And did you ever lose your patience and wish your teeth were in Jericho long before they were halfway through? To me, it feels like these things happened yesterday. And for some kids, they really did. But I’m getting off track. I was lying there testing the rubber rings. I remember glancing at the clock and realizing that in an hour and twenty-five minutes, I'd be two weeks old, and thinking about how little I had done to deserve all the blessings I was receiving. My dad said:
“Abraham is a good name. My grandfather was named Abraham.”
“Abraham is a great name. My grandpa was named Abraham.”
My mother said:
My mom said:
“Abraham is a good name. Very well. Let us have Abraham for one of his names.”
“Abraham is a great name. All right. Let’s go with Abraham as one of his names.”
I said:
I said:
“Abraham suits the subscriber.”
“Abraham fits the subscriber.”
My father frowned, my mother looked pleased; my aunt said:
My dad frowned, my mom looked happy; my aunt said:
“What a little darling it is!”
“What a little sweetheart it is!”
My father said:
My dad said:
“Isaac is a good name, and Jacob is a good name.”
“Isaac is a nice name, and Jacob is a nice name.”
My mother assented, and said:
My mom agreed and said:
“No names are better. Let us add Isaac and Jacob to his names.”
“No names are better. Let's add Isaac and Jacob to his names.”
I said:
I said:
“All right. Isaac and Jacob are good enough for yours truly. Pass me that rattle, if you please. I can't chew India-rubber rings all day.”
“All right. Isaac and Jacob are just fine for me. Hand me that rattle, please. I can't be chewing on rubber rings all day.”
Not a soul made a memorandum of these sayings of mine, for publication. I saw that, and did it myself, else they would have been utterly lost. So far from meeting with a generous encouragement like other children when developing intellectually, I was now furiously scowled upon by my father; my mother looked grieved and anxious, and even my aunt had about her an expression of seeming to think that maybe I had gone too far. I took a vicious bite out of an India-rubber ring, and covertly broke the rattle over the kitten's head, but said nothing. Presently my father said:
Not a single person wrote down my sayings for others to see. I noticed that, so I took it upon myself to do it, or they would have been completely forgotten. Instead of getting the same kind of support other kids received when they were growing up intellectually, I was met with furious glares from my dad; my mom looked sad and worried, and even my aunt seemed to think I might have overstepped. I took a hard bite out of a rubber ring and secretly smashed the rattle over the kitten's head but said nothing. Eventually, my dad said:
“Samuel is a very excellent name.”
“Samuel is a really great name.”
I saw that trouble was coming. Nothing could prevent it. I laid down my rattle; over the side of the cradle I dropped my uncle's silver watch, the clothes-brush, the toy dog, my tin soldier, the nutmeg-grater, and other matters which I was accustomed to examine, and meditate upon and make pleasant noises with, and bang and batter and break when I needed wholesome entertainment. Then I put on my little frock and my little bonnet, and took my pygmy shoes in one hand and my licorice in the other, and climbed out on the floor. I said to myself, Now, if the worse comes to worst, I am ready. Then I said aloud, in a firm voice:
I realized that trouble was on its way. Nothing could stop it. I put down my rattle and dropped my uncle's silver watch, the clothes brush, the toy dog, my tin soldier, the nutmeg grater, and other things I usually played with, thought about, made noises with, and banged around for some fun. Then I put on my little dress and bonnet, grabbed my tiny shoes in one hand and my licorice in the other, and climbed down onto the floor. I thought to myself, If things go really badly, I'm ready. Then I said out loud, in a strong voice:
“Father, I cannot, cannot wear the name of Samuel.”
“Dad, I can't, I can't go by the name Samuel.”
“My son!”
"My kid!"
“Father, I mean it. I cannot.”
“Dad, I mean it. I can’t.”
“Why?”
"Why?"
“Father, I have an invincible antipathy to that name.”
“Dad, I have an overpowering dislike for that name.”
“My son, this is unreasonable. Many great and good men have been named Samuel.”
“My son, this isn't fair. Many great and good men have been called Samuel.”
“Sir, I have yet to hear of the first instance.”
“Sir, I still haven't heard of the first instance.”
“What! There was Samuel the prophet. Was not he great and good?”
“What! There was Samuel the prophet. Wasn’t he great and good?”
“Not so very.”
“Not really.”
“My son! With His own voice the Lord called him.”
“My son! The Lord called him with His own voice.”
“Yes, sir, and had to call him a couple times before he could come!”
“Yes, sir, I had to call him a couple of times before he was able to come!”
And then I sallied forth, and that stern old man sallied forth after me. He overtook me at noon the following day, and when the interview was over I had acquired the name of Samuel, and a thrashing, and other useful information; and by means of this compromise my father's wrath was appeased and a misunderstanding bridged over which might have become a permanent rupture if I had chosen to be unreasonable. But just judging by this episode, what would my father have done to me if I had ever uttered in his hearing one of the flat, sickly things these “two-years-olds” say in print nowadays? In my opinion there would have been a case of infanticide in our family.
And then I set out, and that stern old man followed me. He caught up to me at noon the next day, and after our conversation, I ended up with the name Samuel, a beating, and some valuable information; and thanks to this compromise, my father's anger was calmed, and a misunderstanding was resolved that could have led to a permanent fallout if I had been difficult. But just judging by this episode, what would my father have done to me if I had ever said one of those flat, pathetic things these “two-year-olds” say in print nowadays? In my opinion, there would have been a case of infanticide in our family.
AN ENTERTAINING ARTICLE
I take the following paragraph from an article in the Boston Advertiser:
I’m sharing the following paragraph from an article in the Boston Advertiser:
AN ENGLISH CRITIC ON MARK TWAIN
Perhaps the most successful flights of humor of Mark Twain have been descriptions of the persons who did not appreciate his humor at all. We have become familiar with the Californians who were thrilled with terror by his burlesque of a newspaper reporter's way of telling a story, and we have heard of the Pennsylvania clergyman who sadly returned his Innocents Abroad to the book-agent with the remark that “the man who could shed tears over the tomb of Adam must be an idiot.” But Mark Twain may now add a much more glorious instance to his string of trophies. The Saturday Review, in its number of October 8th, reviews his book of travels, which has been republished in England, and reviews it seriously. We can imagine the delight of the humorist in reading this tribute to his power; and indeed it is so amusing in itself that he can hardly do better than reproduce the article in full in his next monthly Memoranda.
AN ENGLISH CRITIC ON MARK TWAIN
Some of Mark Twain's funniest moments arise from his descriptions of people who completely miss the joke. We're familiar with the Californians who were genuinely scared by his humorous take on how a newspaper reporter narrates a story, and we've heard about the Pennsylvania clergyman who regretfully returned his Innocents Abroad to the book agent, saying, "the man who could cry over the tomb of Adam must be an idiot." Now, Mark Twain has a much more glorious example to add to his list of victories. The Saturday Review, in its October 8th issue, provides a serious review of his travel book, which has been republished in England. We can imagine how thrilled the humorist would be to read this recognition of his talent; and honestly, it's so entertaining by itself that he might as well include the entire article in his next monthly Memoranda.
(Publishing the above paragraph thus, gives me a sort of authority for reproducing the Saturday Review's article in full in these pages. I dearly wanted to do it, for I cannot write anything half so delicious myself. If I had a cast-iron dog that could read this English criticism and preserve his austerity, I would drive him off the door-step.)
(Publishing the above paragraph like this gives me a sort of authority to reproduce the Saturday Review's article in full on these pages. I really wanted to do it because I can't write anything nearly as delightful myself. If I had an unflappable dog that could read this English criticism and maintain his composure, I would chase him off the doorstep.)
(From the London “Saturday Review.”)
From the London “Saturday Review.”
REVIEWS OF NEW BOOKS
The Innocents Abroad. A Book of Travels. By Mark Twain. London: Hotten, publisher. 1870.
The Innocents Abroad. A Travel Book. By Mark Twain. London: Hotten, publisher. 1870.
Lord Macaulay died too soon. We never felt this so deeply as when we finished the last chapter of the above-named extravagant work. Macaulay died too soon—for none but he could mete out complete and comprehensive justice to the insolence, the impertinence, the presumption, the mendacity, and, above all, the majestic ignorance of this author.
Lord Macaulay died too soon. We never felt this more profoundly than when we finished the last chapter of the aforementioned extravagant work. Macaulay died too soon—because no one but he could deliver complete and thorough justice to the arrogance, the rudeness, the overconfidence, the dishonesty, and, above all, the grand ignorance of this author.
To say that The Innocents Abroad is a curious book, would be to use the faintest language—would be to speak of the Matterhorn as a neat elevation or of Niagara as being “nice” or “pretty.” “Curious” is too tame a word wherewith to describe the imposing insanity of this work. There is no word that is large enough or long enough. Let us, therefore, photograph a passing glimpse of book and author, and trust the rest to the reader. Let the cultivated English student of human nature picture to himself this Mark Twain as a person capable of doing the following-described things—and not only doing them, but with incredible innocence printing them calmly and tranquilly in a book. For instance:
To say that The Innocents Abroad is an odd book would be to use the mildest language—like calling the Matterhorn a small hill or saying Niagara is “nice” or “pretty.” “Odd” is too weak a word to describe the sheer madness of this work. There’s no word that’s big enough or long enough. So, let’s take a quick look at the book and its author, and let the reader figure out the rest. Imagine this Mark Twain as someone capable of doing the things described below—and not just doing them, but also innocently printing them calmly and quietly in a book. For example:
He states that he entered a hair-dresser's in Paris to get shaved, and the first “_rake_” the barber gave him with his razor it loosened his “_hide_” and lifted him out of the chair.
He says that he went to a barber shop in Paris to get a shave, and the first “_swipe_” the barber made with his razor it made him feel like he was shedding his skin and lifted him out of the chair.
This is unquestionably exaggerated. In Florence he was so annoyed by beggars that he pretends to have seized and eaten one in a frantic spirit of revenge. There is, of course, no truth in this. He gives at full length a theatrical program seventeen or eighteen hundred years old, which he professes to have found in the ruins of the Coliseum, among the dirt and mold and rubbish. It is a sufficient comment upon this statement to remark that even a cast-iron program would not have lasted so long under such circumstances. In Greece he plainly betrays both fright and flight upon one occasion, but with frozen effrontery puts the latter in this falsely tamed form: “We sidled toward the Piraeus.” “Sidled,” indeed! He does not hesitate to intimate that at Ephesus, when his mule strayed from the proper course, he got down, took him under his arm, carried him to the road again, pointed him right, remounted, and went to sleep contentedly till it was time to restore the beast to the path once more. He states that a growing youth among his ship's passengers was in the constant habit of appeasing his hunger with soap and oakum between meals. In Palestine he tells of ants that came eleven miles to spend the summer in the desert and brought their provisions with them; yet he shows by his description of the country that the feat was an impossibility. He mentions, as if it were the most commonplace of matters, that he cut a Moslem in two in broad daylight in Jerusalem, with Godfrey de Bouillon's sword, and would have shed more blood if he had had a graveyard of his own. These statements are unworthy a moment's attention. Mr. Twain or any other foreigner who did such a thing in Jerusalem would be mobbed, and would infallibly lose his life. But why go on? Why repeat more of his audacious and exasperating falsehoods? Let us close fittingly with this one: he affirms that “in the mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople I got my feet so stuck up with a complication of gums, slime, and general impurity, that I wore out more than two thousand pair of bootjacks getting my boots off that night, and even then some Christian hide peeled off with them.” It is monstrous. Such statements are simply lies—there is no other name for them. Will the reader longer marvel at the brutal ignorance that pervades the American nation when we tell him that we are informed upon perfectly good authority that this extravagant compilation of falsehoods, this exhaustless mine of stupendous lies, this Innocents Abroad, has actually been adopted by the schools and colleges of several of the states as a text-book!
This is definitely an exaggeration. In Florence, he got so irritated by beggars that he pretends to have grabbed one and eaten it out of sheer frustration. Of course, that's not true. He details an old theatrical program from 1700 or 1800 years ago that he claims to have found in the ruins of the Coliseum, among dirt, mold, and trash. It's worth noting that even a cast-iron program wouldn't last that long in such conditions. In Greece, he clearly shows fear and a desire to flee on one occasion, but with shameless audacity phrases it as, “We sidled toward the Piraeus.” “Sidled,” really? He implies that when his mule wandered off course in Ephesus, he got down, picked it up under his arm, carried it back to the road, pointed it in the right direction, remounted, and fell asleep contentedly until it was time to guide the animal again. He claims that a growing youth among his ship's passengers frequently satisfied his hunger with soap and oakum between meals. In Palestine, he talks about ants that traveled eleven miles to spend the summer in the desert, bringing their supplies; yet his description of the area makes it clear that such a feat was impossible. He mentions, as if it were the simplest thing, that he cut a Muslim in two in broad daylight in Jerusalem with Godfrey de Bouillon's sword and would have spilled more blood if he had had a graveyard of his own. These claims aren't worth a moment's attention. Mr. Twain or any other foreigner doing something like this in Jerusalem would be mobbed and would surely lose his life. But why continue? Why repeat more of his bold and infuriating lies? Let’s end fittingly with this: he claims that “in the mosque of St. Sophia in Constantinople I got my feet so stuck with a mix of gums, slime, and general filth, that I wore out over two thousand pairs of bootjacks trying to take my boots off that night, and even then some Christian skin came off with them.” It's outrageous. Such statements are plainly lies—there's no other way to put it. Will the reader still be surprised by the sheer ignorance that fills the American nation when we inform them that we're told, on perfectly good authority, that this wild collection of fabrications, this endless source of incredible lies, this Innocents Abroad, has actually been adopted by the schools and colleges in several states as a textbook!
But if his falsehoods are distressing, his innocence and his ignorance are enough to make one burn the book and despise the author. In one place he was so appalled at the sudden spectacle of a murdered man, unveiled by the moonlight, that he jumped out of the window, going through sash and all, and then remarks with the most childlike simplicity that he “was not scared, but was considerably agitated.” It puts us out of patience to note that the simpleton is densely unconscious that Lucrezia Borgia ever existed off the stage. He is vulgarly ignorant of all foreign languages, but is frank enough to criticize, the Italians' use of their own tongue. He says they spell the name of their great painter “Vinci, but pronounce it Vinchy”—and then adds with a naivete possible only to helpless ignorance, “foreigners always spell better than they pronounce.” In another place he commits the bald absurdity of putting the phrase “tare an ouns” into an Italian's mouth. In Rome he unhesitatingly believes the legend that St. Philip Neri's heart was so inflamed with divine love that it burst his ribs—believes it wholly because an author with a learned list of university degrees strung after his name endorses it—“otherwise,” says this gentle idiot, “I should have felt a curiosity to know what Philip had for dinner.” Our author makes a long, fatiguing journey to the Grotto del Cane on purpose to test its poisoning powers on a dog—got elaborately ready for the experiment, and then discovered that he had no dog. A wiser person would have kept such a thing discreetly to himself, but with this harmless creature everything comes out. He hurts his foot in a rut two thousand years old in exhumed Pompeii, and presently, when staring at one of the cinder-like corpses unearthed in the next square, conceives the idea that maybe it is the remains of the ancient Street Commissioner, and straightway his horror softens down to a sort of chirpy contentment with the condition of things. In Damascus he visits the well of Ananias, three thousand years old, and is as surprised and delighted as a child to find that the water is “as pure and fresh as if the well had been dug yesterday.” In the Holy Land he gags desperately at the hard Arabic and Hebrew Biblical names, and finally concludes to call them Baldwinsville, Williamsburgh, and so on, “for convenience of spelling.”
But if his lies are upsetting, his innocence and ignorance are enough to make someone want to burn the book and hate the author. At one point, he was so shocked by the sight of a murdered man illuminated by the moonlight that he jumped out of the window, crashing through the sash, and then comments with the most naive simplicity that he “was not scared, but was pretty agitated.” It’s frustrating to realize that this fool is utterly unaware that Lucrezia Borgia ever existed outside of the theater. He’s completely clueless about all foreign languages, yet he's open enough to criticize the Italians' use of their own language. He says they spell the name of their great painter “Vinci” but pronounce it “Vinchy”—and then adds with an innocence that only comes from sheer ignorance, “foreigners always spell better than they pronounce.” In another instance, he makes the ridiculous mistake of putting the phrase “tare an ouns” in the mouth of an Italian. In Rome, he unhesitatingly believes the legend that St. Philip Neri’s heart was so filled with divine love that it burst his ribs—he believes it completely just because an author with a list of academic degrees backs it up—“otherwise,” this gentle fool says, “I would have felt curious to know what Philip had for dinner.” Our author makes a long, exhausting trip to the Grotto del Cane just to test its poisoning powers on a dog—gets everything ready for the experiment, and then realizes he has no dog. A smarter person would have kept that to themselves, but with this harmless guy, everything comes out. He hurts his foot in a rut that's two thousand years old in the excavated Pompeii, and soon, while staring at one of the ash-like bodies uncovered in the next square, he suddenly thinks it might be the remains of the ancient Street Commissioner, and immediately his horror turns into a sort of cheerful acceptance of the situation. In Damascus, he visits the well of Ananias, three thousand years old, and is as surprised and delighted as a child to find that the water is “as pure and fresh as if the well had been dug yesterday.” In the Holy Land, he struggles desperately with the difficult Arabic and Hebrew Biblical names, and eventually decides to call them Baldwinsville, Williamsburgh, and so on, “for convenience of spelling.”
We have thus spoken freely of this man's stupefying simplicity and innocence, but we cannot deal similarly with his colossal ignorance. We do not know where to begin. And if we knew where to begin, we certainly would not know where to leave off. We will give one specimen, and one only. He did not know, until he got to Rome, that Michael Angelo was dead! And then, instead of crawling away and hiding his shameful ignorance somewhere, he proceeds to express a pious, grateful sort of satisfaction that he is gone and out of his troubles!
We've talked openly about this man's shocking simplicity and innocence, but we can't address his huge ignorance in the same way. We don’t even know where to start. And if we did know where to start, we certainly wouldn't know where to stop. We'll provide just one example, and only one. He didn’t realize, until he arrived in Rome, that Michelangelo was dead! And instead of crawling away and hiding his embarrassing ignorance, he goes on to express a kind of pious, grateful relief that he’s no longer around to face his troubles!
No, the reader may seek out the author's exhibition of his uncultivation for himself. The book is absolutely dangerous, considering the magnitude and variety of its misstatements, and the convincing confidence with which they are made. And yet it is a text-book in the schools of America.
No, the reader can explore the author's lack of education for themselves. The book is incredibly dangerous, given the extent and range of its inaccuracies, and the convincing confidence with which they're presented. And yet, it's used as a textbook in schools across America.
The poor blunderer mouses among the sublime creations of the Old Masters, trying to acquire the elegant proficiency in art-knowledge, which he has a groping sort of comprehension is a proper thing for a traveled man to be able to display. But what is the manner of his study? And what is the progress he achieves? To what extent does he familiarize himself with the great pictures of Italy, and what degree of appreciation does he arrive at? Read:
The poor clueless guy wanders through the amazing works of the Old Masters, trying to gain the stylish skills in art knowledge that he kind of understands is something a well-traveled person should have. But how does he study? And how much progress does he actually make? How well does he get to know the great artworks of Italy, and how much appreciation does he really develop? Read:
“When we see a monk going about with a lion and looking up into heaven, we know that that is St. Mark. When we see a monk with a book and a pen, looking tranquilly up to heaven, trying to think of a word, we know that that is St. Matthew. When we see a monk sitting on a rock, looking tranquilly up to heaven, with a human skull beside him, and without other baggage, we know that that is St. Jerome. Because we know that he always went flying light in the matter of baggage. When we see other monks looking tranquilly up to heaven, but having no trade-mark, we always ask who those parties are. We do this because we humbly wish to learn.”
“When we see a monk walking with a lion and gazing up at the sky, we know that's St. Mark. When we see a monk with a book and a pen, calmly looking up to heaven and trying to think of a word, we recognize him as St. Matthew. When we see a monk sitting on a rock, peacefully looking up to heaven with a human skull next to him and no other belongings, we identify him as St. Jerome. This is because we know he always traveled light. When we see other monks looking peacefully up to heaven, but they don’t have any identifiable marks, we always ask who they are. We do this because we genuinely want to learn.”
He then enumerates the thousands and thousand of copies of these several pictures which he has seen, and adds with accustomed simplicity that he feels encouraged to believe that when he has seen “Some More” of each, and had a larger experience, he will eventually “begin to take an absorbing interest in them”—the vulgar boor.
He then lists the thousands of copies of these various pictures he has seen and adds, with his usual straightforwardness, that he feels motivated to believe that when he has seen “Some More” of each and gained more experience, he will eventually “start to take a real interest in them”—the typical uncultured person.
That we have shown this to be a remarkable book, we think no one will deny. That it is a pernicious book to place in the hands of the confiding and uniformed, we think we have also shown. That the book is a deliberate and wicked creation of a diseased mind, is apparent upon every page. Having placed our judgment thus upon record, let us close with what charity we can, by remarking that even in this volume there is some good to be found; for whenever the author talks of his own country and lets Europe alone, he never fails to make himself interesting, and not only interesting but instructive. No one can read without benefit his occasional chapters and paragraphs, about life in the gold and silver mines of California and Nevada; about the Indians of the plains and deserts of the West, and their cannibalism; about the raising of vegetables in kegs of gunpowder by the aid of two or three teaspoons of guano; about the moving of small arms from place to place at night in wheelbarrows to avoid taxes; and about a sort of cows and mules in the Humboldt mines, that climb down chimneys and disturb the people at night. These matters are not only new, but are well worth knowing. It is a pity the author did not put in more of the same kind. His book is well written and is exceedingly entertaining, and so it just barely escaped being quite valuable also.
We believe that it's undeniable this is a remarkable book. We’ve also demonstrated that it's harmful to put this book in the hands of trusting and uninformed people. The fact that this book is a willful and malicious creation of a twisted mind is clear from every page. Having shared our judgment, let’s wrap up on a positive note by mentioning that there is some good to be found in this volume; whenever the author discusses his own country and leaves Europe out of it, he manages to be both interesting and informative. Anyone can benefit from his occasional chapters and paragraphs about life in the gold and silver mines of California and Nevada, about the Native Americans in the plains and deserts of the West and their cannibalism, about growing vegetables in kegs of gunpowder using just a couple of teaspoons of guano, about moving small weapons at night in wheelbarrows to avoid taxes, and about a type of cows and mules in the Humboldt mines that climb down chimneys and disturb people at night. These topics are not only fresh but also worth knowing. It’s a shame the author didn’t include more of this type of content. His book is well-written and very entertaining, which means it just barely missed being truly valuable as well.
(One month later)
Latterly I have received several letters, and see a number of newspaper paragraphs, all upon a certain subject, and all of about the same tenor. I here give honest specimens. One is from a New York paper, one is from a letter from an old friend, and one is from a letter from a New York publisher who is a stranger to me. I humbly endeavor to make these bits toothsome with the remark that the article they are praising (which appeared in the December Galaxy, and pretended to be a criticism from the London Saturday Review on my Innocents Abroad) was written by myself, every line of it:
Recently, I've received several letters and noticed a number of newspaper articles, all about the same topic and similar in tone. Here are some honest examples. One is from a New York paper, another is from a letter from an old friend, and the last is from a letter by a New York publisher who I don't know. I try to make these snippets appealing by noting that the article they’re praising (which was published in the December Galaxy and pretended to be a review from the London Saturday Review of my Innocents Abroad) was written entirely by me:
The Herald says the richest thing out is the “serious critique” in the London Saturday Review, on Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad. We thought before we read it that it must be “serious,” as everybody said so, and were even ready to shed a few tears; but since perusing it, we are bound to confess that next to Mark Twain's “Jumping Frog” it's the finest bit of humor and sarcasm that we've come across in many a day.
The Herald reports that the biggest highlight is the “serious critique” in the London Saturday Review of Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad. Before we read it, we thought it had to be “serious,” since everyone kept saying so, and we even prepared ourselves to cry a little. But after reading it, we have to say that next to Mark Twain's Jumping Frog, it's the funniest and most sarcastic piece we've seen in a while.
(I do not get a compliment like that every day.)
(I do not get a compliment like that every day.)
I used to think that your writings were pretty good, but after reading the criticism in The Galaxy from the London Review, have discovered what an ass I must have been. If suggestions are in order, mine is, that you put that article in your next edition of the Innocents, as an extra chapter, if you are not afraid to put your own humor in competition with it. It is as rich a thing as I ever read.
I used to think your writing was quite good, but after reading the review in The Galaxy from the London Review, I see how wrong I was. If you're open to suggestions, I think you should add that article to the next edition of the Innocents as an extra chapter, unless you're worried that your own humor can't measure up to it. It’s one of the best pieces I've ever read.
(Which is strong commendation from a book publisher.)
(Which is a strong endorsement from a book publisher.)
The London Reviewer, my friend, is not the stupid, “serious” creature he pretends to be, I think; but, on the contrary, has a keen appreciation and enjoyment of your book. As I read his article in The Galaxy, I could imagine him giving vent to many a hearty laugh. But he is writing for Catholics and Established Church people, and high-toned, antiquated, conservative gentility, whom it is a delight to him to help you shock, while he pretends to shake his head with owlish density. He is a magnificent humorist himself.
The London Reviewer, my friend, isn’t the serious, “sophisticated” person he pretends to be; in fact, he really appreciates and enjoys your book. As I read his article in The Galaxy, I could imagine him laughing a lot. However, he’s writing for Catholics and people from the Established Church, along with those high-minded, old-fashioned, conservative folks, whom he loves to surprise while pretending to disapprove with a serious attitude. He’s actually a great humorist himself.
(Now that is graceful and handsome. I take off my hat to my life-long friend and comrade, and with my feet together and my fingers spread over my heart, I say, in the language of Alabama, “You do me proud.”)
(Now that is elegant and good-looking. I tip my hat to my lifelong friend and companion, and with my feet together and my fingers over my heart, I say, in the language of Alabama, “You make me proud.”)
I stand guilty of the authorship of the article, but I did not mean any harm. I saw by an item in the Boston Advertiser that a solemn, serious critique on the English edition of my book had appeared in the London Saturday Review, and the idea of such a literary breakfast by a stolid, ponderous British ogre of the quill was too much for a naturally weak virtue, and I went home and burlesqued it—reveled in it, I may say. I never saw a copy of the real Saturday Review criticism until after my burlesque was written and mailed to the printer. But when I did get hold of a copy, I found it to be vulgar, awkwardly written, ill-natured, and entirely serious and in earnest. The gentleman who wrote the newspaper paragraph above quoted had not been misled as to its character.
I admit I wrote the article, but I didn’t intend any harm. I noticed in the Boston Advertiser that a serious critique of the English edition of my book was published in the London Saturday Review, and the thought of such a literary review by a heavy, serious British writer was too much for my naturally weak resolve, so I went home and parodied it—really enjoyed it, I should say. I didn’t see an actual copy of the Saturday Review critique until after I had written and sent my parody to the printer. But when I finally got a copy, I found it to be crude, awkwardly written, mean-spirited, and completely serious. The gentleman who wrote the newspaper item I quoted was not mistaken about its nature.
If any man doubts my word now, I will kill him. No, I will not kill him; I will win his money. I will bet him twenty to one, and let any New York publisher hold the stakes, that the statements I have above made as to the authorship of the article in question are entirely true. Perhaps I may get wealthy at this, for I am willing to take all the bets that offer; and if a man wants larger odds, I will give him all he requires. But he ought to find out whether I am betting on what is termed “a sure thing” or not before he ventures his money, and he can do that by going to a public library and examining the London Saturday Review of October 8th, which contains the real critique.
If anyone doubts what I’m saying now, I will kill him. No, I won’t kill him; I’ll win his money. I’ll bet him twenty to one and let any New York publisher hold the stakes that what I’ve stated about the authorship of the article in question is completely true. Maybe I’ll get rich from this because I’m ready to take all the bets that come my way; and if someone wants better odds, I’ll give them whatever they want. But he should figure out if I’m betting on what’s called “a sure thing” before he risks his money, and he can do that by going to a public library and checking the London Saturday Review from October 8th, which has the real critique.
Bless me, some people thought that I was the “sold” person!
Bless me, some people thought that I was the “sold” person!
P.S.—I cannot resist the temptation to toss in this most savory thing of all—this easy, graceful, philosophical disquisition, with his happy, chirping confidence. It is from the Cincinnati Enquirer:
P.S.—I can't help but add this truly delightful piece—this effortless, elegant, philosophical discussion, filled with his cheerful, upbeat confidence. It's from the Cincinnati Enquirer:
Nothing is more uncertain than the value of a fine cigar. Nine smokers out of ten would prefer an ordinary domestic article, three for a quarter, to a fifty-cent Partaga, if kept in ignorance of the cost of the latter. The flavor of the Partaga is too delicate for palates that have been accustomed to Connecticut seed leaf. So it is with humor. The finer it is in quality, the more danger of its not being recognized at all. Even Mark Twain has been taken in by an English review of his Innocents Abroad. Mark Twain is by no means a coarse humorist, but the Englishman's humor is so much finer than his, that he mistakes it for solid earnest, and “larfs most consumedly.”
Nothing is more unpredictable than the value of a good cigar. Nine out of ten smokers would choose a plain domestic cigar for 25 cents over a 50-cent Partagas if they didn’t know the latter's price. The flavor of the Partagas is too subtle for those used to Connecticut seed leaf. The same goes for humor. The better it is, the more likely it is to go unrecognized. Even Mark Twain has been fooled by an English review of his Innocents Abroad. Mark Twain isn’t a crude humorist, but the English humor is so much more refined than his that he mistakes it for serious commentary and “laughs quite a lot.”
A man who cannot learn stands in his own light. Hereafter, when I write an article which I know to be good, but which I may have reason to fear will not, in some quarters, be considered to amount to much, coming from an American, I will aver that an Englishman wrote it and that it is copied from a London journal. And then I will occupy a back seat and enjoy the cordial applause.
A man who can't learn hinders his own progress. In the future, when I write an article that I know is good, but I have a feeling it won't be taken seriously by some because I'm American, I'll claim that an Englishman wrote it and that it's been taken from a London publication. Then I'll sit back and enjoy the warm applause.
(Still later)
Mark Twain at last sees that the Saturday Review's criticism of his Innocents Abroad was not serious, and he is intensely mortified at the thought of having been so badly sold. He takes the only course left him, and in the last Galaxy claims that he wrote the criticism himself, and published it in The Galaxy to sell the public. This is ingenious, but unfortunately it is not true. If any of our readers will take the trouble to call at this office we sill show them the original article in the Saturday Review of October 8th, which, on comparison, will be found to be identical with the one published in The Galaxy. The best thing for Mark to do will be to admit that he was sold, and say no more about it.
Mark Twain finally realizes that the Saturday Review’s criticism of his Innocents Abroad wasn’t serious, and he feels really embarrassed at the thought of being tricked. He takes the only option left to him and claims in the last Galaxy that he wrote the criticism himself and published it in The Galaxy to fool the public. This is clever, but unfortunately, it isn’t true. If any of our readers happen to stop by this office, we will show them the original article from the Saturday Review dated October 8th, which, when compared, will be identical to the one published in The Galaxy. The best thing for Mark to do would be to admit that he was deceived and leave it at that.
The above is from the Cincinnati Enquirer, and is a falsehood. Come to the proof. If the Enquirer people, through any agent, will produce at The Galaxy office a London Saturday Review of October 8th, containing an article which, on comparison, will be found to be identical with the one published in The Galaxy, I will pay to that agent five hundred dollars cash. Moreover, if at any specified time I fail to produce at the same place a copy of the London Saturday Review of October 8th, containing a lengthy criticism upon the Innocents Abroad, entirely different, in every paragraph and sentence, from the one I published in The Galaxy, I will pay to the Enquirer agent another five hundred dollars cash. I offer Sheldon & Co., publishers, 500 Broadway, New York, as my “backers.” Any one in New York, authorized by the Enquirer, will receive prompt attention. It is an easy and profitable way for the Enquirer people to prove that they have not uttered a pitiful, deliberate falsehood in the above paragraphs. Will they swallow that falsehood ignominiously, or will they send an agent to The Galaxy office. I think the Cincinnati Enquirer must be edited by children.
The above is from the Cincinnati Enquirer, and it’s a lie. Let’s see the proof. If the Enquirer folks, through any representative, will bring a London Saturday Review from October 8th to The Galaxy office, containing an article that is identical to the one published in The Galaxy, I will pay that representative five hundred dollars in cash. Furthermore, if at any agreed time I fail to bring a copy of the London Saturday Review from October 8th, containing a lengthy critique of The Innocents Abroad that is completely different in every paragraph and sentence from the one I published in The Galaxy, I will pay the Enquirer representative another five hundred dollars in cash. I’m offering Sheldon & Co., publishers at 500 Broadway, New York, as my “backers.” Anyone in New York authorized by the Enquirer will get prompt attention. It’s a simple and profitable way for the Enquirer team to prove they haven’t published an embarrassing, deliberate falsehood in the above paragraphs. Will they accept that falsehood shamefully, or will they send an agent to The Galaxy office? I think the Cincinnati Enquirer must be run by kids.
A LETTER TO THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY
Riverdale-on-the-Hudson, OCTOBER 15, 1902.
The Hon. The Secretary Of The Treasury,Washington, D. C.:
Sir,—Prices for the customary kinds of winter fuel having reached an altitude which puts them out of the reach of literary persons in straitened circumstances, I desire to place with you the following order:
Forty-five tons best old dry government bonds, suitable for furnace, gold 7 per cents., 1864, preferred.
Twelve tons early greenbacks, range size, suitable for cooking.
Eight barrels seasoned 25 and 50 cent postal currency, vintage of 1866, eligible for kindlings.
Please deliver with all convenient despatch at my house in Riverdale at lowest rates for spot cash, and send bill to
Your obliged servant,
Mark Twain, Who will be very grateful, and will vote right.
A LETTER TO THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY
Riverdale-on-the-Hudson, OCTOBER 15, 1902.
The Honorable Secretary of the Treasury, Washington, D.C.:
Dear Sir, — The prices for common types of winter fuel have risen to a point that makes them unaffordable for writers who are struggling financially. Therefore, I would like to place the following order with you:
Forty-five tons of high-quality old dry government bonds, suitable for furnace use, specifically gold 7% bonds from 1864, if possible.
Twelve tons of early greenbacks, appropriately sized for cooking.
Eight barrels of 25 and 50-cent postal currency from 1866, which would work well for kindling.
Please deliver as soon as possible to my home in Riverdale at the best prices for cash on delivery, and send the bill to
Your grateful servant,
Mark Twain, who will be very thankful and will vote the right way.
AMENDED OBITUARIES
TO THE EDITOR:
Sir,—I am approaching seventy; it is in sight; it is only three years away. Necessarily, I must go soon. It is but matter-of-course wisdom, then, that I should begin to set my worldly house in order now, so that it may be done calmly and with thoroughness, in place of waiting until the last day, when, as we have often seen, the attempt to set both houses in order at the same time has been marred by the necessity for haste and by the confusion and waste of time arising from the inability of the notary and the ecclesiastic to work together harmoniously, taking turn about and giving each other friendly assistance—not perhaps in fielding, which could hardly be expected, but at least in the minor offices of keeping game and umpiring; by consequence of which conflict of interests and absence of harmonious action a draw has frequently resulted where this ill-fortune could not have happened if the houses had been set in order one at a time and hurry avoided by beginning in season, and giving to each the amount of time fairly and justly proper to it.
In setting my earthly house in order I find it of moment that I should attend in person to one or two matters which men in my position have long had the habit of leaving wholly to others, with consequences often most regrettable. I wish to speak of only one of these matters at this time: Obituaries. Of necessity, an Obituary is a thing which cannot be so judiciously edited by any hand as by that of the subject of it. In such a work it is not the Facts that are of chief importance, but the light which the obituarist shall throw upon them, the meaning which he shall dress them in, the conclusions which he shall draw from them, and the judgments which he shall deliver upon them. The Verdicts, you understand: that is the danger-line.
In considering this matter, in view of my approaching change, it has seemed to me wise to take such measures as may be feasible, to acquire, by courtesy of the press, access to my standing obituaries, with the privilege—if this is not asking too much—of editing, not their Facts, but their Verdicts. This, not for the present profit, further than as concerns my family, but as a favorable influence usable on the Other Side, where there are some who are not friendly to me.
With this explanation of my motives, I will now ask you of your courtesy to make an appeal for me to the public press. It is my desire that such journals and periodicals as have obituaries of me lying in their pigeonholes, with a view to sudden use some day, will not wait longer, but will publish them now, and kindly send me a marked copy. My address is simply New York City—I have no other that is permanent and not transient.
I will correct them—not the Facts, but the Verdicts—striking out such clauses as could have a deleterious influence on the Other Side, and replacing them with clauses of a more judicious character. I should, of course, expect to pay double rates for both the omissions and the substitutions; and I should also expect to pay quadruple rates for all obituaries which proved to be rightly and wisely worded in the originals, thus requiring no emendations at all.
It is my desire to leave these Amended Obituaries neatly bound behind me as a perennial consolation and entertainment to my family, and as an heirloom which shall have a mournful but definite commercial value for my remote posterity.
I beg, sir, that you will insert this Advertisement (1t-eow, agate, inside), and send the bill to
Yours very respectfully.
Mark Twain.
P.S.—For the best Obituary—one suitable for me to read in public, and calculated to inspire regret—I desire to offer a Prize, consisting of a Portrait of me done entirely by myself in pen and ink without previous instructions. The ink warranted to be the kind used by the very best artists.
TO THE EDITOR:
Dear Sir, — I’m nearing seventy; it's just three years away. Naturally, I need to sort out my affairs soon. It makes sense to start now so I can do it calmly and thoroughly rather than waiting until the last minute. As we've seen many times, trying to organize everything at once leads to rush and confusion, especially when the notary and the church official can’t collaborate well, taking turns to support each other—not necessarily in the big tasks, which might be too much, but at least in the smaller jobs of managing details and making calls. Their conflicting interests and lack of teamwork often result in a mess that could’ve been avoided if each task was handled separately with enough time devoted to each.
As I organize my affairs, I realize it’s important to personally manage a couple of things that people in my situation usually leave entirely to others, often with disappointing outcomes. I want to concentrate on just one of these things right now: obituaries. Unfortunately, no one can edit an obituary as wisely as the person it’s about. In this type of writing, it’s not just the facts that matter, but the perspective the writer adds, the meaning they give, the conclusions they draw, and the judgments they make. The conclusions, you see, that’s where the risk lies.
Considering this situation, given my upcoming change, I think it’s wise to take steps to gain access to my current obituaries through the press, with the hope—if that isn’t too much to ask—of being able to edit not the facts, but the conclusions. This isn’t for my immediate benefit, except for my family’s sake, but as a positive influence that could be helpful on the Other Side, where there are some people who aren’t on my side.
With this explanation of my motives, I now ask for your kindness to make an appeal to the public press on my behalf. I would like journals and magazines that have my obituaries on file, just in case, to publish them now without delay. Please send me a marked copy. My address is simply New York City—I don’t have any other permanent address.
I will revise them—not the Facts, but the Conclusions—removing any parts that could negatively impact the Other Side and replacing them with better options. Naturally, I would expect to pay double rates for both the omissions and the changes; and I would also expect to pay quadruple rates for all obituaries that were originally written correctly and wisely, so they don’t need any changes at all.
It’s my wish to leave these Revised Obituaries neatly collected behind me as a lasting comfort and source of entertainment for my family, and as a keepsake that will have a sad but clear monetary value for my distant descendants.
Kindly include this advertisement (1t-eow, agate, inside) and send the bill to
Respectfully yours,
Mark Twain.
P.S.—For the best obituary—one that I would be proud to read in public and that would evoke a sense of loss—I want to offer a prize, which will be a portrait of me created entirely by myself in pen and ink, without any prior guidelines. The ink is guaranteed to be of the finest quality used by top artists.
A MONUMENT TO ADAM
Some one has revealed to the Tribune that I once suggested to Rev. Thomas K. Beecher, of Elmira, New York, that we get up a monument to Adam, and that Mr. Beecher favored the project. There is more to it than that. The matter started as a joke, but it came somewhat near to materializing.
Someone has told the Tribune that I once suggested to Rev. Thomas K. Beecher, of Elmira, New York, that we create a monument to Adam, and that Mr. Beecher liked the idea. There's more to it than that. The idea began as a joke, but it almost became a reality.
It is long ago—thirty years. Mr. Darwin's Descent of Man has been in print five or six years, and the storm of indignation raised by it was still raging in pulpits and periodicals. In tracing the genesis of the human race back to its sources, Mr. Darwin had left Adam out altogether. We had monkeys, and “missing links,” and plenty of other kinds of ancestors, but no Adam. Jesting with Mr. Beecher and other friends in Elmira, I said there seemed to be a likelihood that the world would discard Adam and accept the monkey, and that in the course of time Adam's very name would be forgotten in the earth; therefore this calamity ought to be averted; a monument would accomplish this, and Elmira ought not to waste this honorable opportunity to do Adam a favor and herself a credit.
It was a long time ago—thirty years. Mr. Darwin's Descent of Man had been out for about five or six years, and the outrage it caused was still fierce in churches and magazines. In tracing the origins of the human race back to its beginnings, Mr. Darwin completely omitted Adam. We had monkeys, and “missing links,” and plenty of other kinds of ancestors, but no Adam. Joking with Mr. Beecher and other friends in Elmira, I mentioned that it seemed likely the world would forget about Adam and embrace the monkey instead, and that eventually, Adam's very name would vanish from the earth; therefore this disaster should be prevented; a monument would solve this problem, and Elmira shouldn't miss this chance to honor Adam and boost its own reputation.
Then the unexpected happened. Two bankers came forward and took hold of the matter—not for fun, not for sentiment, but because they saw in the monument certain commercial advantages for the town. The project had seemed gently humorous before—it was more than that now, with this stern business gravity injected into it. The bankers discussed the monument with me. We met several times. They proposed an indestructible memorial, to cost twenty-five thousand dollars. The insane oddity of a monument set up in a village to preserve a name that would outlast the hills and the rocks without any such help, would advertise Elmira to the ends of the earth—and draw custom. It would be the only monument on the planet to Adam, and in the matter of interest and impressiveness could never have a rival until somebody should set up a monument to the Milky Way.
Then the unexpected happened. Two bankers stepped in and took charge—not for fun, not out of sentiment, but because they saw some commercial benefits for the town in the monument. What had seemed like a gentle joke before now carried a serious business weight. The bankers and I talked about the monument. We met several times. They suggested an indestructible memorial that would cost twenty-five thousand dollars. The crazy idea of a monument in a village meant to honor a name that would outlast the hills and rocks without any help would put Elmira on the map—and attract business. It would be the only monument on earth dedicated to Adam, and in terms of interest and significance, could never have a competitor until someone erected a monument to the Milky Way.
People would come from every corner of the globe and stop off to look at it, no tour of the world would be complete that left out Adam's monument. Elmira would be a Mecca; there would be pilgrim ships at pilgrim rates, pilgrim specials on the continent's railways; libraries would be written about the monument, every tourist would kodak it, models of it would be for sale everywhere in the earth, its form would become as familiar as the figure of Napoleon.
People would travel from all over the world to see it; no trip around the globe would be complete without a stop at Adam's monument. Elmira would become a destination; there would be special pilgrimage ships at affordable rates and discounted train tickets across the continent. Books would be written about the monument, every tourist would take photos of it, models of it would be sold everywhere, and its shape would become as recognizable as Napoleon’s figure.
One of the bankers subscribed five thousand dollars, and I think the other one subscribed half as much, but I do not remember with certainty now whether that was the figure or not. We got designs made—some of them came from Paris.
One of the bankers invested five thousand dollars, and I believe the other one invested half that amount, but I can't recall for sure if that was the exact figure. We had designs created—some of them were from Paris.
In the beginning—as a detail of the project when it was yet a joke—I had framed a humble and beseeching and perfervid petition to Congress begging the government to build the monument, as a testimony of the Great Republic's gratitude to the Father of the Human Race and as a token of her loyalty to him in this dark day of humiliation when his older children were doubting and deserting him. It seemed to me that this petition ought to be presented, now—it would be widely and feelingly abused and ridiculed and cursed, and would advertise our scheme and make our ground-floor stock go off briskly. So I sent it to General Joseph R. Hawley, who was then in the House, and he said he would present it. But he did not do it. I think he explained that when he came to read it he was afraid of it: it was too serious, to gushy, too sentimental—the House might take it for earnest.
In the beginning—when the project was still a joke—I wrote a humble and passionate request to Congress asking the government to build the monument as a sign of the Great Republic's gratitude to the Father of the Human Race and as a symbol of her loyalty to him during this dark time of humiliation when his older children were doubting and abandoning him. I thought this request should be submitted now—it would be widely criticized, ridiculed, and condemned, and it would promote our plan and boost our initial investment. So, I sent it to General Joseph R. Hawley, who was then in the House, and he said he would present it. But he didn't. I believe he explained that when he got ready to read it, he was nervous about it: it was too serious, too sentimental—the House might take it for genuine.
We ought to have carried out our monument scheme; we could have managed it without any great difficulty, and Elmira would now be the most celebrated town in the universe.
We should have gone ahead with our monument project; we could have pulled it off without much trouble, and Elmira would be the most famous town in the world right now.
Very recently I began to build a book in which one of the minor characters touches incidentally upon a project for a monument to Adam, and now the Tribune has come upon a trace of the forgotten jest of thirty years ago. Apparently mental telegraphy is still in business. It is odd; but the freaks of mental telegraphy are usually odd.
Very recently, I started working on a book where one of the minor characters casually mentions a project for a monument to Adam, and now the Tribune has discovered a hint of the forgotten joke from thirty years ago. It seems mental telepathy is still around. It's strange; but the quirks of mental telepathy tend to be strange.
A HUMANE WORD FROM SATAN
(The following letter, signed by Satan and purporting to come from him, we have reason to believe was not written by him, but by Mark Twain.—Editor.)
TO THE EDITOR OF HARPER'S WEEKLY:
Dear Sir and Kinsman,—Let us have done with this frivolous talk. The American Board accepts contributions from me every year: then why shouldn't it from Mr. Rockefeller? In all the ages, three-fourths of the support of the great charities has been conscience-money, as my books will show: then what becomes of the sting when that term is applied to Mr. Rockefeller's gift? The American Board's trade is financed mainly from the graveyards. Bequests, you understand. Conscience-money. Confession of an old crime and deliberate perpetration of a new one; for deceased's contribution is a robbery of his heirs. Shall the Board decline bequests because they stand for one of these offenses every time and generally for both?
Allow me to continue. The charge most persistently and resentfully and remorselessly dwelt upon is that Mr. Rockefeller's contribution is incurably tainted by perjury—perjury proved against him in the courts. It makes us smile—down in my place! Because there isn't a rich man in your vast city who doesn't perjure himself every year before the tax board. They are all caked with perjury, many layers thick. Iron-clad, so to speak. If there is one that isn't, I desire to acquire him for my museum, and will pay Dinosaur rates. Will you say it isn't infraction of the law, but only annual evasion of it? Comfort yourselves with that nice distinction if you like—for the present. But by and by, when you arrive, I will show you something interesting: a whole hell-full of evaders! Sometimes a frank law-breaker turns up elsewhere, but I get those others every time.
To return to my muttons. I wish you to remember that my rich perjurers are contributing to the American Board with frequency: it is money filched from the sworn-off personal tax; therefore it is the wages of sin; therefore it is my money; therefore it is I that contribute it; and, finally, it is therefore as I have said: since the Board daily accepts contributions from me, why should it decline them from Mr. Rockefeller, who is as good as I am, let the courts say what they may?
SATAN.
(The following letter, signed by Satan and claiming to be from him, we believe was not actually written by him, but by Mark Twain.—Editor.)
TO THE EDITOR OF HARPER'S WEEKLY:
Dear Sir and Relative, let’s put an end to this ridiculous debate. The American Board gets yearly donations from me, so why shouldn’t it accept them from Mr. Rockefeller? Historically, three-quarters of the funding for major charities has come from guilt money, as my writings show. So what’s the problem when that label is applied to Mr. Rockefeller’s donation? The American Board is primarily supported by bequests from the deceased, you see. Guilt money. It’s like admitting to an old crime while committing a new one because the donation from the deceased reduces what their heirs receive. Should the Board refuse bequests just because they signify one of these wrongs every time, and usually both?
Let me elaborate. The accusation that gets brought up the most, with considerable resentment, is that Mr. Rockefeller's contribution is inherently tainted by perjury—perjury that has been proven in court. It makes us laugh—down here! Because there isn't a wealthy person in your vast city who doesn't commit perjury each year when dealing with the tax authorities. They’re all buried under layers of it, several thick. Like iron, if you will. If there’s one who isn’t, I’d like to showcase him in my museum and I’ll pay handsomely for it. You might argue it’s not breaking the law, just an annual workaround? If that makes you feel better with that tidy little distinction—for now. But eventually, when you get here, I’ll show you something fascinating: a whole lot of tax dodgers! Sometimes a straightforward law-breaker shows up elsewhere, but I catch those others every time.
Back to my main point. Remember that my rich liars are often donating to the American Board: it’s money extracted from the personal taxes they’ve evaded; so it’s the profit from wrongdoing; therefore, it’s my money; which means I’m the one contributing it; and, ultimately, as I've stated: since the Board accepts my contributions every day, why shouldn’t it accept those from Mr. Rockefeller, who is just as good as I am, regardless of what the courts say?
SATAN.
INTRODUCTION TO “THE NEW GUIDE OF THE CONVERSATION IN PORTUGUESE AND ENGLISH”
by Pedro Carolino
In this world of uncertainties, there is, at any rate, one thing which may be pretty confidently set down as a certainty: and that is, that this celebrated little phrase-book will never die while the English language lasts. Its delicious unconscious ridiculousness, and its enchanting naivete, are as supreme and unapproachable, in their way, as are Shakespeare's sublimities. Whatsoever is perfect in its kind, in literature, is imperishable: nobody can imitate it successfully, nobody can hope to produce its fellow; it is perfect, it must and will stand alone: its immortality is secure.
In this unpredictable world, there's at least one thing that can be confidently stated: this famous little phrasebook will never fade away as long as the English language exists. Its wonderfully unintentionally silly moments and charming simplicity are just as exceptional and unmatched in their own way as Shakespeare's greatness. Anything that is perfect in its category, in literature, is timeless: no one can successfully copy it, and no one can hope to create something like it; it is flawless and will stand on its own: its immortality is guaranteed.
It is one of the smallest books in the world, but few big books have received such wide attention, and been so much pondered by the grave and learned, and so much discussed and written about by the thoughtful, the thoughtless, the wise, and the foolish. Long notices of it have appeared, from time to time, in the great English reviews, and in erudite and authoritative philological periodicals; and it has been laughed at, danced upon, and tossed in a blanket by nearly every newspaper and magazine in the English-speaking world. Every scribbler, almost, has had his little fling at it, at one time or another; I had mine fifteen years ago. The book gets out of print, every now and then, and one ceases to hear of it for a season; but presently the nations and near and far colonies of our tongue and lineage call for it once more, and once more it issues from some London or Continental or American press, and runs a new course around the globe, wafted on its way by the wind of a world's laughter.
It’s one of the smallest books in the world, but few larger books have gained such widespread attention, been so deeply considered by serious scholars, or sparked so much discussion and writing from the thoughtful, the careless, the wise, and the foolish. Long reviews of it have come out over the years in major English publications, as well as in scholarly and respected linguistic journals; it has been mocked, danced around, and tossed around in jest by nearly every newspaper and magazine in the English-speaking world. Nearly every writer has taken a jab at it at some point, including me fifteen years ago. The book goes out of print from time to time, and people stop talking about it for a while; but eventually, speakers of our language from near and far start asking for it again, and once again it comes out from some London, Continental, or American publisher, embarking on a new journey around the globe, carried along by a wave of global laughter.
Many persons have believed that this book's miraculous stupidities were studied and disingenuous; but no one can read the volume carefully through and keep that opinion. It was written in serious good faith and deep earnestness, by an honest and upright idiot who believed he knew something of the English language, and could impart his knowledge to others. The amplest proof of this crops out somewhere or other upon each and every page. There are sentences in the book which could have been manufactured by a man in his right mind, and with an intelligent and deliberate purposes to seem innocently ignorant; but there are other sentences, and paragraphs, which no mere pretended ignorance could ever achieve—nor yet even the most genuine and comprehensive ignorance, when unbacked by inspiration.
Many people have thought that the ridiculous mistakes in this book were intentional and insincere; but no one can read it thoroughly and still hold that view. It was written with serious sincerity and earnestness by a genuine and straightforward fool who believed he understood the English language and could share his knowledge with others. Clear evidence of this pops up on every single page. There are sentences in the book that could have been created by a person in their right mind, trying deliberately to sound innocently clueless; but there are other sentences and paragraphs that no amount of feigned ignorance could produce—nor could even the most genuine and thorough ignorance achieve without some sort of inspiration.
It is not a fraud who speaks in the following paragraph of the author's Preface, but a good man, an honest man, a man whose conscience is at rest, a man who believes he has done a high and worthy work for his nation and his generation, and is well pleased with his performance:
It’s not a fraud speaking in the next paragraph of the author’s Preface; it’s a good person, an honest person, someone with a clear conscience, someone who believes they have done meaningful and valuable work for their country and their time, and is happy with their efforts:
We expect then, who the little book (for the care what we wrote him, and for her typographical correction) that may be worth the acceptation of the studious persons, and especially of the Youth, at which we dedicate him particularly.
One cannot open this book anywhere and not find richness. To prove that this is true, I will open it at random and copy the page I happen to stumble upon. Here is the result:
DIALOGUE 16
FOR TO SEE THE TOWN
Anothony, go to accompany they gentilsmen, do they see the town.
We won't to see all that is it remarquable here.
Come with me, if you please. I shall not folget nothing what can to merit your attention. Here we are near to cathedral; will you come in there?
We will first to see him in oudside, after we shall go in there for to look the interior.
Admire this master piece gothic architecture's.
The chasing of all they figures is astonishing' indeed.
The cupola and the nave are not less curious to see.
What is this palace how I see yonder?
It is the town hall.
And this tower here at this side?
It is the Observatory.
The bridge is very fine, it have ten arches, and is constructed of free stone.
The streets are very layed out by line and too paved.
What is the circuit of this town?
Two leagues.
There is it also hospitals here?
It not fail them.
What are then the edifices the worthest to have seen?
It is the arsnehal, the spectacle's hall, the Cusiomhouse, and the Purse.
We are going too see the others monuments such that the public pawnbroker's office, the plants garden's, the money office's, the library.
That it shall be for another day; we are tired.
DIALOGUE 17
TO INFORM ONE'SELF OF A PERSON
How is that gentilman who you did speak by and by?
Is a German.
I did think him Englishman.
He is of the Saxony side.
He speak the french very well.
Tough he is German, he speak so much well italyan, french, spanish and english, that among the Italyans, they believe him Italyan, he speak the frenche as the Frenches himselves. The Spanishesmen believe him Spanishing, and the Englishes, Englishman. It is difficult to enjoy well so much several languages.
The last remark contains a general truth; but it ceases to be a truth when one contracts it and applies it to an individual—provided that that individual is the author of this book, Senhor Pedro Carolino. I am sure I should not find it difficult “to enjoy well so much several languages”—or even a thousand of them—if he did the translating for me from the originals into his ostensible English.
We hope this little book, crafted with care and thoroughly proofread, will be appreciated by those studying, especially young people, to whom we dedicate it.
You can open this book anywhere and find something valuable. To prove this, I'll pick a page at random and share what I find:
DIALOGUE 16
TO SEE THE TOWN
Anthony, please go with these gentlemen and show them around the town.
We want to see all the remarkable sights here.
Join me if you’d like. I won’t overlook anything that deserves your attention. Here we are by the cathedral; would you like to go inside?
We’ll first see it from the outside, and then we’ll go in to check out the interior.
Admire this masterpiece of Gothic architecture.
The details of all those figures are truly impressive.
The dome and the nave are equally fascinating to see.
What’s that palace over there?
That’s the town hall.
And what about that tower?
That’s the Observatory.
This bridge is very impressive; it has ten arches and is made of natural stone.
The streets are well organized and nicely paved.
What’s the layout of this town like?
It spans two leagues.
Are there hospitals here too?
Yes, there are.
What buildings are worth seeing?
There’s the arsenal, the theater, the Customhouse, and the purse.
We’ll visit the other monuments later, like the public pawn shop, the botanical garden, the currency exchange, and the library.
That can wait till another day; we’re tired.
DIALOGUE 17
TO GET INFORMATION ABOUT A PERSON
How is that gentleman you were just talking about?
He's German.
I thought he was English.
He's from Saxony.
He speaks French very well.
Even though he’s German, he speaks Italian, French, Spanish, and English so well that the Italians think he’s one of them. He speaks French like a native. The Spaniards believe he’s Spanish, and the English think he’s English. It’s rare to master so many languages so well.
This last comment is generally true, but it doesn't hold when considering a specific person—especially if that person is the author of this book, Senhor Pedro Carolino. I’m pretty sure I wouldn't have any trouble “enjoying so many languages”—even a thousand of them—if he did the translating from the originals into what he calls English.
ADVICE TO LITTLE GIRLS
Good little girls ought not to make mouths at their teachers for every trifling offense. This retaliation should only be resorted to under peculiarly aggravated circumstances.
Good little girls shouldn't pout at their teachers over every little thing. They should only do that in really extreme situations.
If you have nothing but a rag-doll stuffed with sawdust, while one of your more fortunate little playmates has a costly China one, you should treat her with a show of kindness nevertheless. And you ought not to attempt to make a forcible swap with her unless your conscience would justify you in it, and you know you are able to do it.
If you have nothing but a rag doll stuffed with sawdust, while one of your luckier friends has an expensive china one, you should still treat her with kindness. And you shouldn’t try to force a trade with her unless you feel okay about it and know you can actually pull it off.
You ought never to take your little brother's “chewing-gum” away from him by main force; it is better to rope him in with the promise of the first two dollars and a half you find floating down the river on a grindstone. In the artless simplicity natural to this time of life, he will regard it as a perfectly fair transaction. In all ages of the world this eminently plausible fiction has lured the obtuse infant to financial ruin and disaster.
You should never take your little brother's “chewing gum” away from him by force; it's better to win him over with the promise of the first two dollars and fifty cents you find floating down the river on a grindstone. In the innocent simplicity typical of this age, he’ll see it as a completely fair deal. Throughout history, this convincing trick has led unsuspecting kids to financial ruin and disaster.
If at any time you find it necessary to correct your brother, do not correct him with mud—never, on any account, throw mud at him, because it will spoil his clothes. It is better to scald him a little, for then you obtain desirable results. You secure his immediate attention to the lessons you are inculcating, and at the same time your hot water will have a tendency to move impurities from his person, and possibly the skin, in spots.
If you ever need to correct your brother, don’t do it by throwing mud at him—never, under any circumstances, throw mud at him because it will ruin his clothes. It’s better to give him a little scalding, as that will get his attention for the lessons you’re trying to teach. Plus, the hot water will help remove some impurities from him, possibly from his skin in certain areas.
If your mother tells you to do a thing, it is wrong to reply that you won't. It is better and more becoming to intimate that you will do as she bids you, and then afterward act quietly in the matter according to the dictates of your best judgment.
If your mom asks you to do something, it's not cool to respond by saying you won't. It's better and more respectful to suggest that you'll do what she asks, and then later handle it in a way that reflects your own good judgment.
You should ever bear in mind that it is to your kind parents that you are indebted for your food, and for the privilege of staying home from school when you let on that you are sick. Therefore you ought to respect their little prejudices, and humor their little whims, and put up with their little foibles until they get to crowding you too much.
You should always remember that you owe your caring parents for your meals and for the chance to stay home from school when you pretend to be sick. So, you should respect their small quirks, go along with their little whims, and tolerate their minor annoyances until they start to push you too much.
Good little girls always show marked deference for the aged. You ought never to “sass” old people unless they “sass” you first.
Good little girls always show a lot of respect for older people. You should never talk back to old folks unless they talk back to you first.
POST-MORTEM POETRY (1)
In Philadelphia they have a custom which it would be pleasant to see adopted throughout the land. It is that of appending to published death-notices a little verse or two of comforting poetry. Any one who is in the habit of reading the daily Philadelphia Ledger must frequently be touched by these plaintive tributes to extinguished worth. In Philadelphia, the departure of a child is a circumstance which is not more surely followed by a burial than by the accustomed solacing poesy in the Public Ledger. In that city death loses half its terror because the knowledge of its presence comes thus disguised in the sweet drapery of verse. For instance, in a late Ledger I find the following (I change the surname):
In Philadelphia, there's a custom that would be nice to see adopted across the country. It involves adding a line or two of comforting poetry to published death notices. Anyone who regularly reads the daily Philadelphia Ledger must often be moved by these heartfelt tributes to lives that have ended. In Philadelphia, when a child passes away, it's always followed by a burial and the usual comforting poetry in the Public Ledger. In that city, death feels less intimidating because it arrives dressed in the gentle fabric of verse. For example, in a recent Ledger, I found the following (I'll change the last name):
DIED
Hawks.—On the 17th inst., Clara, the daughter of Ephraim and Laura Hawks, aged 21 months and 2 days.
Hawks.—On the 17th of this month, Clara, the daughter of Ephraim and Laura Hawks, aged 21 months and 2 days.
That merry shout no more I hear,
No laughing child I see,
No little arms are around my neck,
No feet upon my knee;
No kisses drop upon my cheek,
These lips are sealed to me.
Dear Lord, how could I give Clara up
To any but to Thee?
That joyful shout I no longer hear,
No laughing child in sight,
No small arms around my neck,
No feet resting on my knee;
No kisses on my cheek,
These lips feel closed to me.
Dear Lord, how could I let Clara go
To anyone but You? A child thus mourned could not die wholly discontented. From the Ledger of the same date I make the following extract, merely changing the surname, as before:
A child who mourned like this couldn't die entirely unhappy. From the Ledger of the same date, I’ll share the following excerpt, just changing the surname as I did before:
Becket.—On Sunday morning, 19th inst., John P., infant son of George and Julia Becket, aged 1 year, 6 months, and 15 days.
Becket.—On Sunday morning, the 19th, John P., the infant son of George and Julia Becket, passed away at the age of 1 year, 6 months, and 15 days.
That merry shout no more I hear,
No laughing child I see,
No little arms are round my neck,
No feet upon my knee;
No kisses drop upon my cheek;
These lips are sealed to me.
Dear Lord, how could I give Johnnie up
To any but to Thee?
That cheerful call I no longer hear,
No happy child in sight,
No small arms wrapped around my neck,
No feet resting on my knee;
No kisses landing on my cheek;
These lips are closed to me.
Oh Lord, how could I give Johnnie up
To anyone but You? The similarity of the emotions as produced in the mourners in these two instances is remarkably evidenced by the singular similarity of thought which they experienced, and the surprising coincidence of language used by them to give it expression.
The similarity of the emotions felt by the mourners in these two instances is clearly shown by the unique similarity of thoughts they experienced, and the surprising coincidence in the language they used to express it.
In the same journal, of the same date, I find the following (surname suppressed, as before):
In the same journal, from the same date, I find the following (last name removed, as before):
Wagner.—On the 10th inst., Ferguson G., the son of William L. and Martha Theresa Wagner, aged 4 weeks and 1 day.
Wagner.—On the 10th of this month, Ferguson G., the son of William L. and Martha Theresa Wagner, aged 4 weeks and 1 day.
That merry shout no more I hear,
No laughing child I see,
No little arms are round my neck,
No feet upon my knee;
No kisses drop upon my cheek,
These lips are sealed to me.
Dear Lord, how could I give Ferguson up
To any but to Thee?
That joyful shout I no longer hear,
No laughing child in sight,
No little arms wrapped around my neck,
No feet upon my knee;
No kisses drop on my cheek,
These lips are closed to me.
Dear Lord, how could I let Ferguson go
To anyone but You? It is strange what power the reiteration of an essentially poetical thought has upon one's feelings. When we take up the Ledger and read the poetry about little Clara, we feel an unaccountable depression of the spirits. When we drift further down the column and read the poetry about little Johnnie, the depression and spirits acquires an added emphasis, and we experience tangible suffering. When we saunter along down the column further still and read the poetry about little Ferguson, the word torture but vaguely suggests the anguish that rends us.
It's strange how the repetition of a basically poetic thought influences our emotions. When we pick up the Ledger and read the poems about little Clara, we feel an inexplicable sadness. As we continue down the column and read the poems about little Johnnie, the sadness deepens, and we feel real pain. When we move even further down the column and read the poems about little Ferguson, the word "torture" barely captures the agony we feel.
In the Ledger (same copy referred to above) I find the following (I alter surname, as usual):
In the Ledger (same copy mentioned earlier) I find the following (I change the surname, as usual):
Welch.—On the 5th inst., Mary C. Welch, wife of William B. Welch, and daughter of Catharine and George W. Markland, in the 29th year of her age.
Welch.—On the 5th of this month, Mary C. Welch, wife of William B. Welch, and daughter of Catharine and George W. Markland, at the age of 29.
A mother dear, a mother kind,
Has gone and left us all behind.
Cease to weep, for tears are vain,
Mother dear is out of pain.
Farewell, husband, children dear,
Serve thy God with filial fear,
And meet me in the land above,
Where all is peace, and joy, and love.
A loving mother, a kind mother,
Has gone and left us all behind.
Stop crying, as it won’t help,
Mom is free from pain now.
Goodbye, husband, dear children,
Serve your God with respect,
And meet me in the place above,
Where everything is peaceful, joyful, and filled with love.What could be sweeter than that? No collection of salient facts (without reduction to tabular form) could be more succinctly stated than is done in the first stanza by the surviving relatives, and no more concise and comprehensive program of farewells, post-mortuary general orders, etc., could be framed in any form than is done in verse by deceased in the last stanza. These things insensibly make us wiser and tenderer, and better. Another extract:
What could be sweeter than that? No group of important facts (without turning them into a table) could be more clearly expressed than in the first stanza by the surviving relatives, and no more straightforward and complete farewell program, post-mortem general orders, etc., could be put together in any way than how it's done in verse by the deceased in the last stanza. These things naturally make us smarter and more compassionate, and better. Another extract:
Ball.—On the morning of the 15th inst., Mary E., daughter of John and Sarah F. Ball.
Ball.—On the morning of the 15th, Mary E., daughter of John and Sarah F. Ball.
'Tis sweet to rest in lively hope
That when my change shall come
Angels will hover round my bed,
To waft my spirit home.
It's sweet to rest in lively hope
That when my time comes
Angels will hover around my bed,
To carry my spirit home.The following is apparently the customary form for heads of families:
The following seems to be the usual format for heads of families:
Burns.—On the 20th inst., Michael Burns, aged 40 years.
Burns.—On the 20th of this month, Michael Burns, age 40.
Dearest father, thou hast left us,
Here thy loss we deeply feel;
But 'tis God that has bereft us,
He can all our sorrows heal.
Funeral at 2 o'clock sharp.
Dearest father, you have left us,
Here your absence is deeply felt;
But it’s God who has taken you from us,
He can heal all our sorrows.
Funeral at 2 o'clock sharp.There is something very simple and pleasant about the following, which, in Philadelphia, seems to be the usual form for consumptives of long standing. (It deplores four distinct cases in the single copy of the Ledger which lies on the Memoranda editorial table):
There’s something really straightforward and nice about the following, which, in Philadelphia, seems to be the common occurrence for long-term tuberculosis patients. (It reports four separate cases in the single copy of the Ledger that sits on the Memoranda editorial table):
Bromley.—On the 29th inst., of consumption, Philip Bromley, in the 50th year of his age.
Bromley.—On the 29th of this month, Philip Bromley passed away from tuberculosis, at the age of 50.
Affliction sore long time he bore,
Physicians were in vain—
Till God at last did hear him mourn,
And eased him of his pain.
That friend whom death from us has torn,
We did not think so soon to part;
An anxious care now sinks the thorn
Still deeper in our bleeding heart.
He suffered for a long time,
Doctors couldn't help him—
Until God finally heard his cries,
And relieved him of his pain.
That friend whom death took from us,
We didn't expect to lose so soon;
An anxious worry now drives the thorn
Even deeper into our hurting hearts.This beautiful creation loses nothing by repetition. On the contrary, the oftener one sees it in the Ledger, the more grand and awe-inspiring it seems.
This beautiful creation doesn’t lose anything by being repeated. In fact, the more you see it in the Ledger, the more impressive and awe-inspiring it becomes.
With one more extract I will close:
With one more excerpt, I'll wrap this up:
Doble.—On the 4th inst., Samuel Pervil Worthington Doble, aged 4 days.
Doble.—On the 4th of this month, Samuel Pervil Worthington Doble, aged 4 days.
Our little Sammy's gone,
His tiny spirit's fled;
Our little boy we loved so dear
Lies sleeping with the dead.
A tear within a father's eye,
A mother's aching heart,
Can only tell the agony
How hard it is to part.
Our little Sammy's gone,
His tiny spirit's flown;
Our little boy we loved so much
Lies sleeping all alone.
A tear in a father's eye,
A mother's aching heart,
Can only express the pain
Of how hard it is to part. Could anything be more plaintive than that, without requiring further concessions of grammar? Could anything be likely to do more toward reconciling deceased to circumstances, and making him willing to go? Perhaps not. The power of song can hardly be estimated. There is an element about some poetry which is able to make even physical suffering and death cheerful things to contemplate and consummations to be desired. This element is present in the mortuary poetry of Philadelphia, and in a noticeable degree of development.
Could anything be more heart-wrenching than that, without needing more adjustments to grammar? Could anything be more effective at helping the deceased come to terms with their situation and making them ready to move on? Probably not. The impact of song is hard to measure. There’s a quality in certain poetry that can turn even physical pain and death into uplifting concepts and outcomes to be wished for. This quality exists in the funeral poetry of Philadelphia, and it’s developed to a significant extent.
The custom I have been treating of is one that should be adopted in all the cities of the land.
The tradition I've been discussing is one that should be embraced in all the cities across the country.
It is said that once a man of small consequence died, and the Rev. T. K. Beecher was asked to preach the funeral sermon—a man who abhors the lauding of people, either dead or alive, except in dignified and simple language, and then only for merits which they actually possessed or possess, not merits which they merely ought to have possessed. The friends of the deceased got up a stately funeral. They must have had misgivings that the corpse might not be praised strongly enough, for they prepared some manuscript headings and notes in which nothing was left unsaid on that subject that a fervid imagination and an unabridged dictionary could compile, and these they handed to the minister as he entered the pulpit. They were merely intended as suggestions, and so the friends were filled with consternation when the minister stood in the pulpit and proceeded to read off the curious odds and ends in ghastly detail and in a loud voice! And their consternation solidified to petrification when he paused at the end, contemplated the multitude reflectively, and then said, impressively:
It’s said that a man of little importance died, and Rev. T. K. Beecher was asked to give the funeral sermon—a man who dislikes praising people, whether they're alive or dead, unless it’s in respectful and straightforward language, and only for actual qualities they had or have, not for qualities they should have had. The deceased's friends organized an elaborate funeral. They probably worried that the eulogy wouldn't be strong enough, so they prepared some written headings and notes that covered everything someone with a vivid imagination and a complete dictionary could think of, and they gave these to the minister as he entered the pulpit. They were just meant as suggestions, so the friends were shocked when the minister read the bizarre details aloud in a loud voice! Their shock turned to horror when he paused at the end, reflected on the crowd, and then said, with great emphasis:
“The man would be a fool who tried to add anything to that. Let us pray!”
"The man would be a fool to try to add anything to that. Let's pray!"
And with the same strict adhesion to truth it can be said that the man would be a fool who tried to add anything to the following transcendent obituary poem. There is something so innocent, so guileless, so complacent, so unearthly serene and self-satisfied about this peerless “hog-wash,” that the man must be made of stone who can read it without a dulcet ecstasy creeping along his backbone and quivering in his marrow. There is no need to say that this poem is genuine and in earnest, for its proofs are written all over its face. An ingenious scribbler might imitate it after a fashion, but Shakespeare himself could not counterfeit it. It is noticeable that the country editor who published it did not know that it was a treasure and the most perfect thing of its kind that the storehouses and museums of literature could show. He did not dare to say no to the dread poet—for such a poet must have been something of an apparition—but he just shoveled it into his paper anywhere that came handy, and felt ashamed, and put that disgusted “Published by Request” over it, and hoped that his subscribers would overlook it or not feel an impulse to read it:
And with the same strict commitment to truth, it can be said that anyone who tries to add anything to the following incredible obituary poem would be a fool. There’s something so pure, so straightforward, so content, so otherworldly calm and self-satisfied about this unmatched “hogwash” that only someone emotionally dead could read it without feeling a sweet thrill running down their spine and vibrating in their bones. There’s no need to mention that this poem is real and serious because its authenticity is clear. A clever writer might try to copy it in some way, but even Shakespeare couldn’t replicate it. It’s worth noting that the local editor who published it didn’t realize he had a gem on his hands—this was the most perfect piece of its kind that literature has to offer. He didn’t dare say no to the formidable poet—after all, such a poet must have seemed like a ghost—but he just tossed it into his paper wherever he could, felt embarrassed, slapped that disgusted “Published by Request” label on it, and hoped his readers would skip it or not feel compelled to read it.
(Published by Request)
(Published by Request)
LINES
Composed on the death of Samuel and Catharine Belknap's children
Composed on the death of Samuel and Catharine Belknap's children
by M. A. Glaze
by M.A. Glaze
Friends and neighbors all draw near,
And listen to what I have to say;
And never leave your children dear
When they are small, and go away.
But always think of that sad fate,
That happened in year of '63;
Four children with a house did burn,
Think of their awful agony.
Their mother she had gone away,
And left them there alone to stay;
The house took fire and down did burn;
Before their mother did return.
Their piteous cry the neighbors heard,
And then the cry of fire was given;
But, ah! before they could them reach,
Their little spirits had flown to heaven.
Their father he to war had gone,
And on the battle-field was slain;
But little did he think when he went away,
But what on earth they would meet again.
The neighbors often told his wife
Not to leave his children there,
Unless she got some one to stay,
And of the little ones take care.
The oldest he was years not six,
And the youngest only eleven months old,
But often she had left them there alone,
As, by the neighbors, I have been told.
How can she bear to see the place.
Where she so oft has left them there,
Without a single one to look to them,
Or of the little ones to take good care.
Oh, can she look upon the spot,
Whereunder their little burnt bones lay,
But what she thinks she hears them say,
''Twas God had pity, and took us on high.'
And there may she kneel down and pray,
And ask God her to forgive;
And she may lead a different life
While she on earth remains to live.
Her husband and her children too,
God has took from pain and woe.
May she reform and mend her ways,
That she may also to them go.
And when it is God's holy will,
O, may she be prepared
To meet her God and friends in peace,
And leave this world of care.
Friends and neighbors gather around,
And listen to what I have to share;
And never leave your little ones behind
When they're small and you're not there.
But always remember that tragic fate,
That happened in the year '63;
Four children perished in a fire,
Think of their terrible agony.
Their mother had gone out,
Leaving them there all alone;
The house caught fire and burned down,
Before their mother could come home.
Their heartbreaking cries reached the neighbors,
And soon the alarm of fire was raised;
But alas! Before they could get there,
The little souls had already been taken away.
Their father had gone off to war,
And was killed on the battlefield;
Little did he know when he left,
That on earth they wouldn't meet again.
The neighbors often warned his wife
Not to leave the children there,
Unless she had someone stay behind,
To look after the little ones with care.
The oldest was not yet six,
And the youngest only eleven months,
Yet often she had left them alone,
As I've heard from the neighbors' talks.
How can she bear to see the place
Where she so often left them all alone,
Without anyone to watch over them,
Or to care for the little ones.
Oh, can she look at the spot
Where their tiny burned remains lay,
And not hear them whisper,
"God had mercy, and brought us high."
And there may she kneel down and pray,
Asking God to forgive her lot;
And she may choose to live differently
While she remains on this earth.
Her husband and her children too,
God has taken from pain and sorrow.
May she change her ways and mend her soul,
So she can join them tomorrow.
And when it is God's holy wish,
Oh, may she be ready
To meet her God and friends in peace,
And leave this life of worry.1. Written in 1870.
Written in 1870.
THE DANGER OF LYING IN BED
The man in the ticket-office said:
The guy at the ticket counter said:
“Have an accident insurance ticket, also?”
“Do you also have an accident insurance ticket?”
“No,” I said, after studying the matter over a little. “No, I believe not; I am going to be traveling by rail all day today. However, tomorrow I don't travel. Give me one for tomorrow.”
“No,” I said, after thinking it over for a bit. “No, I don't think so; I'm going to be traveling by train all day today. However, I’m not traveling tomorrow. Give me one for tomorrow.”
The man looked puzzled. He said:
The man looked confused. He said:
“But it is for accident insurance, and if you are going to travel by rail—”
“But it’s for accident insurance, and if you’re going to travel by train—”
“If I am going to travel by rail I sha'n't need it. Lying at home in bed is the thing I am afraid of.”
“If I'm going to travel by train, I won’t need it. Staying at home in bed is what I’m afraid of.”
I had been looking into this matter. Last year I traveled twenty thousand miles, almost entirely by rail; the year before, I traveled over twenty-five thousand miles, half by sea and half by rail; and the year before that I traveled in the neighborhood of ten thousand miles, exclusively by rail. I suppose if I put in all the little odd journeys here and there, I may say I have traveled sixty thousand miles during the three years I have mentioned. And never an accident.
I had been investigating this issue. Last year, I traveled twenty thousand miles, mostly by train; the year before, I covered over twenty-five thousand miles, half by sea and half by train; and the year before that, I traveled around ten thousand miles, all by train. If I count all the little trips here and there, I can say I've traveled sixty thousand miles in the three years I've mentioned. And not a single accident.
For a good while I said to myself every morning: “Now I have escaped thus far, and so the chances are just that much increased that I shall catch it this time. I will be shrewd, and buy an accident ticket.” And to a dead moral certainty I drew a blank, and went to bed that night without a joint started or a bone splintered. I got tired of that sort of daily bother, and fell to buying accident tickets that were good for a month. I said to myself, “A man can't buy thirty blanks in one bundle.”
For a long time, I told myself every morning: “I've made it this far, so my chances of getting it this time have definitely gone up. I’ll be smart and buy an accident ticket.” And without fail, I ended up with nothing, going to bed that night without a single injury or broken bone. I got tired of that daily hassle and started buying month-long accident tickets instead. I thought to myself, “A guy can't get thirty duds all at once.”
But I was mistaken. There was never a prize in the the lot. I could read of railway accidents every day—the newspaper atmosphere was foggy with them; but somehow they never came my way. I found I had spent a good deal of money in the accident business, and had nothing to show for it. My suspicions were aroused, and I began to hunt around for somebody that had won in this lottery. I found plenty of people who had invested, but not an individual that had ever had an accident or made a cent. I stopped buying accident tickets and went to ciphering. The result was astounding. The peril lay not in traveling, but in staying at home.
But I was wrong. There was never any prize in the whole thing. I could read about train accidents every day—the news was filled with them; but somehow, they never happened to me. I realized I had spent a lot of money on accident tickets, and I had nothing to show for it. My suspicions were raised, and I started looking for someone who had actually won in this lottery. I found plenty of people who had bought tickets, but not a single person who had ever had an accident or made any money. I stopped buying accident tickets and started doing the math. The result was shocking. The danger was not in traveling, but in staying at home.
I hunted up statistics, and was amazed to find that after all the glaring newspaper headlines concerning railroad disasters, less than three hundred people had really lost their lives by those disasters in the preceding twelve months. The Erie road was set down as the most murderous in the list. It had killed forty-six—or twenty-six, I do not exactly remember which, but I know the number was double that of any other road. But the fact straightway suggested itself that the Erie was an immensely long road, and did more business than any other line in the country; so the double number of killed ceased to be matter for surprise.
I looked up some statistics and was surprised to find that despite all the sensational newspaper headlines about train disasters, less than three hundred people had actually died in those accidents over the past twelve months. The Erie Railroad was listed as the deadliest in the bunch, reporting forty-six deaths—or maybe it was twenty-six; I can't remember exactly, but I know the number was double that of any other railroad. However, it immediately occurred to me that the Erie was an extremely long route and handled more traffic than any other line in the country, so having double the number of fatalities wasn’t that shocking after all.
By further figuring, it appeared that between New York and Rochester the Erie ran eight passenger-trains each way every day—16 altogether; and carried a daily average of 6,000 persons. That is about a million in six months—the population of New York City. Well, the Erie kills from 13 to 23 persons of its million in six months; and in the same time 13,000 of New York's million die in their beds! My flesh crept, my hair stood on end. “This is appalling!” I said. “The danger isn't in traveling by rail, but in trusting to those deadly beds. I will never sleep in a bed again.”
By doing some more calculations, it turned out that between New York and Rochester, the Erie ran eight passenger trains each way every day—16 in total; and it carried an average of 6,000 people daily. That adds up to about a million in six months—the population of New York City. Well, the Erie kills between 13 to 23 people out of its million in six months; and during the same period, 13,000 of New York's million die in their beds! It made my skin crawl, and my hair stood up. “This is shocking!” I said. “The real danger isn’t traveling by train, but trusting those deadly beds. I will never sleep in a bed again.”
I had figured on considerably less than one-half the length of the Erie road. It was plain that the entire road must transport at least eleven or twelve thousand people every day. There are many short roads running out of Boston that do fully half as much; a great many such roads. There are many roads scattered about the Union that do a prodigious passenger business. Therefore it was fair to presume that an average of 2,500 passengers a day for each road in the country would be almost correct. There are 846 railway lines in our country, and 846 times 2,500 are 2,115,000. So the railways of America move more than two millions of people every day; six hundred and fifty millions of people a year, without counting the Sundays. They do that, too—there is no question about it; though where they get the raw material is clear beyond the jurisdiction of my arithmetic; for I have hunted the census through and through, and I find that there are not that many people in the United States, by a matter of six hundred and ten millions at the very least. They must use some of the same people over again, likely.
I expected it to be significantly shorter than half the length of the Erie road. It was obvious that the entire road must transport at least eleven or twelve thousand people every day. There are many short roads branching out from Boston that handle at least that much; quite a few of them. There are numerous roads scattered across the country that do an incredible amount of passenger business. So it was reasonable to assume that an average of 2,500 passengers per day for each road in the nation would be about right. There are 846 railway lines in our country, and 846 times 2,500 equals 2,115,000. Therefore, the railways in America transport more than two million people every day, or six hundred fifty million people a year, not counting Sundays. They do that, without a doubt; although how they find the raw material is way beyond my math skills. I’ve searched through the census thoroughly, and I see that there aren’t that many people in the United States, by at least six hundred ten million. They must be using some of the same people repeatedly, likely.
San Francisco is one-eighth as populous as New York; there are 60 deaths a week in the former and 500 a week in the latter—if they have luck. That is 3,120 deaths a year in San Francisco, and eight times as many in New York—say about 25,000 or 26,000. The health of the two places is the same. So we will let it stand as a fair presumption that this will hold good all over the country, and that consequently 25,000 out of every million of people we have must die every year. That amounts to one-fortieth of our total population. One million of us, then, die annually. Out of this million ten or twelve thousand are stabbed, shot, drowned, hanged, poisoned, or meet a similarly violent death in some other popular way, such as perishing by kerosene-lamp and hoop-skirt conflagrations, getting buried in coal-mines, falling off house-tops, breaking through church, or lecture-room floors, taking patent medicines, or committing suicide in other forms. The Erie railroad kills 23 to 46; the other 845 railroads kill an average of one-third of a man each; and the rest of that million, amounting in the aggregate to that appalling figure of 987,631 corpses, die naturally in their beds!
San Francisco has one-eighth the population of New York; there are 60 deaths per week in the former and 500 in the latter—if they’re lucky. That’s 3,120 deaths a year in San Francisco and eight times that in New York—about 25,000 or 26,000. The health conditions in both places are similar. So, we can reasonably assume this is true across the country, meaning that about 25,000 out of every million people must die each year. That’s about one in forty of the total population. So, one million of us die annually. Of that million, ten to twelve thousand are killed by means like stabbings, shootings, drownings, hangings, poisoning, or other violent methods, such as dying in kerosene-lamp and hoop-skirt fires, getting trapped in coal mines, falling off rooftops, breaking through floors in churches or lecture halls, taking questionable medications, or committing suicide in various ways. The Erie railroad causes between 23 and 46 deaths; the other 845 railroads kill an average of about one-third of a person each; and the rest of that million—amounting to a shocking total of 987,631—die of natural causes in their beds!
You will excuse me from taking any more chances on those beds. The railroads are good enough for me.
You can count me out of taking any more risks on those beds. The railroads work just fine for me.
And my advice to all people is, Don't stay at home any more than you can help; but when you have got to stay at home a while, buy a package of those insurance tickets and sit up nights. You cannot be too cautious.
And my advice to everyone is, Don't stay at home any longer than necessary; but when you have to stay home for a while, grab a package of those insurance tickets and stay up late. You can never be too careful.
(One can see now why I answered that ticket-agent in the manner recorded at the top of this sketch.)
(One can see now why I responded to that ticket agent the way I mentioned at the beginning of this sketch.)
The moral of this composition is, that thoughtless people grumble more than is fair about railroad management in the United States. When we consider that every day and night of the year full fourteen thousand railway-trains of various kinds, freighted with life and armed with death, go thundering over the land, the marvel is, not that they kill three hundred human beings in a twelvemonth, but that they do not kill three hundred times three hundred!
The point of this piece is that careless people complain more than they should about how railroads are managed in the United States. When we think about the fact that every day and night of the year, a total of 14,000 different trains, carrying people and cargo, race across the country, it's remarkable that they don't kill 300 people every year; rather, the wonder is that they only kill 300!
PORTRAIT OF KING WILLIAM III
I never can look at those periodical portraits in The Galaxy magazine without feeling a wild, tempestuous ambition to be an artist. I have seen thousands and thousands of pictures in my time—acres of them here and leagues of them in the galleries of Europe—but never any that moved me as these portraits do.
I can never look at those regular portraits in The Galaxy magazine without feeling a crazy, intense urge to be an artist. I’ve seen countless pictures in my life—lots of them here and many more in the galleries of Europe—but none of them inspire me like these portraits do.
There is a portrait of Monsignore Capel in the November number, now could anything be sweeter than that? And there was Bismarck's, in the October number; who can look at that without being purer and stronger and nobler for it? And Thurlow and Weed's picture in the September number; I would not have died without seeing that, no, not for anything this world can give. But look back still further and recall my own likeness as printed in the August number; if I had been in my grave a thousand years when that appeared, I would have got up and visited the artist.
There’s a portrait of Monsignore Capel in the November issue; could anything be sweeter than that? And there was Bismarck's in the October issue; who can look at that without feeling purer, stronger, and more noble? And Thurlow and Weed's picture in the September issue; I would not have wanted to miss that, no matter what this world could offer. But let's look back even further and remember my own likeness published in the August issue; if I had been in my grave for a thousand years by the time that came out, I would have gotten up to visit the artist.
I sleep with all these portraits under my pillow every night, so that I can go on studying them as soon as the day dawns in the morning. I know them all as thoroughly as if I had made them myself; I know every line and mark about them. Sometimes when company are present I shuffle the portraits all up together, and then pick them out one by one and call their names, without referring to the printing on the bottom. I seldom make a mistake—never, when I am calm.
I sleep with all these portraits under my pillow every night so I can start studying them as soon as morning comes. I know them all as well as if I had created them myself; I know every line and detail. Sometimes when I have company, I mix the portraits up and then pull them out one by one, calling their names without looking at the labels on the bottom. I hardly ever make a mistake—never, when I’m calm.
I have had the portraits framed for a long time, waiting till my aunt gets everything ready for hanging them up in the parlor. But first one thing and then another interferes, and so the thing is delayed. Once she said they would have more of the peculiar kind of light they needed in the attic. The old simpleton! it is as dark as a tomb up there. But she does not know anything about art, and so she has no reverence for it. When I showed her my “Map of the Fortifications of Paris,” she said it was rubbish.
I’ve had the portraits framed for a while, waiting for my aunt to get everything ready to hang them in the living room. But one thing after another keeps getting in the way, so it’s been postponed. Once, she mentioned that the attic would have more of the unique light they needed. The old fool! It’s as dark as a grave up there. But she doesn’t know anything about art, so she has no appreciation for it. When I showed her my “Map of the Fortifications of Paris,” she called it junk.
Well, from nursing those portraits so long, I have come at last to have a perfect infatuation for art. I have a teacher now, and my enthusiasm continually and tumultuously grows, as I learn to use with more and more facility the pencil, brush, and graver. I am studying under De Mellville, the house and portrait painter. (His name was Smith when he lived in the West.) He does any kind of artist work a body wants, having a genius that is universal, like Michael Angelo. Resembles that great artist, in fact. The back of his head is like his, and he wears his hat-brim tilted down on his nose to expose it.
Well, after spending so much time with those portraits, I've finally developed a real passion for art. I have a teacher now, and my excitement keeps growing as I learn to use the pencil, brush, and graver with more and more skill. I'm studying under De Mellville, the house and portrait painter. (His name was Smith when he lived in the West.) He can do any kind of artistic work you want, having a talent that is as versatile as Michael Angelo. In fact, he resembles that great artist; the back of his head is like his, and he wears his hat brim tilted down over his nose to show it off.
I have been studying under De Mellville several months now. The first month I painted fences, and gave general satisfaction. The next month I white-washed a barn. The third, I was doing tin roofs; the forth, common signs; the fifth, statuary to stand before cigar shops. This present month is only the sixth, and I am already in portraits!
I have been studying under De Mellville for several months now. In the first month, I painted fences and got good feedback. In the next month, I whitewashed a barn. In the third month, I worked on tin roofs; in the fourth, I did regular signs; in the fifth, I created statuary to stand in front of cigar shops. This month is only the sixth, and I'm already doing portraits!
The humble offering which accompanies these remarks (see figure)—the portrait of his Majesty William III., King of Prussia—is my fifth attempt in portraits, and my greatest success. It has received unbounded praise from all classes of the community, but that which gratifies me most is the frequent and cordial verdict that it resembles the Galaxy portraits. Those were my first love, my earliest admiration, the original source and incentive of my art-ambition. Whatever I am in Art today, I owe to these portraits. I ask no credit for myself—I deserve none. And I never take any, either. Many a stranger has come to my exhibition (for I have had my portrait of King William on exhibition at one dollar a ticket), and would have gone away blessing me, if I had let him, but I never did. I always stated where I got the idea.
The modest piece that goes along with these comments (see figure)—the portrait of His Majesty William III, King of Prussia—is my fifth attempt at portraiture and my biggest achievement. It's received immense praise from all walks of life, but what makes me happiest is the frequent and genuine feedback that it resembles the Galaxy portraits. Those were my first passion, my earliest inspiration, and the original spark for my artistic ambition. Whatever I am in art today, I owe it to those portraits. I seek no credit for myself—I don’t deserve any. And I never accept it, either. Many strangers have come to my exhibition (I've displayed my portrait of King William with a ticket price of one dollar), and they would have left praising me if I had let them, but I never did. I always explained where I got the idea.
King William wears large bushy side-whiskers, and some critics have thought that this portrait would be more complete if they were added. But it was not possible. There was not room for side-whiskers and epaulets both, and so I let the whiskers go, and put in the epaulets, for the sake of style. That thing on his hat is an eagle. The Prussian eagle—it is a national emblem. When I say hat I mean helmet; but it seems impossible to make a picture of a helmet that a body can have confidence in.
King William has big, bushy sideburns, and some critics believe this portrait would look more complete if they were included. But that wasn’t possible. There wasn’t enough space for both the sideburns and the epaulets, so I decided to go with the epaulets for style. That thing on his helmet is an eagle. The Prussian eagle—it’s a national symbol. When I say helmet, I mean the type of headgear; but it seems impossible to create a confident image of a helmet.
I wish kind friends everywhere would aid me in my endeavor to attract a little attention to the Galaxy portraits. I feel persuaded it can be accomplished, if the course to be pursued be chosen with judgment. I write for that magazine all the time, and so do many abler men, and if I can get these portraits into universal favor, it is all I ask; the reading-matter will take care of itself.
I hope that kind friends everywhere will help me in my effort to draw some attention to the Galaxy portraits. I'm convinced it can be done if we choose the right approach. I write for that magazine all the time, and so do many capable writers, and if I can get these portraits to be widely appreciated, that’s all I want; the written content will manage itself.
COMMENDATIONS OF THE PORTRAIT
There is nothing like it in the Vatican. <Pius IX.
There’s nothing like it in the Vatican. <Pius IX.
It has none of that vagueness, that dreamy spirituality about it, which many of the first critics of Arkansas have objected to in the Murillo school of Art. Ruskin.
It doesn't have any of that ambiguity or dreamy spirituality that many of the early critics of Arkansas have criticized in the Murillo school of Art. Ruskin.
The expression is very interesting. J.W. Titian.
The expression is really interesting. J.W. Titian.
(Keeps a macaroni store in Venice, at the old family stand.)
(Keeps a pasta shop in Venice, at the old family stand.)
It is the neatest thing in still life I have seen for years. Rosa Bonheur.
It’s the most amazing still life I’ve seen in years. Rosa Bonheur.
The smile may be almost called unique. Bismarck.
The smile could be considered quite unique. Bismarck.
I never saw such character portrayed in a picture face before. De Mellville.
I’ve never seen such a character displayed in a face in a painting before. De Mellville.
There is a benignant simplicity about the execution of this work which warms the heart toward it as much, full as much, as it fascinates the eye. Landseer.
There’s a kind and simple quality to how this work is done that draws you in just as much as it captivates the eye. Landseer.
One cannot see it without longing to contemplate the artist. Frederick William.
One can't look at it without wanting to think about the artist. Frederick William.
Send me the entire edition—together with the plate and the original portrait—and name your own price. And—would you like to come over and stay awhile with Napoleon at Wilhelmshohe? It shall not cost you a cent. William III.
Send me the whole edition—along with the plate and the original portrait—and tell me how much you want. And—would you like to come over and spend some time with Napoleon at Wilhelmshohe? It will be totally free for you. William III.
DOES THE RACE OF MAN LOVE A LORD?
Often a quite assified remark becomes sanctified by use and petrified by custom; it is then a permanency, its term of activity a geologic period.
A casual comment can often gain respect over time and become established by tradition; it then becomes a permanent part of our culture, lasting as long as a geological era.
The day after the arrival of Prince Henry I met an English friend, and he rubbed his hands and broke out with a remark that was charged to the brim with joy—joy that was evidently a pleasant salve to an old sore place:
The day after Prince Henry arrived, I ran into an English friend, and he rubbed his hands together and exclaimed with a comment that was overflowing with joy—joy that clearly acted as a nice remedy for an old wound:
“Many a time I've had to listen without retort to an old saying that is irritatingly true, and until now seemed to offer no chance for a return jibe: 'An Englishman does dearly love a lord'; but after this I shall talk back, and say, 'How about the Americans?'”
“Many times I've had to listen without a comeback to an old saying that is annoyingly true, and until now seemed to leave no opportunity for a witty reply: 'An Englishman really loves a lord'; but from now on, I’ll respond and say, 'What about the Americans?'”
It is a curious thing, the currency that an idiotic saying can get. The man that first says it thinks he has made a discovery. The man he says it to, thinks the same. It departs on its travels, is received everywhere with admiring acceptance, and not only as a piece of rare and acute observation, but as being exhaustively true and profoundly wise; and so it presently takes its place in the world's list of recognized and established wisdoms, and after that no one thinks of examining it to see whether it is really entitled to its high honors or not. I call to mind instances of this in two well-established proverbs, whose dullness is not surpassed by the one about the Englishman and his love for a lord: one of them records the American's Adoration of the Almighty Dollar, the other the American millionaire-girl's ambition to trade cash for a title, with a husband thrown in.
It's funny how much weight a foolish saying can carry. The person who first says it thinks they've made a great discovery. The person they tell feels the same way. It spreads around, is accepted everywhere with admiration, not just as a rare and sharp observation, but as completely true and deeply wise; soon, it claims its spot in the world's collection of established wisdom, and after that, no one bothers to check if it really deserves its lofty status. I can think of examples in two well-known proverbs that are no more insightful than the one about the Englishman's fondness for a lord: one highlights the American's worship of the Almighty Dollar, while the other reflects the American millionaire girl's dream of swapping money for a title, with a husband included.
It isn't merely the American that adores the Almighty Dollar, it is the human race. The human race has always adored the hatful of shells, or the bale of calico, or the half-bushel of brass rings, or the handful of steel fish-hooks, or the houseful of black wives, or the zareba full of cattle, or the two-score camels and asses, or the factory, or the farm, or the block of buildings, or the railroad bonds, or the bank stock, or the hoarded cash, or—anything that stands for wealth and consideration and independence, and can secure to the possessor that most precious of all things, another man's envy. It was a dull person that invented the idea that the American's devotion to the dollar is more strenuous than another's.
It's not just Americans who love the Almighty Dollar; it's all of humanity. Throughout history, people have cherished everything from shells and bales of fabric to brass rings, fishing hooks, a household filled with wives, herds of cattle, camels and donkeys, factories, farms, buildings, railroad bonds, bank stocks, and saved cash—anything that represents wealth, status, and independence, while also sparking envy in others. It’s a narrow-minded view to think that Americans are more obsessed with money than anyone else.
Rich American girls do buy titles, but they did not invent that idea; it had been worn threadbare several hundred centuries before America was discovered. European girls still exploit it as briskly as ever; and, when a title is not to be had for the money in hand, they buy the husband without it. They must put up the “dot,” or there is no trade. The commercialization of brides is substantially universal, except in America. It exists with us, to some little extent, but in no degree approaching a custom.
Rich American girls do buy titles, but they didn’t come up with that idea; it had been around for hundreds of years before America was discovered. European girls still take advantage of it just as much as ever; and when a title isn't available for cash, they buy the husband without it. They have to provide the "dowry," or there’s no deal. The commercialization of brides is pretty much universal, except in America. It exists here to some extent, but it’s not a widespread practice.
“The Englishman dearly loves a lord.”
“The Englishman really loves a lord.”
What is the soul and source of this love? I think the thing could be more correctly worded:
What is the essence and origin of this love? I believe it could be phrased better:
“The human race dearly envies a lord.”
“The human race really envies a lord.”
That is to say, it envies the lord's place. Why? On two accounts, I think: its Power and its Conspicuousness.
That is to say, it envies the lord's position. Why? For two reasons, I think: its power and its visibility.
Where Conspicuousness carries with it a Power which, by the light of our own observation and experience, we are able to measure and comprehend, I think our envy of the possessor is as deep and as passionate as is that of any other nation. No one can care less for a lord than the backwoodsman, who has had no personal contact with lords and has seldom heard them spoken of; but I will not allow that any Englishman has a profounder envy of a lord than has the average American who has lived long years in a European capital and fully learned how immense is the position the lord occupies.
Where being noticeable brings a kind of power that we can understand through our own observations and experiences, I believe our envy of those who have it is as deep and intense as anyone else's. No one cares less about a lord than a backwoodsman, who rarely interacts with them and has hardly heard them mentioned; however, I won't accept that any Englishman feels more envy for a lord than the average American who has spent many years in a European capital and fully understands the significance of a lord's status.
Of any ten thousand Americans who eagerly gather, at vast inconvenience, to get a glimpse of Prince Henry, all but a couple of hundred will be there out of an immense curiosity; they are burning up with desire to see a personage who is so much talked about. They envy him; but it is Conspicuousness they envy mainly, not the Power that is lodged in his royal quality and position, for they have but a vague and spectral knowledge and appreciation of that; through their environment and associations they have been accustomed to regard such things lightly, and as not being very real; consequently, they are not able to value them enough to consumingly envy them.
Of any ten thousand Americans who excitedly gather, despite the hassle, to catch a glimpse of Prince Henry, almost all but a couple of hundred will be there out of sheer curiosity; they are eager to see someone who is talked about so much. They envy him, but it’s mainly the fame they envy, not the power that comes with his royal status and position, since they have only a vague and ghostly understanding of that. Through their surroundings and social circles, they’ve been used to thinking of such things lightly, as if they aren’t very real; therefore, they can’t appreciate them enough to genuinely envy them.
But, whenever an American (or other human being) is in the presence, for the first time, of a combination of great Power and Conspicuousness which he thoroughly understands and appreciates, his eager curiosity and pleasure will be well-sodden with that other passion—envy—whether he suspects it or not. At any time, on any day, in any part of America, you can confer a happiness upon any passing stranger by calling his attention to any other passing stranger and saying:
But whenever an American (or anyone else) encounters a situation where there’s a powerful and noticeable presence that they really understand and appreciate for the first time, their excitement and enjoyment will be mixed with another feeling—envy—whether they realize it or not. Any day, at any time, anywhere in America, you can make a random stranger happy by pointing out another passing stranger and saying:
“Do you see that gentleman going along there? It is Mr. Rockefeller.”
“Do you see that man walking over there? That’s Mr. Rockefeller.”
Watch his eye. It is a combination of power and conspicuousness which the man understands.
Watch his eye. It's a mix of strength and attention-grabbing presence that the man gets.
When we understand rank, we always like to rub against it. When a man is conspicuous, we always want to see him. Also, if he will pay us an attention we will manage to remember it. Also, we will mention it now and then, casually; sometimes to a friend, or if a friend is not handy, we will make out with a stranger.
When we understand status, we always want to interact with it. When someone stands out, we naturally want to notice them. If they give us any attention, we’ll be sure to remember it. We’ll casually bring it up from time to time, maybe to a friend, or if there’s no friend around, we’ll discuss it with a stranger.
Well, then, what is rank, and what is conspicuousness? At once we think of kings and aristocracies, and of world-wide celebrities in soldierships, the arts, letters, etc., and we stop there. But that is a mistake. Rank holds its court and receives its homage on every round of the ladder, from the emperor down to the rat-catcher; and distinction, also, exists on every round of the ladder, and commands its due of deference and envy.
Well, what exactly is rank, and what does it mean to be conspicuous? Immediately, we think of kings and aristocrats, as well as famous figures in the military, arts, literature, and so on, and we leave it at that. But that’s a mistake. Rank has its presence and receives respect at every step of the ladder, from the emperor to the rat-catcher; and distinction also exists at every level, demanding its share of respect and envy.
To worship rank and distinction is the dear and valued privilege of all the human race, and it is freely and joyfully exercised in democracies as well as in monarchies—and even, to some extent, among those creatures whom we impertinently call the Lower Animals. For even they have some poor little vanities and foibles, though in this matter they are paupers as compared to us.
To idolize status and importance is a cherished privilege of all humanity, and it's embraced openly and happily in both democracies and monarchies—and even, to a degree, among those beings we thoughtlessly refer to as Lower Animals. Because even they have their small vanities and quirks, although in this regard, they are beggars compared to us.
A Chinese Emperor has the worship of his four hundred millions of subjects, but the rest of the world is indifferent to him. A Christian Emperor has the worship of his subjects and of a large part of the Christian world outside of his domains; but he is a matter of indifference to all China. A king, class A, has an extensive worship; a king, class B, has a less extensive worship; class C, class D, class E get a steadily diminishing share of worship; class L (Sultan of Zanzibar), class P (Sultan of Sulu), and class W (half-king of Samoa), get no worship at all outside their own little patch of sovereignty.
A Chinese Emperor is venerated by his 400 million subjects, but the rest of the world is indifferent to him. A Christian Emperor is honored by his people and a significant portion of the Christian world outside his territories; however, he doesn’t matter at all to China. A king in class A has widespread admiration; a king in class B has a smaller following; classes C, D, and E see a steady decrease in devotion; while class L (Sultan of Zanzibar), class P (Sultan of Sulu), and class W (half-king of Samoa) receive no recognition beyond their own small areas of rule.
Take the distinguished people along down. Each has his group of homage-payers. In the navy, there are many groups; they start with the Secretary and the Admiral, and go down to the quartermaster—and below; for there will be groups among the sailors, and each of these groups will have a tar who is distinguished for his battles, or his strength, or his daring, or his profanity, and is admired and envied by his group. The same with the army; the same with the literary and journalistic craft; the publishing craft; the cod-fishery craft; Standard Oil; U. S. Steel; the class A hotel—and the rest of the alphabet in that line; the class A prize-fighter—and the rest of the alphabet in his line—clear down to the lowest and obscurest six-boy gang of little gamins, with its one boy that can thrash the rest, and to whom he is king of Samoa, bottom of the royal race, but looked up to with a most ardent admiration and envy.
Take the distinguished people down with you. Each one has their own group of admirers. In the navy, there are many groups; they start with the Secretary and the Admiral and go down to the quartermaster—and below; among the sailors, there will be groups too, and each of these groups will have a sailor who is known for his battles, strength, bravery, or colorful language, and is respected and envied by his peers. The same goes for the army; the same for writers and journalists; the publishing industry; the fishing industry; Standard Oil; U.S. Steel; high-end hotels—and the rest of the alphabet in that category; top prize-fighters—and the rest of the alphabet in that field—right down to the lowest and least noticeable group of kids, with one boy who can outfight the others, who is considered the king of the block, at the bottom of the royal hierarchy, but is looked up to with great admiration and envy.
There is something pathetic, and funny, and pretty, about this human race's fondness for contact with power and distinction, and for the reflected glory it gets out of it. The king, class A, is happy in the state banquet and the military show which the emperor provides for him, and he goes home and gathers the queen and the princelings around him in the privacy of the spare room, and tells them all about it, and says:
There’s something sad, amusing, and beautiful about how humanity craves connection with power and status, and the glory that comes with it. The king, class A, enjoys the state banquet and the military display that the emperor puts on for him. He returns home, gathers the queen and the little princes in the privacy of the spare room, and shares all the details, saying:
“His Imperial Majesty put his hand upon my shoulder in the most friendly way—just as friendly and familiar, oh, you can't imagine it!—and everybody seeing him do it; charming, perfectly charming!”
"His Imperial Majesty placed his hand on my shoulder in the friendliest way—so friendly and familiar, you can’t imagine!—and everyone saw him do it; it was delightful, absolutely delightful!"
The king, class G, is happy in the cold collation and the police parade provided for him by the king, class B, and goes home and tells the family all about it, and says:
The king, class G, is enjoying the chilly gathering and the police parade set up for him by the king, class B, and heads home to share all the details with his family, saying:
“And His Majesty took me into his own private cabinet for a smoke and a chat, and there we sat just as sociable, and talking away and laughing and chatting, just the same as if we had been born in the same bunk; and all the servants in the anteroom could see us doing it! Oh, it was too lovely for anything!”
“And His Majesty took me into his private office for a smoke and a chat, and there we sat just as friendly, talking and laughing like we were lifelong friends; and all the servants in the anteroom could see us doing it! Oh, it was simply wonderful!”
The king, class Q, is happy in the modest entertainment furnished him by the king, class M, and goes home and tells the household about it, and is as grateful and joyful over it as were his predecessors in the gaudier attentions that had fallen to their larger lot.
The king, class Q, enjoys the simple entertainment provided by the king, class M, and goes home to share the news with his household, feeling as grateful and joyful about it as his predecessors did over the more lavish attention they received.
Emperors, kings, artisans, peasants, big people, little people—at the bottom we are all alike and all the same; all just alike on the inside, and when our clothes are off, nobody can tell which of us is which. We are unanimous in the pride we take in good and genuine compliments paid us, and distinctions conferred upon us, in attentions shown. There is not one of us, from the emperor down, but is made like that. Do I mean attentions shown us by the guest? No, I mean simply flattering attentions, let them come whence they may. We despise no source that can pay us a pleasing attention—there is no source that is humble enough for that. You have heard a dear little girl say to a frowzy and disreputable dog: “He came right to me and let me pat him on the head, and he wouldn't let the others touch him!” and you have seen her eyes dance with pride in that high distinction. You have often seen that. If the child were a princess, would that random dog be able to confer the like glory upon her with his pretty compliment? Yes; and even in her mature life and seated upon a throne, she would still remember it, still recall it, still speak of it with frank satisfaction. That charming and lovable German princess and poet, Carmen Sylva, Queen of Roumania, remembers yet that the flowers of the woods and fields “talked to her” when she was a girl, and she sets it down in her latest book; and that the squirrels conferred upon her and her father the valued compliment of not being afraid of them; and “once one of them, holding a nut between its sharp little teeth, ran right up against my father”—it has the very note of “He came right to me and let me pat him on the head”—“and when it saw itself reflected in his boot it was very much surprised, and stopped for a long time to contemplate itself in the polished leather”—then it went its way. And the birds! she still remembers with pride that “they came boldly into my room,” when she had neglected her “duty” and put no food on the window-sill for them; she knew all the wild birds, and forgets the royal crown on her head to remember with pride that they knew her; also that the wasp and the bee were personal friends of hers, and never forgot that gracious relationship to her injury: “never have I been stung by a wasp or a bee.” And here is that proud note again that sings in that little child's elation in being singled out, among all the company of children, for the random dog's honor-conferring attentions. “Even in the very worst summer for wasps, when, in lunching out of doors, our table was covered with them and every one else was stung, they never hurt me.”
Emperors, kings, artisans, peasants, important people, everyday folks—at the core, we’re all the same; just alike on the inside, and when we strip off our clothes, no one can tell us apart. We all take pride in good and sincere compliments directed at us, as well as the distinctions and attentions we receive. Not one of us, from the emperor on down, is any different. Am I talking about compliments from guests? No, I'm just talking about flattering attentions, no matter where they come from. We don’t disregard any source that can offer us a pleasing acknowledgment—none is too humble for that. You've probably heard a sweet little girl say to a scruffy and shabby dog: “He came right to me and let me pet him on the head, and he wouldn’t let the others touch him!” and you've seen her eyes light up with pride in that special moment. You’ve seen that often. If the girl were a princess, could that random dog give her the same kind of glory with his charming compliment? Yes; and even as she grows up and sits on a throne, she would still remember it, still think about it, still speak of it with genuine happiness. That delightful German princess and poet, Carmen Sylva, Queen of Roumania, still recalls how the flowers in the woods and fields “talked to her” as a girl, and she mentions it in her latest book; how the squirrels honored her and her father by not being afraid of them; and “once one of them, holding a nut between its sharp little teeth, ran right up to my father”—it has the same spirit as “He came right to me and let me pat him on the head”—“and when it saw itself in his boot, it was really surprised, and paused for a long time to look at itself in the shiny leather”—then it went on its way. And the birds! She still remembers with pride that “they came boldly into my room,” when she had neglected her “duty” and hadn’t put any food on the window-sill for them; she knew all the wild birds, and forgets the royal crown on her head to proudly recall that they recognized her; also, that the wasp and the bee were her personal friends, and never forgot that friendly bond to her advantage: “I’ve never been stung by a wasp or a bee.” And once again, here is that proud feeling echoed in that little child's joy at being singled out, among all the other kids, for the random dog's special acknowledgment. “Even in the worst summer for wasps, when we were eating outside and our table was covered with them, and everyone else got stung, they never harmed me.”
When a queen whose qualities of mind and heart and character are able to add distinction to so distinguished a place as a throne, remembers with grateful exultation, after thirty years, honors and distinctions conferred upon her by the humble, wild creatures of the forest, we are helped to realize that complimentary attentions, homage, distinctions, are of no caste, but are above all cast—that they are a nobility-conferring power apart.
When a queen with the intelligence, kindness, and character that truly elevate a throne reflects with grateful joy, after thirty years, on the honors and accolades given to her by the simple, wild creatures of the forest, it helps us understand that compliments, respect, and accolades know no social class; they transcend all divisions and hold a unique power to grant nobility.
We all like these things. When the gate-guard at the railway-station passes me through unchallenged and examines other people's tickets, I feel as the king, class A, felt when the emperor put the imperial hand on his shoulder, “everybody seeing him do it”; and as the child felt when the random dog allowed her to pat his head and ostracized the others; and as the princess felt when the wasps spared her and stung the rest; and I felt just so, four years ago in Vienna (and remember it yet), when the helmeted police shut me off, with fifty others, from a street which the Emperor was to pass through, and the captain of the squad turned and saw the situation and said indignantly to that guard:
We all like these things. When the gatekeeper at the train station lets me through without checking my ticket and checks everyone else's, I feel like the king, class A, did when the emperor placed his hand on his shoulder, with everyone noticing; and like the child felt when the random dog let her pet its head while ignoring the others; and like the princess felt when the wasps overlooked her and stung everyone else; and I felt just like that, four years ago in Vienna (and I still remember it), when the helmeted police blocked my way, along with fifty others, from a street that the Emperor was about to walk down, and the squad captain turned, saw the situation, and said indignantly to that guard:
“Can't you see it is the Herr Mark Twain? Let him through!”
“Can’t you see it’s Mr. Mark Twain? Let him through!”
It was four years ago; but it will be four hundred before I forget the wind of self-complacency that rose in me, and strained my buttons when I marked the deference for me evoked in the faces of my fellow-rabble, and noted, mingled with it, a puzzled and resentful expression which said, as plainly as speech could have worded it: “And who in the nation is the Herr Mark Twain um gotteswillen?”
It was four years ago, but it will be four hundred before I forget the feeling of self-satisfaction that swelled within me, straining my buttons as I noticed the respect in the faces of my peers and saw, mixed in with it, a puzzled and resentful look that clearly said, “Who in the world is this Mark Twain, for heaven's sake?”
How many times in your life have you heard this boastful remark:
How many times in your life have you heard this bragging statement:
“I stood as close to him as I am to you; I could have put out my hand and touched him.”
“I stood as close to him as I am to you; I could have reached out my hand and touched him.”
We have all heard it many and many a time. It was a proud distinction to be able to say those words. It brought envy to the speaker, a kind of glory; and he basked in it and was happy through all his veins. And who was it he stood so close to? The answer would cover all the grades. Sometimes it was a king; sometimes it was a renowned highwayman; sometimes it was an unknown man killed in an extraordinary way and made suddenly famous by it; always it was a person who was for the moment the subject of public interest of a village.
We've all heard it countless times. It was a proud thing to say those words. It made the speaker feel envied, like they were basking in glory; they felt alive with happiness. And who was the person they stood so close to? The answer spans all kinds of people. Sometimes it was a king; sometimes it was a famous outlaw; sometimes it was an unknown person who died in an unusual way and suddenly became famous for it; but it was always someone who, at that moment, was the center of attention in a village.
“I was there, and I saw it myself.” That is a common and envy-compelling remark. It can refer to a battle; to a hanging; to a coronation; to the killing of Jumbo by the railway-train; to the arrival of Jenny Lind at the Battery; to the meeting of the President and Prince Henry; to the chase of a murderous maniac; to the disaster in the tunnel; to the explosion in the subway; to a remarkable dog-fight; to a village church struck by lightning. It will be said, more or less causally, by everybody in America who has seen Prince Henry do anything, or try to. The man who was absent and didn't see him to anything, will scoff. It is his privilege; and he can make capital out of it, too; he will seem, even to himself, to be different from other Americans, and better. As his opinion of his superior Americanism grows, and swells, and concentrates and coagulates, he will go further and try to belittle the distinction of those that saw the Prince do things, and will spoil their pleasure in it if he can. My life has been embittered by that kind of person. If you are able to tell of a special distinction that has fallen to your lot, it gravels them; they cannot bear it; and they try to make believe that the thing you took for a special distinction was nothing of the kind and was meant in quite another way. Once I was received in private audience by an emperor. Last week I was telling a jealous person about it, and I could see him wince under it, see him bite, see him suffer. I revealed the whole episode to him with considerable elaboration and nice attention to detail. When I was through, he asked me what had impressed me most. I said:
“I was there, and I saw it myself.” That’s a phrase that often stirs envy. It could refer to a battle, a hanging, a coronation, the death of Jumbo by a train, Jenny Lind’s arrival at the Battery, a meeting between the President and Prince Henry, the pursuit of a violent man, a disaster in a tunnel, an explosion in the subway, an incredible dogfight, or a church struck by lightning. It’s something everyone in America who has witnessed Prince Henry do anything will say, more or less casually. The person who wasn't there and didn’t see him do anything will scoff. That’s his right, and he can gain something from it too; he’ll feel, even to himself, that he’s different from other Americans, and better. As his sense of superior Americanism grows, intensifies, and solidifies, he’ll try to undermine the significance of those who saw the Prince in action and ruin their enjoyment if he can. My life has been soured by people like that. If you’re able to share a unique experience you’ve had, it bothers them; they can’t stand it, so they try to suggest that what you thought was special really wasn’t and was meant differently. Once, I had a private audience with an emperor. Last week, I shared this with a jealous person, and I could see him flinch at it, see him struggle, see him hurt. I explained the whole experience with a lot of detail and care. When I finished, he asked me what had impressed me the most. I said:
“His Majesty's delicacy. They told me to be sure and back out from the presence, and find the door-knob as best I could; it was not allowable to face around. Now the Emperor knew it would be a difficult ordeal for me, because of lack of practice; and so, when it was time to part, he turned, with exceeding delicacy, and pretended to fumble with things on his desk, so I could get out in my own way, without his seeing me.”
“His Majesty's finesse. They advised me to make sure I backed away from his presence and find the doorknob as best as I could; it wasn’t acceptable to turn around. The Emperor understood that it would be a tough challenge for me due to my inexperience; therefore, when it was time to leave, he turned with great tact and pretended to search for things on his desk, allowing me to exit in my own way without him noticing me.”
It went home! It was vitriol! I saw the envy and disgruntlement rise in the man's face; he couldn't keep it down. I saw him try to fix up something in his mind to take the bloom off that distinction. I enjoyed that, for I judged that he had his work cut out for him. He struggled along inwardly for quite a while; then he said, with a manner of a person who has to say something and hasn't anything relevant to say:
It went home! It was harsh! I saw the jealousy and dissatisfaction grow on the man's face; he couldn't hide it. I saw him trying to come up with something in his head to diminish that praise. I found pleasure in that, because I figured he had a tough task ahead of him. He internally wrestled with it for a long time; then he said, with the demeanor of someone who needs to say something but has nothing meaningful to contribute:
“You said he had a handful of special-brand cigars on the table?”
“You said he had a few special cigars on the table?”
“Yes; I never saw anything to match them.”
“Yes; I have never seen anything like them.”
I had him again. He had to fumble around in his mind as much as another minute before he could play; then he said in as mean a way as I ever heard a person say anything:
I had him again. He had to scramble in his mind for about another minute before he could play; then he said in the meanest way I’ve ever heard someone say anything:
“He could have been counting the cigars, you know.”
"He might have been counting the cigars, you know."
I cannot endure a man like that. It is nothing to him how unkind he is, so long as he takes the bloom off. It is all he cares for.
I can’t stand a guy like that. He doesn't care at all how mean he is, as long as he gets what he wants. That's all that matters to him.
“An Englishman (or other human being) does dearly love a lord,” (or other conspicuous person.) It includes us all. We love to be noticed by the conspicuous person; we love to be associated with such, or with a conspicuous event, even in a seventh-rate fashion, even in the forty-seventh, if we cannot do better. This accounts for some of our curious tastes in mementos. It accounts for the large private trade in the Prince of Wales's hair, which chambermaids were able to drive in that article of commerce when the Prince made the tour of the world in the long ago—hair which probably did not always come from his brush, since enough of it was marketed to refurnish a bald comet; it accounts for the fact that the rope which lynches a negro in the presence of ten thousand Christian spectators is salable five minutes later at two dollars and inch; it accounts for the mournful fact that a royal personage does not venture to wear buttons on his coat in public.
“An Englishman (or anyone else) really loves a celebrity,” (or any notable figure.) This includes all of us. We love to be noticed by the prominent person; we love to be connected to them or to a significant event, even in a minor way, even if it’s not the best option available. This explains some of our odd preferences for souvenirs. It explains the thriving private market for the Prince of Wales's hair, which chambermaids were able to sell during his global tour long ago—hair that probably didn’t always come from his own brush, since there was enough of it sold to restock a bald comet; it explains why the rope used to lynch a Black man in front of ten thousand Christian spectators can be sold just five minutes later for two dollars a foot; it explains the sad reality that a royal figure can’t wear buttons on their coat in public.
We do love a lord—and by that term I mean any person whose situation is higher than our own. The lord of the group, for instance: a group of peers, a group of millionaires, a group of hoodlums, a group of sailors, a group of newsboys, a group of saloon politicians, a group of college girls. No royal person has ever been the object of a more delirious loyalty and slavish adoration than is paid by the vast Tammany herd to its squalid idol of Wantage. There is not a bifurcated animal in that menagerie that would not be proud to appear in a newspaper picture in his company. At the same time, there are some in that organization who would scoff at the people who have been daily pictured in company with Prince Henry, and would say vigorously that they would not consent to be photographed with him—a statement which would not be true in any instance. There are hundreds of people in America who would frankly say to you that they would not be proud to be photographed in a group with the Prince, if invited; and some of these unthinking people would believe it when they said it; yet in no instance would it be true. We have a large population, but we have not a large enough one, by several millions, to furnish that man. He has not yet been begotten, and in fact he is not begettable.
We really admire a lord—and by that, I mean anyone in a higher position than us. Take the leader of a group, for example: a group of peers, a group of millionaires, a group of troublemakers, a group of sailors, a group of newsboys, a group of bar politicians, a group of college girls. No royal figure has ever received more intense loyalty and blind adoration than what the huge Tammany crowd gives to its grim idol of Wantage. There isn't a single creature in that menagerie who wouldn't be proud to show up in a newspaper picture next to him. At the same time, there are some in that organization who would mock those often seen with Prince Henry, insisting that they wouldn’t ever want to be photographed with him—a claim that would not hold true in any case. There are hundreds of Americans who would outright say they wouldn’t feel proud to be in a photo with the Prince if invited; some of these thoughtless individuals would even believe it when they say it; yet none of it would be true. We have a large population, but not a sufficient one, by several millions, to create that man. He hasn't been conceived yet, and in fact, he can't be conceived.
You may take any of the printed groups, and there isn't a person in the dim background who isn't visibly trying to be vivid; if it is a crowd of ten thousand—ten thousand proud, untamed democrats, horny-handed sons of toil and of politics, and fliers of the eagle—there isn't one who is trying to keep out of range, there isn't one who isn't plainly meditating a purchase of the paper in the morning, with the intention of hunting himself out in the picture and of framing and keeping it if he shall find so much of his person in it as his starboard ear.
You can grab any of the printed groups, and there's not a single person in the blurry background who isn’t clearly trying to stand out; whether it's a crowd of ten thousand—ten thousand proud, fierce democrats, hardworking folks from all walks of life, and flyers of the eagle—there isn’t anyone trying to hide, and not a single person isn’t obviously considering buying the paper in the morning, with the goal of spotting themselves in the photo and framing it if they can find even a glimpse of themselves, like their right ear.
We all love to get some of the drippings of Conspicuousness, and we will put up with a single, humble drip, if we can't get any more. We may pretend otherwise, in conversation; but we can't pretend it to ourselves privately—and we don't. We do confess in public that we are the noblest work of God, being moved to it by long habit, and teaching, and superstition; but deep down in the secret places of our souls we recognize that, if we are the noblest work, the less said about it the better.
We all love to get a taste of attention, and we’ll settle for just a little drop if we can’t have more. We might talk like we don’t need it in conversation, but we can’t lie to ourselves—especially not in private. We publicly admit that we are the greatest creation of God, influenced by habit, education, and beliefs; but deep down in the hidden corners of our souls, we know that if we really are the greatest creation, then it’s better to say less about it.
We of the North poke fun at the South for its fondness of titles—a fondness for titles pure and simple, regardless of whether they are genuine or pinchbeck. We forget that whatever a Southerner likes the rest of the human race likes, and that there is no law of predilection lodged in one people that is absent from another people. There is no variety in the human race. We are all children, all children of the one Adam, and we love toys. We can soon acquire that Southern disease if some one will give it a start. It already has a start, in fact. I have been personally acquainted with over eighty-four thousand persons who, at one time or another in their lives, have served for a year or two on the staffs of our multitudinous governors, and through that fatality have been generals temporarily, and colonels temporarily, and judge-advocates temporarily; but I have known only nine among them who could be hired to let the title go when it ceased to be legitimate. I know thousands and thousands of governors who ceased to be governors away back in the last century; but I am acquainted with only three who would answer your letter if you failed to call them “Governor” in it. I know acres and acres of men who have done time in a legislature in prehistoric days, but among them is not half an acre whose resentment you would not raise if you addressed them as “Mr.” instead of “Hon.” The first thing a legislature does is to convene in an impressive legislative attitude, and get itself photographed. Each member frames his copy and takes it to the woods and hangs it up in the most aggressively conspicuous place in his house; and if you visit the house and fail to inquire what that accumulation is, the conversation will be brought around to it by that aforetime legislator, and he will show you a figure in it which in the course of years he has almost obliterated with the smut of his finger-marks, and say with a solemn joy, “It's me!”
We in the North like to tease the South for its obsession with titles—just a simple love for titles, whether they’re real or just for show. We forget that whatever a Southerner is into, the rest of humanity generally likes, and there’s nothing about one group that isn’t found in another. There’s no real diversity in the human race. We’re all just kids, all kids of the same Adam, and we all love our toys. We could easily catch that Southern obsession if someone starts it off. In fact, it’s already started. I’ve personally known over eighty-four thousand people who, at some point in their lives, served for a year or two on the staff of our many governors, and through that, they were temporarily generals, colonels, and judge-advocates; but I’ve only known nine of them who would agree to give up their title when it wasn’t valid anymore. I know thousands of governors who stopped being governors ages ago, but only three would respond to your letter if you didn’t address them as “Governor.” I know tons of guys who served in a legislature ages ago, but not half of them would be okay if you called them “Mr.” instead of “Hon.” The first thing a legislature does is gather in a serious legislative pose and get its picture taken. Each member frames their copy and takes it home to hang in the most visible spot possible; if you visit and don’t ask about it, that former legislator will steer the conversation to it and proudly point out a figure he’s almost worn away with his fingerprints, saying with great pride, “That’s me!”
Have you ever seen a country Congressman enter the hotel breakfast-room in Washington with his letters?—and sit at his table and let on to read them?—and wrinkle his brows and frown statesman-like?—keeping a furtive watch-out over his glasses all the while to see if he is being observed and admired?—those same old letters which he fetches in every morning? Have you seen it? Have you seen him show off? It is the sight of the national capital. Except one; a pathetic one. That is the ex-Congressman: the poor fellow whose life has been ruined by a two-year taste of glory and of fictitious consequence; who has been superseded, and ought to take his heartbreak home and hide it, but cannot tear himself away from the scene of his lost little grandeur; and so he lingers, and still lingers, year after year, unconsidered, sometimes snubbed, ashamed of his fallen estate, and valiantly trying to look otherwise; dreary and depressed, but counterfeiting breeziness and gaiety, hailing with chummy familiarity, which is not always welcomed, the more-fortunates who are still in place and were once his mates. Have you seen him? He clings piteously to the one little shred that is left of his departed distinction—the “privilege of the floor”; and works it hard and gets what he can out of it. That is the saddest figure I know of.
Have you ever seen a Congressman walk into a hotel breakfast room in Washington with his letters?—and sit at his table pretending to read them?—and furrow his brows and frown like a statesman?—while keeping a sneaky eye over his glasses to see if anyone is watching and admiring him?—those same old letters he brings in every morning? Have you seen it? Have you seen him show off? It is the sight of the national capital. Except for one; a sad one. That’s the ex-Congressman: the poor guy whose life has been ruined by a two-year taste of fame and fake importance; who has been replaced and should take his heartbreak home and hide it, but can’t tear himself away from the scene of his lost little glory; and so he hangs around, year after year, overlooked, sometimes dismissed, ashamed of his fallen status, and desperately trying to appear otherwise; gloomy and downcast, but pretending to be cheerful and upbeat, trying to greet with casual familiarity, which isn’t always welcomed, those who are more fortunate and still in their positions, and who used to be his peers. Have you seen him? He clings desperately to the one little piece he has left of his lost distinction—the “privilege of the floor”; and he works it hard and takes what he can get from it. That’s the saddest figure I know.
Yes, we do so love our little distinctions! And then we loftily scoff at a Prince for enjoying his larger ones; forgetting that if we only had his chance—ah! “Senator” is not a legitimate title. A Senator has no more right to be addressed by it than have you or I; but, in the several state capitals and in Washington, there are five thousand Senators who take very kindly to that fiction, and who purr gratefully when you call them by it—which you may do quite unrebuked. Then those same Senators smile at the self-constructed majors and generals and judges of the South!
Yes, we really love our little distinctions! And then we smugly laugh at a Prince for relishing his bigger ones; forgetting that if we had his opportunities—ah! “Senator” isn’t a legit title. A Senator has no more right to be called that than you or I do; but in the various state capitals and in Washington, there are five thousand Senators who are quite pleased with that fiction, and who happily respond when you call them that—which you can do without getting called out for it. Then those same Senators chuckle at the self-made majors and generals and judges from the South!
Indeed, we do love our distinctions, get them how we may. And we work them for all they are worth. In prayer we call ourselves “worms of the dust,” but it is only on a sort of tacit understanding that the remark shall not be taken at par. We—worms of the dust! Oh, no, we are not that. Except in fact; and we do not deal much in fact when we are contemplating ourselves.
Indeed, we love our differences, no matter how we acquire them. And we exploit them for everything they’re worth. In prayer, we refer to ourselves as “worms of the dust,” but it’s only with an unspoken agreement that this statement won’t be taken literally. We—worms of the dust! Oh, no, we’re not that. At least not in reality; and we rarely focus on reality when we’re reflecting on ourselves.
As a race, we do certainly love a lord—let him be Croker, or a duke, or a prize-fighter, or whatever other personage shall chance to be the head of our group. Many years ago, I saw a greasy youth in overalls standing by the Herald office, with an expectant look in his face. Soon a large man passed out, and gave him a pat on the shoulder. That was what the boy was waiting for—the large man's notice. The pat made him proud and happy, and the exultation inside of him shone out through his eyes; and his mates were there to see the pat and envy it and wish they could have that glory. The boy belonged down cellar in the press-room, the large man was king of the upper floors, foreman of the composing-room. The light in the boy's face was worship, the foreman was his lord, head of his group. The pat was an accolade. It was as precious to the boy as it would have been if he had been an aristocrat's son and the accolade had been delivered by his sovereign with a sword. The quintessence of the honor was all there; there was no difference in values; in truth there was no difference present except an artificial one—clothes.
As a society, we definitely love a leader—whether they’re a Croker, a duke, a prizefighter, or any other person who happens to be at the top of our group. Years ago, I saw a dirty kid in overalls standing by the Herald office, looking hopeful. Soon, a big guy walked out and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. That was exactly what the kid was waiting for—the big guy’s acknowledgment. The pat made him feel proud and happy, and the joy inside him showed in his eyes; his friends were there to witness the pat, envious and wishing they could have that kind of glory. The kid belonged in the press room down in the basement, while the big guy was the king of the upper floors, the foreman of the composing room. The light in the kid's face reflected worship; the foreman was his leader, head of his group. The pat was a mark of honor. It meant as much to the kid as it would for an aristocrat's son to receive a gesture of recognition from the king himself with a sword. The essence of the honor was all there; there was no difference in value; in reality, the only difference present was an artificial one—clothing.
All the human race loves a lord—that is, loves to look upon or be noticed by the possessor of Power or Conspicuousness; and sometimes animals, born to better things and higher ideals, descend to man's level in this matter. In the Jardin des Plantes I have see a cat that was so vain of being the personal friend of an elephant that I was ashamed of her.
All of humanity loves a leader—that is, loves to see or be acknowledged by someone in a position of power or prominence; and sometimes, animals, meant for greater things and higher ideals, lower themselves to human behavior in this regard. In the Jardin des Plantes, I've seen a cat that was so proud of being the personal friend of an elephant that I felt embarrassed for her.
EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY
MONDAY.—This new creature with the long hair is a good deal in the way. It is always hanging around and following me about. I don't like this; I am not used to company. I wish it would stay with the other animals.... Cloudy today, wind in the east; think we shall have rain.... We? Where did I get that word—the new creature uses it.
MONDAY.—This new creature with long hair is really annoying. It's always hanging around and following me. I don't like it; I'm not used to having company. I wish it would stay with the other animals.... It's cloudy today, and the wind is coming from the east; I think we're going to have rain.... We? Where did I pick up that word—the new creature uses it.
TUESDAY.—Been examining the great waterfall. It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why, I am sure I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls. That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and imbecility. I get no chance to name anything myself. The new creature names everything that comes along, before I can get in a protest. And always that same pretext is offered—it looks like the thing. There is a dodo, for instance. Says the moment one looks at it one sees at a glance that it “looks like a dodo.” It will have to keep that name, no doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a dodo than I do.
TUESDAY.—I’ve been checking out the great waterfall. I think it’s the best thing on the estate. The new person calls it Niagara Falls—honestly, I don’t get why. They say it looks like Niagara Falls. That’s not a good reason; it’s just a silly whim. I never get a chance to name anything myself. The new person names everything that comes up before I can even protest. And they always use that same excuse—it looks like the thing. Take the dodo, for example. They say that as soon as you see it, you can instantly tell it “looks like a dodo.” I guess it will have to keep that name, no doubt. It tires me out to worry about it, and it doesn’t change anything anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a dodo than I do.
WEDNESDAY.—Built me a shelter against the rain, but could not have it to myself in peace. The new creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it away with the back of its paws, and made a noise such as some of the other animals make when they are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so. I have never heard the human voice before, and any new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the solemn hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my ear and seems a false note. And this new sound is so close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear, first on one side and then on the other, and I am used only to sounds that are more or less distant from me.
WEDNESDAY.—I built myself a shelter from the rain, but I couldn't enjoy it in peace. The new creature kept intruding. When I tried to get it to leave, it dripped water from its eyes and wiped it away with the back of its paws, making a noise like some other animals do when they're upset. I wish it wouldn't make noise; it's always talking. That sounds harsh, but I don't mean it that way. I've never heard a human voice before, and any new and strange sound breaking the quiet of these peaceful surroundings irritates me and feels out of place. And this new sound is so close to me; it's right by my shoulder, right in my ear, first on one side, then the other, and I'm only used to sounds that are more or less distant.
FRIDAY. The naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything I can do. I had a very good name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty—Garden Of Eden. Privately, I continue to call it that, but not any longer publicly. The new creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery, and therefore has no resemblance to a garden. Says it looks like a park, and does not look like anything but a park. Consequently, without consulting me, it has been new-named Niagara Falls Park. This is sufficiently high-handed, it seems to me. And already there is a sign up:
FRIDAY. The naming keeps happening recklessly, no matter what I do. I had a great name for the estate, and it was beautiful and catchy—Garden of Eden. Personally, I still call it that, but not anymore in public. The new owner says it's just woods and rocks and scenery, so it doesn't resemble a garden. They say it looks like a park and doesn’t look like anything but a park. So, without asking me, it’s been renamed Niagara Falls Park. This feels pretty arrogant to me. And already there’s a sign up:
KEEP OFF THE GRASS
My life is not as happy as it was.
My life isn't as happy as it used to be.
SATURDAY.—The new creature eats too much fruit. We are going to run short, most likely. “We” again—that is its word; mine, too, now, from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this morning. I do not go out in the fog myself. This new creature does. It goes out in all weathers, and stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It used to be so pleasant and quiet here.
SATURDAY.—The new creature eats way too much fruit. We're probably going to run out soon. “We” again—that’s its word; mine, too, now, from hearing it so much. There’s a lot of fog this morning. I don’t go out in the fog myself. This new creature does. It goes out in all kinds of weather, stomping around with its muddy feet. And it talks. It used to be so nice and quiet here.
SUNDAY.—Pulled through. This day is getting to be more and more trying. It was selected and set apart last November as a day of rest. I had already six of them per week before. This morning found the new creature trying to clod apples out of that forbidden tree.
SUNDAY.—Made it through. This day is becoming more and more challenging. It was chosen and designated last November as a day of rest. I already had six of those days each week before. This morning, the new being was attempting to pick apples from that forbidden tree.
MONDAY.—The new creature says its name is Eve. That is all right, I have no objections. Says it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I said it was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, good word and will bear repetition. It says it is not an It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she would but go by herself and not talk.
MONDAY.—The new being says its name is Eve. That's fine, I have no issues with it. It says that's what I should call it when I want it to come. I said it was unnecessary then. The word clearly made me seem more important to it; and honestly, it is a substantial, meaningful word and deserves to be used. It says it's not an It, it's a She. This might be uncertain; but it doesn’t matter to me what she is as long as she can just be on her own and not talk.
TUESDAY.—She has littered the whole estate with execrable names and offensive signs:
TUESDAY.—She has filled the entire property with horrible names and rude signs:
This way to the Whirlpool
This way to Goat Island
Cave of the Winds this way
She says this park would make a tidy summer resort if there was any custom for it. Summer resort—another invention of hers—just words, without any meaning. What is a summer resort? But it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for explaining.
She says this park would be a nice summer getaway if there were any visitors. Summer getaway—another one of her inventions—just words, without any real meaning. What is a summer getaway? But it's better not to ask her; she has such a need to explain everything.
FRIDAY.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop going over the Falls. What harm does it do? Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I have always done it—always liked the plunge, and coolness. I supposed it was what the Falls were for. They have no other use that I can see, and they must have been made for something. She says they were only made for scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.
FRIDAY.—She has started begging me to stop going over the Falls. What harm does it do? She says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I’ve always done it—always enjoyed the plunge and the coolness. I thought that was the point of the Falls. They don’t seem to have any other purpose, and they must have been created for something. She says they were only made for looks—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon.
I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory to her. Went over in a tub—still not satisfactory. Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious complaints about my extravagance. I am too much hampered here. What I need is a change of scene.
I went over the Falls in a barrel—not good enough for her. I went over in a tub—still not good enough. I swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids in a fig-leaf suit. It got pretty messed up. So, now I’m getting annoying complaints about my extravagance. I feel too restricted here. What I need is a change of scenery.
SATURDAY.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as well as I could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that water out of the places she looks with. I was obliged to return with her, but will presently emigrate again when occasion offers. She engages herself in many foolish things; among others; to study out why the animals called lions and tigers live on grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth they wear would indicate that they were intended to eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that would be to kill each other, and that would introduce what, as I understand, is called “death”; and death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.
SATURDAY.—I escaped last Tuesday night and traveled for two days, then built another shelter in a hidden spot and covered my tracks as best as I could. But she tracked me down using a creature she has tamed and calls a wolf, showing up again with that sad noise and those tears streaming from her eyes. I had no choice but to go back with her, but I’ll definitely try to leave again when I get the chance. She gets involved in a lot of silly things; for example, she’s trying to figure out why animals like lions and tigers eat grass and flowers when, as she claims, their teeth seem designed for eating each other. This is ridiculous because if they did that, they’d end up killing one another, which would introduce something called “death,” and as I’ve heard, death hasn’t made its way into the Park yet. That’s unfortunate, in some ways.
SUNDAY.—Pulled through.
SUNDAY.—Made it through.
MONDAY.—I believe I see what the week is for: it is to give time to rest up from the weariness of Sunday. It seems a good idea. ... She has been climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it. She said nobody was looking. Seems to consider that a sufficient justification for chancing any dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justification moved her admiration—and envy, too, I thought. It is a good word.
MONDAY.—I think I understand the purpose of the week: it’s meant to allow us to recover from the exhaustion of Sunday. That makes sense. ... She climbed that tree again. Got her down from it. She said no one was watching. She seems to think that’s enough reason to take any risky action. I told her that. The word justification caught her interest—and maybe a bit of jealousy, too, I felt. It’s a powerful word.
TUESDAY.—She told me she was made out of a rib taken from my body. This is at least doubtful, if not more than that. I have not missed any rib.... She is in much trouble about the buzzard; says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can with what is provided. We cannot overturn the whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.
TUESDAY.—She told me she was created from a rib taken from my body. This is at least questionable, if not outright false. I haven't lost any ribs.... She's really worried about the buzzard; says grass doesn't work for it; is afraid she can't raise it; thinks it was meant to live on rotten flesh. The buzzard will have to manage with what's available. We can't change everything just to cater to the buzzard.
SATURDAY.—She fell in the pond yesterday when she was looking at herself in it, which she is always doing. She nearly strangled, and said it was most uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the creatures which live in there, which she calls fish, for she continues to fasten names on to things that don't need them and don't come when they are called by them, which is a matter of no consequence to her, she is such a numbskull, anyway; so she got a lot of them out and brought them in last night and put them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed them now and then all day and I don't see that they are any happier there then they were before, only quieter. When night comes I shall throw them outdoors. I will not sleep with them again, for I find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among when a person hasn't anything on.
SATURDAY.—She fell into the pond yesterday while checking herself out in it, which she does all the time. She almost choked and said it was really uncomfortable. This made her feel bad for the creatures living there, which she calls fish, because she keeps giving names to things that don’t need them and don’t respond when called, but that doesn’t bother her; she’s such a ditz anyway. So she scooped a bunch of them out and brought them in last night, putting them in my bed to keep warm. I’ve noticed them here and there all day, and I don’t think they’re any happier here than they were before, just quieter. When night falls, I’m throwing them outside. I won’t sleep with them again because I find them cold and unpleasant to lie with when I’m not wearing anything.
SUNDAY.—Pulled through.
SUNDAY.—Made it through.
TUESDAY.—She has taken up with a snake now. The other animals are glad, for she was always experimenting with them and bothering them; and I am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me to get a rest.
TUESDAY.—She’s hooked up with a snake now. The other animals are happy about it because she was always experimenting with them and bothering them; and I’m happy too because the snake talks, which gives me a break.
FRIDAY.—She says the snake advises her to try the fruit of the tree, and says the result will be a great and fine and noble education. I told her there would be another result, too—it would introduce death into the world. That was a mistake—it had been better to keep the remark to myself; it only gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard, and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree. She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will emigrate.
FRIDAY.—She says the snake told her to try the fruit from the tree, claiming it would lead to a great, wonderful, and noble education. I warned her there would be another outcome—it would bring death into the world. That was a mistake; I should've kept that to myself. It only gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard and provide fresh meat for the depressed lions and tigers. I advised her to stay away from the tree. She said she wouldn't. I see trouble ahead. I might leave.
WEDNESDAY.—I have had a variegated time. I escaped last night, and rode a horse all night as fast as he could go, hoping to get clear of the Park and hide in some other country before the trouble should begin; but it was not to be. About an hour after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain where thousands of animals were grazing, slumbering, or playing with each other, according to their wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was a frantic commotion and every beast was destroying its neighbor. I knew what it meant—Eve had eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world. ... The tigers ate my house, paying no attention when I ordered them to desist, and they would have eaten me if I had stayed—which I didn't, but went away in much haste.... I found this place, outside the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few days, but she has found me out. Found me out, and has named the place Tonawanda—says it looks like that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for there are but meager pickings here, and she brought some of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I find that principles have no real force except when one is well fed.... She came curtained in boughs and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what she meant by such nonsense, and snatched them away and threw them down, she tittered and blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic. She said I would soon know how it was myself. This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down the apple half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever saw, considering the lateness of the season—and arrayed myself in the discarded boughs and branches, and then spoke to her with some severity and ordered her to go and get some more and not make a spectacle of herself. She did it, and after this we crept down to where the wild-beast battle had been, and collected some skins, and I made her patch together a couple of suits proper for public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is true, but stylish, and that is the main point about clothes.... I find she is a good deal of a companion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed without her, now that I have lost my property. Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will superintend.
WEDNESDAY.—I've had a mixed time. I escaped last night and rode a horse as fast as he could go, hoping to get out of the Park and find a safe spot in another country before things went bad; but it wasn't meant to be. About an hour after sunrise, while I was riding through a flowery plain filled with animals grazing, napping, and playing, suddenly they all erupted into a chaotic frenzy, and in an instant, the plain was a scene of frantic turmoil with every beast attacking its neighbor. I knew what this meant—Eve had eaten that fruit, and death had entered the world. ... The tigers wrecked my house, ignoring my commands to stop, and they would have eaten me too if I had stayed— which I didn’t, but hurried away.... I found this spot, outside the Park, and was pretty comfortable for a few days, but she tracked me down. Found me and named the place Tonawanda—says it looks like that. Honestly, I was not upset she came, since there’s not much to eat here, and she brought some of those apples. I had to eat them because I was so hungry. It went against my principles, but I realized that principles don’t mean much when you’re starving.... She arrived draped in branches and leaves, and when I asked her what she was doing with all that nonsense, snatched it away and tossed it aside, she giggled and blushed. I had never seen anyone giggle and blush before, and to me, it seemed ridiculous and silly. She said I would soon understand how it felt. She was right. Hungry as I was, I set down the half-eaten apple—definitely the best one I’d ever seen, given the season—and wrapped myself in the discarded branches, then spoke firmly to her and told her to go get more and not make a fool of herself. She did, and after that we crept over to where the wild animal fight had happened, gathered some skins, and I made her stitch together a couple of outfits fit for public appearances. They're uncomfortable, that's true, but stylish, and that’s the main point about clothes.... I find she’s quite a good companion. I realize I would be lonely and down without her, now that I’ve lost my home. Another thing, she says it’s expected that we’ll work for our living from now on. She’ll be useful. I’ll supervise.
TEN DAYS LATER.—She accuses me of being the cause of our disaster! She says, with apparent sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts. I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any chestnuts. She said the Serpent informed her that “chestnut” was a figurative term meaning an aged and moldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some of them could have been of that sort, though I had honestly supposed that they were new when I made them. She asked me if I had made one just at the time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It was this. I was thinking about the Falls, and I said to myself, “How wonderful it is to see that vast body of water tumble down there!” Then in an instant a bright thought flashed into my head, and I let it fly, saying, “It would be a deal more wonderful to see it tumble up there!”—and I was just about to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature broke loose in war and death and I had to flee for my life. “There,” she said, with triumph, “that is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval with the creation.” Alas, I am indeed to blame. Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had never had that radiant thought!
TEN DAYS LATER.—She blames me for our disaster! She genuinely believes that the Serpent told her the forbidden fruit wasn’t apples, it was chestnuts. I insisted I was innocent because I hadn’t eaten any chestnuts. She said the Serpent explained that “chestnut” was a metaphor for an old and stale joke. I went pale at that because I’ve made many jokes to pass the time, and some of them could fit that description, even though I thought they were original when I said them. She asked if I had made one right before the disaster. I had to admit I had come up with one in my head, though not out loud. It was this: I was thinking about the Falls and said to myself, “How amazing it is to see that huge body of water tumble down there!” Then, in a flash, a clever thought hit me, and I joked, “It would be a lot more amazing to see it tumble up there!”—and I was about to burst out laughing when all hell broke loose in war and death, and I had to run for my life. “There,” she said, triumphantly, “that’s exactly it; the Serpent mentioned that very joke, called it the First Chestnut, and said it dated back to creation.” Alas, I truly am to blame. I wish I weren’t so witty; oh, how I regret ever having that brilliant thought!
NEXT YEAR.—We have named it Cain. She caught it while I was up country trapping on the North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have been four, she isn't certain which. It resembles us in some ways, and may be a relation. That is what she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment. The difference in size warrants the conclusion that it is a different and new kind of animal—a fish, perhaps, though when I put it in the water to see, it sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before there was opportunity for the experiment to determine the matter. I still think it is a fish, but she is indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have it to try. I do not understand this. The coming of the creature seems to have changed her whole nature and made her unreasonable about experiments. She thinks more of it than she does of any of the other animals, but is not able to explain why. Her mind is disordered—everything shows it. Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the night when it complains and wants to get to the water. At such times the water comes out of the places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats the fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her mouth to soothe it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly. She used to carry the young tigers around so, and play with them, before we lost our property, but it was only play; she never took on about them like this when their dinner disagreed with them.
NEXT YEAR.—We named it Cain. She caught it while I was away trapping on the North Shore of Lake Erie; she caught it in the woods a couple of miles from our shelter—or maybe it was four, she's not sure. It resembles us in some ways and might be a relation. That's what she thinks, but I believe that's a mistake. The size difference suggests it's a different and new kind of animal—a fish, maybe, though when I put it in the water to check, it sank, and she jumped in and grabbed it before I could figure it out. I still think it's a fish, but she's indifferent to what it is and won't let me have it to try again. I don't understand this. The arrival of this creature seems to have changed her completely and made her unreasonable about experiments. She cares more about it than any of the other animals, but can't explain why. Her mind seems unsettled—everything shows it. Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the night when it whines and wants to get to the water. At those times, tears come from her eyes, and she pats the fish on the back, making gentle sounds to soothe it, showing sorrow and concern in countless ways. I've never seen her act like this with any other fish, and it's deeply troubling to me. She used to carry the young tigers around like this and play with them, before we lost our property, but it was just play; she never got so upset when they had a bad dinner.
SUNDAY.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies around all tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow over her; and she makes fool noises to amuse it, and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it laugh. I have not seen a fish before that could laugh. This makes me doubt.... I have come to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays. In the old days they were tough, but now they come handy.
SUNDAY.—She doesn't work on Sundays; she just lies around, all worn out, and enjoys having the fish splash around her. She makes silly noises to entertain it and pretends to chew on its fins, which makes it laugh. I've never seen a fish that could laugh before. This makes me wonder.... I've come to enjoy Sundays myself. Being in charge all week is exhausting. There should be more Sundays. In the past, they were hard to handle, but now they feel convenient.
WEDNESDAY.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite make out what it is. It makes curious devilish noises when not satisfied, and says “goo-goo” when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk; it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog, for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot get a chance to find out whether it can swim or not. It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but she only admired the word without understanding it. In my judgment it is either an enigma or some kind of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what its arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex me so.
WEDNESDAY.—It’s not a fish. I can't quite figure out what it is. It makes strange devilish noises when it’s not happy, and says “goo-goo” when it is. It’s not one of us, since it doesn’t walk; it’s not a bird, because it doesn’t fly; it’s not a frog, because it doesn’t hop; and it’s not a snake, because it doesn’t crawl. I’m pretty sure it’s not a fish, but I haven’t had a chance to see if it can swim or not. It just lies around, mostly on its back, with its feet up. I’ve never seen any other animal do that before. I said I thought it was a mystery; but she just admired the word without understanding it. In my opinion, it’s either a mystery or some kind of bug. If it dies, I’ll take it apart to see how it’s put together. I've never had anything confuse me like this.
THREE MONTHS LATER.—The perplexity augments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little. It has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four legged animals, in that its front legs are unusually short, consequently this causes the main part of its person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and this is not attractive. It is built much as we are, but its method of traveling shows that it is not of our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones indicate that it is a of the kangaroo family, but it is a marked variation of that species, since the true kangaroo hops, whereas this one never does. Still it is a curious and interesting variety, and has not been catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt justified in securing the credit of the discovery by attaching my name to it, and hence have called it Kangaroorum Adamiensis.... It must have been a young one when it came, for it has grown exceedingly since. It must be five times as big, now, as it was then, and when discontented it is able to make from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it made at first. Coercion does not modify this, but has the contrary effect. For this reason I discontinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion, and by giving it things which she had previously told me she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was not at home when it first came, and she told me she found it in the woods. It seems odd that it should be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn myself out these many weeks trying to find another one to add to my collection, and for this to play with; for surely then it would be quieter and we could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor any vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself; therefore, how does it get about without leaving a track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no good. I catch all small animals except that one; animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity, I think, to see what the milk is there for. They never drink it.
THREE MONTHS LATER.—The confusion is growing instead of getting better. I hardly sleep at all. It has stopped lying around and now moves on its four legs. However, it’s different from other four-legged animals because its front legs are really short, making the main part of its body stick up uncomfortably high in the air, which isn’t appealing. It’s built a lot like us, but how it moves shows that it’s not one of us. The short front legs and long back ones suggest it’s part of the kangaroo family, but it’s a distinct variation of that species since real kangaroos hop, while this one never does. Still, it’s a curious and interesting type that hasn’t been classified before. Since I discovered it, I feel justified in claiming the credit for the find by naming it Kangaroorum Adamiensis.... It must have been young when it arrived because it has grown a lot since. It must be five times bigger now than it was back then, and when it's unhappy, it can make twenty-two to thirty-eight times more noise than it did at first. Trying to control it doesn’t help; in fact, it makes things worse. That’s why I stopped trying. She calms it down through persuasion and by giving it things she previously said she wouldn’t. As I mentioned, I wasn’t home when it first came, and she told me she found it in the woods. It’s strange that it should be the only one, yet it seems to be, because I’ve worn myself out for weeks trying to find another to add to my collection and to play with; surely then it would be quieter and we could tame it more easily. However, I haven’t found any, nor any signs of one; and the strangest part is, no tracks at all. It has to move on the ground; it can’t avoid it, so how does it get around without leaving a trace? I’ve set a dozen traps, but they haven't worked. I catch all the small animals except this one; they seem to go into the trap just out of curiosity to see what the milk is for. They never drink it.
THREE MONTHS LATER.—The Kangaroo still continues to grow, which is very strange and perplexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its growth. It has fur on its head now; not like kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that it is much finer and softer, and instead of being black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the capricious and harassing developments of this unclassifiable zoological freak. If I could catch another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I caught a true kangaroo and brought it in, thinking that this one, being lonesome, would rather have that for company than have no kin at all, or any animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy from in its forlorn condition here among strangers who do not know its ways or habits, or what to do to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was a mistake—it went into such fits at the sight of the kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one before. I pity the poor noisy little animal, but there is nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could tame it—but that is out of the question; the more I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and yet she may be right. It might be lonelier than ever; for since I cannot find another one, how could it?
THREE MONTHS LATER.—The kangaroo is still growing, which is really strange and confusing. I’ve never seen one take so long to grow. It has fur on its head now; it doesn’t look like typical kangaroo fur, but it’s just like our hair, only much finer and softer, and it’s red instead of black. I’m about to lose my mind over the unpredictable and frustrating changes of this unclassifiable zoological oddity. If I could catch another one—but that’s hopeless; it’s a new variety, and this is the only one. I did catch a real kangaroo and brought it in, thinking this one, being lonely, would prefer the company over being around no relatives at all, or any animal it could connect with or feel sympathy from in its lonely state among strangers who don’t know its ways or habits, or how to make it feel like it’s among friends. But that was a mistake—when it saw the kangaroo, it went into such fits that I was convinced it had never seen one before. I feel sorry for the poor, noisy little animal, but there’s nothing I can do to make it happy. If I could tame it—but that seems impossible; the more I try, the worse I seem to make it. It breaks my heart to see it go through its little episodes of sadness and frustration. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn’t agree to that. That felt cruel and not like her, but maybe she’s right. It could be lonelier than ever; since I can’t find another one, how could it?
FIVE MONTHS LATER.—It is not a kangaroo. No, for it supports itself by holding to her finger, and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear; and yet it has no tail—as yet—and no fur, except upon its head. It still keeps on growing—that is a curious circumstance, for bears get their growth earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our catastrophe—and I shall not be satisfied to have this one prowling about the place much longer without a muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if she would let this one go, but it did no good—she is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks, I think. She was not like this before she lost her mind.
FIVE MONTHS LATER.—It’s not a kangaroo. No, because it supports itself by gripping her finger, and then it takes a few steps on its hind legs before falling down. It’s probably some type of bear; still, it doesn’t have a tail—at least not yet—and has no fur except on its head. It's still growing—that’s an odd thing, since bears usually grow up faster than this. Bears are dangerous—especially after what happened—and I won’t feel comfortable with this one wandering around without a muzzle for much longer. I offered to get her a kangaroo if she would release this one, but that didn’t help—she’s set on putting us in all sorts of ridiculous situations, I think. She wasn’t like this before she lost her mind.
A FORTNIGHT LATER.—I examined its mouth. There is no danger yet: it has only one tooth. It has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it ever did before—and mainly at night. I have moved out. But I shall go over, mornings, to breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets a mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be dangerous.
A FORTNIGHT LATER.—I looked at its mouth. There’s no danger yet: it just has one tooth. It doesn’t have a tail yet. It makes more noise now than it ever did before—and mostly at night. I’ve moved out. But I’ll still go over in the mornings for breakfast and check if it has more teeth. If it gets a full set of teeth, it’ll be time for it to go, tail or no tail, because a bear doesn’t need a tail to be dangerous.
FOUR MONTHS LATER.—I have been off hunting and fishing a month, up in the region that she calls Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind legs, and says “poppa” and “momma.” It is certainly a new species. This resemblance to words may be purely accidental, of course, and may have no purpose or meaning; but even in that case it is still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other bear can do. This imitation of speech, taken together with general absence of fur and entire absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a new kind of bear. The further study of it will be exceedingly interesting. Meantime I will go off on a far expedition among the forests of the north and make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be another one somewhere, and this one will be less dangerous when it has company of its own species. I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one first.
FOUR MONTHS LATER.—I have been out hunting and fishing for a month, up in the area she calls Buffalo; I have no idea why, unless it’s because there aren’t any buffaloes there. Meanwhile, the bear has learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind legs, and says “daddy” and “mommy.” It’s definitely a new species. This similarity to words might be purely coincidental, of course, and may have no real meaning; but even so, it’s still remarkable, and it’s something no other bear can do. This mimicry of speech, along with the lack of fur and complete absence of a tail, clearly signals that this is a new type of bear. Further study of it will be extremely interesting. In the meantime, I’m going to go on an expedition through the northern forests and do a thorough search. There must be another one out there somewhere, and this one will be less dangerous when it has company of its own kind. I’ll go right away, but I’ll muzzle this one first.
THREE MONTHS LATER.—It has been a weary, weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In the mean time, without stirring from the home estate, she has caught another one! I never saw such luck. I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I never would have run across that thing.
THREE MONTHS LATER.—It’s been a long and tiring search, but I haven’t found a thing. Meanwhile, without even leaving the property, she’s managed to catch another one! I’ve never seen such luck. I could search these woods for a hundred years, and I still wouldn’t come across that thing.
NEXT DAY.—I have been comparing the new one with the old one, and it is perfectly plain that they are of the same breed. I was going to stuff one of them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against it for some reason or other; so I have relinquished the idea, though I think it is a mistake. It would be an irreparable loss to science if they should get away. The old one is tamer than it was and can laugh and talk like a parrot, having learned this, no doubt, from being with the parrot so much, and having the imitative faculty in a highly developed degree. I shall be astonished if it turns out to be a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not to be astonished, for it has already been everything else it could think of since those first days when it was a fish. The new one is as ugly as the old one was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat complexion and the same singular head without any fur on it. She calls it Abel.
NEXT DAY.—I’ve been comparing the new one with the old one, and it’s clear they’re the same type. I considered preserving one for my collection, but she’s against it for some reason; so I’ve given up on that idea, although I think it’s a mistake. It would be a big loss to science if they got away. The old one is calmer than it used to be and can laugh and talk like a parrot, probably having learned this from spending so much time with the parrot and because its imitation skills are highly developed. I’d be surprised if it turns out to be a new type of parrot; and yet, I shouldn’t be surprised, since it has already been everything else it could think of since those early days when it was a fish. The new one is as ugly as the old one was at first; it has that same sulfur-and-raw-meat complexion and the same strange hairless head. She calls it Abel.
TEN YEARS LATER.—They are boys; we found it out long ago. It was their coming in that small immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have improved him. After all these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her. At first I thought she talked too much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the chestnut that brought us near together and taught me to know the goodness of her heart and the sweetness of her spirit!
TEN YEARS LATER.—They are boys; we figured that out a long time ago. It was their arrival in that small, immature form that confused us; we weren't used to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good kid, but if Cain had stayed a bear, it would have helped him. After all these years, I realize I was wrong about Eve from the start; it’s better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her. At first, I thought she talked too much; but now I would regret losing that voice and having it fade from my life. Blessed be the chestnut that brought us close together and helped me see the goodness in her heart and the sweetness of her spirit!
EVE'S DIARY
Translated from the Original
Translated from the Original
SATURDAY.—I am almost a whole day old, now. I arrived yesterday. That is as it seems to me. And it must be so, for if there was a day-before-yesterday I was not there when it happened, or I should remember it. It could be, of course, that it did happen, and that I was not noticing. Very well; I will be very watchful now, and if any day-before-yesterdays happen I will make a note of it. It will be best to start right and not let the record get confused, for some instinct tells me that these details are going to be important to the historian some day. For I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like an experiment; it would be impossible for a person to feel more like an experiment than I do, and so I am coming to feel convinced that that is what I am—an experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more.
SATURDAY.—I’m almost a whole day old now. I showed up yesterday. That’s how it feels to me. And it must be true because if there was a day-before-yesterday, I wasn’t there when it happened, or I should remember it. It’s possible, of course, that it did happen and I just wasn’t paying attention. Fine; I’ll be really observant from now on, and if any day-before-yesterdays come up, I’ll make a note of it. It’s best to start off on the right foot and not get the record mixed up, because some instinct tells me that these details will be important to some historian someday. I feel like an experiment; I feel exactly like an experiment. It would be impossible for anyone to feel more like an experiment than I do, so I'm beginning to believe that’s what I am—an experiment; just an experiment and nothing more.
Then if I am an experiment, am I the whole of it? No, I think not; I think the rest of it is part of it. I am the main part of it, but I think the rest of it has its share in the matter. Is my position assured, or do I have to watch it and take care of it? The latter, perhaps. Some instinct tells me that eternal vigilance is the price of supremacy. (That is a good phrase, I think, for one so young.)
Then if I’m an experiment, am I the whole thing? No, I don’t think so; I believe the rest is part of it. I’m the main part, but I think the rest has its role too. Is my position secure, or do I need to keep an eye on it and take care of it? Probably the latter. Some instinct tells me that constant vigilance is the price of dominance. (That’s a good phrase, I think, for someone so young.)
Everything looks better today than it did yesterday. In the rush of finishing up yesterday, the mountains were left in a ragged condition, and some of the plains were so cluttered with rubbish and remnants that the aspects were quite distressing. Noble and beautiful works of art should not be subjected to haste; and this majestic new world is indeed a most noble and beautiful work. And certainly marvelously near to being perfect, notwithstanding the shortness of the time. There are too many stars in some places and not enough in others, but that can be remedied presently, no doubt. The moon got loose last night, and slid down and fell out of the scheme—a very great loss; it breaks my heart to think of it. There isn't another thing among the ornaments and decorations that is comparable to it for beauty and finish. It should have been fastened better. If we can only get it back again—
Everything looks better today than it did yesterday. In the rush to finish up yesterday, the mountains were left in a messy state, and some of the plains were so filled with trash and debris that the view was quite upsetting. Noble and beautiful creations shouldn’t be rushed; and this grand new world is truly a remarkable and stunning creation. And it’s certainly very close to being perfect, despite the limited time we've had. There are too many stars in some areas and not enough in others, but that can be fixed soon, no doubt. The moon got loose last night and slipped out of the plan—a huge loss; it breaks my heart to think about it. There isn’t another thing among the decorations and adornments that compares to it in beauty and refinement. It should have been secured better. If we can just get it back again—
But of course there is no telling where it went to. And besides, whoever gets it will hide it; I know it because I would do it myself. I believe I can be honest in all other matters, but I already begin to realize that the core and center of my nature is love of the beautiful, a passion for the beautiful, and that it would not be safe to trust me with a moon that belonged to another person and that person didn't know I had it. I could give up a moon that I found in the daytime, because I should be afraid some one was looking; but if I found it in the dark, I am sure I should find some kind of an excuse for not saying anything about it. For I do love moons, they are so pretty and so romantic. I wish we had five or six; I would never go to bed; I should never get tired lying on the moss-bank and looking up at them.
But of course, there's no telling where it went. Besides, whoever gets it will just keep it hidden; I know I would do the same. I think I can be honest about everything else, but I start to realize that at the core of who I am is my love for beauty, a passion for the beautiful. It wouldn't be safe to trust me with a moon that belonged to someone else, especially if that person didn’t know I had it. I could let go of a moon I found during the day because I'd be afraid someone was watching; but if I found it at night, I know I’d come up with some excuse to not say anything about it. I really love moons; they're just so beautiful and romantic. I wish we had five or six of them; I’d never go to bed. I could lie on the mossy bank all night, gazing up at them, and never get tired.
Stars are good, too. I wish I could get some to put in my hair. But I suppose I never can. You would be surprised to find how far off they are, for they do not look it. When they first showed, last night, I tried to knock some down with a pole, but it didn't reach, which astonished me; then I tried clods till I was all tired out, but I never got one. It was because I am left-handed and cannot throw good. Even when I aimed at the one I wasn't after I couldn't hit the other one, though I did make some close shots, for I saw the black blot of the clod sail right into the midst of the golden clusters forty or fifty times, just barely missing them, and if I could have held out a little longer maybe I could have got one.
Stars are nice, too. I wish I could get some to put in my hair. But I guess I never can. You'd be surprised to see how far away they are, because they really don’t look it. When they first appeared last night, I tried to knock some down with a pole, but it didn’t reach, which shocked me; then I threw clods until I was completely worn out, but I never got one. It was because I’m left-handed and can’t throw well. Even when I aimed at the one I wasn’t going for, I couldn’t hit the other one, though I did come close a few times, since I saw the black clod fly right into the middle of the golden clusters forty or fifty times, just barely missing them, and if I could have held out a bit longer, maybe I could have gotten one.
So I cried a little, which was natural, I suppose, for one of my age, and after I was rested I got a basket and started for a place on the extreme rim of the circle, where the stars were close to the ground and I could get them with my hands, which would be better, anyway, because I could gather them tenderly then, and not break them. But it was farther than I thought, and at last I had to give it up; I was so tired I couldn't drag my feet another step; and besides, they were sore and hurt me very much.
So I cried a bit, which was pretty natural for someone my age, I guess, and after I rested, I grabbed a basket and headed for a spot on the far edge of the circle, where the stars seemed close to the ground and I could reach them with my hands. That would be better anyway, because I could gather them gently and not break them. But it was further than I thought, and eventually, I had to give up; I was so exhausted I couldn't drag my feet another step, and on top of that, they were sore and really hurt.
I couldn't get back home; it was too far and turning cold; but I found some tigers and nestled in among them and was most adorably comfortable, and their breath was sweet and pleasant, because they live on strawberries. I had never seen a tiger before, but I knew them in a minute by the stripes. If I could have one of those skins, it would make a lovely gown.
I couldn’t make it back home; it was too far and getting cold; but I found some tigers and snuggled up with them and was incredibly comfortable, and their breath was sweet and nice because they eat strawberries. I had never seen a tiger before, but I recognized them right away by their stripes. If I could have one of those skins, it would make a beautiful dress.
Today I am getting better ideas about distances. I was so eager to get hold of every pretty thing that I giddily grabbed for it, sometimes when it was too far off, and sometimes when it was but six inches away but seemed a foot—alas, with thorns between! I learned a lesson; also I made an axiom, all out of my own head—my very first one; The scratched experiment shuns the thorn. I think it is a very good one for one so young.
Today I’m starting to understand distances better. I used to be so eager to grab every pretty thing that I would reach for it, sometimes when it was too far away, and sometimes when it was just six inches away but felt like a foot—unfortunately, with thorns in the way! I learned a lesson; I also came up with a saying of my own—my very first one; The scratched experiment shuns the thorn. I think it’s a pretty good one for someone my age.
I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon, at a distance, to see what it might be for, if I could. But I was not able to make out. I think it is a man. I had never seen a man, but it looked like one, and I feel sure that that is what it is. I realize that I feel more curiosity about it than about any of the other reptiles. If it is a reptile, and I suppose it is; for it has frowzy hair and blue eyes, and looks like a reptile. It has no hips; it tapers like a carrot; when it stands, it spreads itself apart like a derrick; so I think it is a reptile, though it may be architecture.
I followed the other Experiment around yesterday afternoon from a distance to figure out what it was, if I could. But I couldn't make it out. I think it's a man. I’ve never seen a man before, but it looked like one, and I'm pretty sure that's what it is. I realize that I’m more curious about it than any of the other reptiles. If it is a reptile, and I guess it is because it has messy hair and blue eyes and looks reptilian. It has no hips; it narrows like a carrot; when it stands, it spreads itself apart like a crane, so I think it’s a reptile, though it could also be some kind of structure.
I was afraid of it at first, and started to run every time it turned around, for I thought it was going to chase me; but by and by I found it was only trying to get away, so after that I was not timid any more, but tracked it along, several hours, about twenty yards behind, which made it nervous and unhappy. At last it was a good deal worried, and climbed a tree. I waited a good while, then gave it up and went home.
I was scared of it at first, and I started to run every time it turned around because I thought it was going to chase me. But eventually, I realized it was just trying to get away, so after that, I wasn’t timid anymore. I followed it for several hours, staying about twenty yards behind, which made it nervous and unhappy. In the end, it got pretty stressed out and climbed a tree. I waited for a while, then gave up and went home.
Today the same thing over. I've got it up the tree again.
Today it’s the same thing again. I’ve got it up the tree once more.
SUNDAY.—It is up there yet. Resting, apparently. But that is a subterfuge: Sunday isn't the day of rest; Saturday is appointed for that. It looks to me like a creature that is more interested in resting than in anything else. It would tire me to rest so much. It tires me just to sit around and watch the tree. I do wonder what it is for; I never see it do anything.
SUNDAY.—It's still up there. Just resting, it seems. But that's a ruse: Sunday isn't the day for resting; Saturday is meant for that. It seems to me like a being that cares more about resting than anything else. It would exhaust me to rest that much. It tires me just to sit around and watch the tree. I really wonder what it's for; I never see it do anything.
They returned the moon last night, and I was so happy! I think it is very honest of them. It slid down and fell off again, but I was not distressed; there is no need to worry when one has that kind of neighbors; they will fetch it back. I wish I could do something to show my appreciation. I would like to send them some stars, for we have more than we can use. I mean I, not we, for I can see that the reptile cares nothing for such things.
They brought back the moon last night, and I was so happy! I think it’s really kind of them. It slipped down and fell off again, but I wasn't upset; there's no need to stress when you have neighbors like that; they'll retrieve it. I wish I could do something to show my gratitude. I’d love to send them some stars, since we have more than we need. I mean me, not we, because I can see that the reptile doesn’t care about those kinds of things.
It has low tastes, and is not kind. When I went there yesterday evening in the gloaming it had crept down and was trying to catch the little speckled fishes that play in the pool, and I had to clod it to make it go up the tree again and let them alone. I wonder if that is what it is for? Hasn't it any heart? Hasn't it any compassion for those little creature? Can it be that it was designed and manufactured for such ungentle work? It has the look of it. One of the clods took it back of the ear, and it used language. It gave me a thrill, for it was the first time I had ever heard speech, except my own. I did not understand the words, but they seemed expressive.
It has bad taste and isn’t nice. When I went there yesterday evening at dusk, it had crouched down and was trying to catch the little speckled fish that play in the pool, and I had to hit it with a clod to make it go back up the tree and leave them alone. I wonder if that’s what it’s for? Doesn’t it have any heart? Doesn’t it have any compassion for those little creatures? Could it be that it was made for such cruel work? It sure looks like it. One of the clods hit it behind the ear, and it spoke. It gave me a thrill, as it was the first time I had ever heard anything but my own voice. I didn’t understand the words, but they seemed meaningful.
When I found it could talk I felt a new interest in it, for I love to talk; I talk, all day, and in my sleep, too, and I am very interesting, but if I had another to talk to I could be twice as interesting, and would never stop, if desired.
When I discovered it could talk, I became really interested in it because I love to chat. I talk all day and even in my sleep, and I’m pretty interesting, but if I had someone else to talk to, I could be twice as interesting and would never want to stop, if that’s what they wanted.
If this reptile is a man, it isn't an it, is it? That wouldn't be grammatical, would it? I think it would be he. I think so. In that case one would parse it thus: nominative, he; dative, him; possessive, his'n. Well, I will consider it a man and call it he until it turns out to be something else. This will be handier than having so many uncertainties.
If this reptile were a man, it wouldn't be an it, right? That wouldn't be correct, would it? I think it should be he. I believe so. In that case, we would break it down like this: nominative, he; dative, him; possessive, his'n. Well, I'll consider it a man and call it he until we find out it's something different. This will be easier than dealing with so many uncertainties.
NEXT WEEK SUNDAY.—All the week I tagged around after him and tried to get acquainted. I had to do the talking, because he was shy, but I didn't mind it. He seemed pleased to have me around, and I used the sociable “we” a good deal, because it seemed to flatter him to be included.
NEXT WEEK SUNDAY.—All week I followed him around and tried to get to know him. I had to do the talking since he was shy, but I didn’t mind. He seemed happy to have me around, and I used the friendly “we” a lot because it seemed to make him feel included.
WEDNESDAY.—We are getting along very well indeed, now, and getting better and better acquainted. He does not try to avoid me any more, which is a good sign, and shows that he likes to have me with him. That pleases me, and I study to be useful to him in every way I can, so as to increase his regard. During the last day or two I have taken all the work of naming things off his hands, and this has been a great relief to him, for he has no gift in that line, and is evidently very grateful. He can't think of a rational name to save him, but I do not let him see that I am aware of his defect. Whenever a new creature comes along I name it before he has time to expose himself by an awkward silence. In this way I have saved him many embarrassments. I have no defect like this. The minute I set eyes on an animal I know what it is. I don't have to reflect a moment; the right name comes out instantly, just as if it were an inspiration, as no doubt it is, for I am sure it wasn't in me half a minute before. I seem to know just by the shape of the creature and the way it acts what animal it is.
WEDNESDAY.—We're getting along really well now and getting to know each other better. He doesn't try to avoid me anymore, which is a good sign, showing that he enjoys having me around. That makes me happy, and I try to be helpful to him in every way possible to earn his appreciation. Over the last day or two, I’ve taken over the task of naming things, which has been a huge relief for him since he’s not good at it and is obviously very grateful. He can't come up with a reasonable name to save his life, but I don't let him know that I'm aware of his struggle. Whenever a new creature appears, I name it before he has a chance to feel awkward in silence. This way, I’ve saved him from a lot of embarrassing moments. I don't have that problem. The moment I see an animal, I instantly know what it is. I don’t have to think about it; the right name just comes out as if it’s some kind of inspiration, which it probably is, since I’m sure it wasn't in my mind for more than a minute. I seem to just know what animal it is by the way it looks and behaves.
When the dodo came along he thought it was a wildcat—I saw it in his eye. But I saved him. And I was careful not to do it in a way that could hurt his pride. I just spoke up in a quite natural way of pleased surprise, and not as if I was dreaming of conveying information, and said, “Well, I do declare, if there isn't the dodo!” I explained—without seeming to be explaining—how I know it for a dodo, and although I thought maybe he was a little piqued that I knew the creature when he didn't, it was quite evident that he admired me. That was very agreeable, and I thought of it more than once with gratification before I slept. How little a thing can make us happy when we feel that we have earned it!
When the dodo showed up, he thought it was a wildcat—I could see it in his eyes. But I saved him. I made sure not to do it in a way that would hurt his pride. I just expressed my genuine surprise, not like I was trying to give him information, and said, “Well, I do declare, if that isn’t the dodo!” I explained—without really seeming to explain—how I recognized it as a dodo, and even though I thought he might be a little annoyed that I knew what it was and he didn’t, it was clear that he admired me. That was nice, and I found myself thinking about it with pleasure more than once before I went to sleep. It’s amazing how a small thing can make us happy when we feel like we’ve earned it!
THURSDAY.—my first sorrow. Yesterday he avoided me and seemed to wish I would not talk to him. I could not believe it, and thought there was some mistake, for I loved to be with him, and loved to hear him talk, and so how could it be that he could feel unkind toward me when I had not done anything? But at last it seemed true, so I went away and sat lonely in the place where I first saw him the morning that we were made and I did not know what he was and was indifferent about him; but now it was a mournful place, and every little thing spoke of him, and my heart was very sore. I did not know why very clearly, for it was a new feeling; I had not experienced it before, and it was all a mystery, and I could not make it out.
THURSDAY.—my first sorrow. Yesterday he avoided me and seemed to want me to stop talking to him. I couldn't believe it and thought there must be some mistake because I loved being with him and loved listening to him. So how could he feel unfriendly toward me when I hadn't done anything? But eventually, it seemed true, so I went away and sat alone in the spot where I first saw him that morning when we were created, and I didn’t know who he was and didn’t care about him; but now it felt like a sad place, and every little thing reminded me of him, and my heart was really hurting. I didn't quite understand why, as it was a new feeling; I hadn't gone through it before, and it was all a mystery, and I couldn't figure it out.
But when night came I could not bear the lonesomeness, and went to the new shelter which he has built, to ask him what I had done that was wrong and how I could mend it and get back his kindness again; but he put me out in the rain, and it was my first sorrow.
But when night fell, I couldn’t stand the loneliness, so I went to the new shelter he had built to ask him what I had done wrong and how I could fix things to earn back his kindness. But he threw me out into the rain, and that was my first heartbreak.
SUNDAY.—It is pleasant again, now, and I am happy; but those were heavy days; I do not think of them when I can help it.
SUNDAY.—It’s nice again now, and I’m happy; but those were tough days; I try not to think about them when I can avoid it.
I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot learn to throw straight. I failed, but I think the good intention pleased him. They are forbidden, and he says I shall come to harm; but so I come to harm through pleasing him, why shall I care for that harm?
I tried to get him some of those apples, but I can't throw straight. I failed, but I think my good intentions made him happy. They're not allowed, and he says I’ll get into trouble; but if I get into trouble trying to please him, why should I worry about that trouble?
MONDAY.—This morning I told him my name, hoping it would interest him. But he did not care for it. It is strange. If he should tell me his name, I would care. I think it would be pleasanter in my ears than any other sound.
MONDAY.—This morning I told him my name, hoping it would catch his interest. But he didn’t seem to care. It’s odd. If he shared his name with me, I would be interested. I think it would sound nicer to me than anything else.
He talks very little. Perhaps it is because he is not bright, and is sensitive about it and wishes to conceal it. It is such a pity that he should feel so, for brightness is nothing; it is in the heart that the values lie. I wish I could make him understand that a loving good heart is riches, and riches enough, and that without it intellect is poverty.
He doesn’t say much. Maybe it’s because he’s not very smart, and he feels self-conscious about it and wants to hide it. It’s really sad that he feels this way, because being smart doesn’t matter; what truly counts is what’s in your heart. I wish I could help him see that having a kind, loving heart is true wealth, and it’s more than enough, while without it, intelligence means nothing.
Although he talks so little, he has quite a considerable vocabulary. This morning he used a surprisingly good word. He evidently recognized, himself, that it was a good one, for he worked it in twice afterward, casually. It was not good casual art, still it showed that he possesses a certain quality of perception. Without a doubt that seed can be made to grow, if cultivated.
Although he speaks very little, he has a pretty impressive vocabulary. This morning he used a surprisingly good word. He clearly realized it was a good one, as he slipped it in twice afterward, casually. It wasn't exactly effortless, but it showed he has a certain level of perception. No doubt that talent can be developed if nurtured.
Where did he get that word? I do not think I have ever used it.
Where did he pick up that word? I don’t think I’ve ever used it.
No, he took no interest in my name. I tried to hide my disappointment, but I suppose I did not succeed. I went away and sat on the moss-bank with my feet in the water. It is where I go when I hunger for companionship, some one to look at, some one to talk to. It is not enough—that lovely white body painted there in the pool—but it is something, and something is better than utter loneliness. It talks when I talk; it is sad when I am sad; it comforts me with its sympathy; it says, “Do not be downhearted, you poor friendless girl; I will be your friend.” It is a good friend to me, and my only one; it is my sister.
No, he didn't care about my name. I tried to hide my disappointment, but I guess I didn't succeed. I walked away and sat on the mossy bank with my feet in the water. That's where I go when I crave company, someone to look at, someone to talk to. It's not enough—that lovely white body reflected in the pool—but it's something, and something is better than complete loneliness. It responds when I talk; it feels sad when I'm sad; it comforts me with its understanding; it tells me, “Don't be downhearted, you poor friendless girl; I’ll be your friend.” It is a good friend to me, and my only one; it is my sister.
That first time that she forsook me! ah, I shall never forget that—never, never. My heart was lead in my body! I said, “She was all I had, and now she is gone!” In my despair I said, “Break, my heart; I cannot bear my life any more!” and hid my face in my hands, and there was no solace for me. And when I took them away, after a little, there she was again, white and shining and beautiful, and I sprang into her arms!
That first time she left me! Ah, I’ll never forget that—never, ever. My heart felt like lead in my chest! I said, “She was all I had, and now she’s gone!” In my despair, I exclaimed, “Break, my heart; I can’t handle this life anymore!” and buried my face in my hands, with no comfort in sight. When I finally took my hands away after a bit, there she was again, pale, glowing, and beautiful, and I jumped into her arms!
That was perfect happiness; I had known happiness before, but it was not like this, which was ecstasy. I never doubted her afterward. Sometimes she stayed away—maybe an hour, maybe almost the whole day, but I waited and did not doubt; I said, “She is busy, or she is gone on a journey, but she will come.” And it was so: she always did. At night she would not come if it was dark, for she was a timid little thing; but if there was a moon she would come. I am not afraid of the dark, but she is younger than I am; she was born after I was. Many and many are the visits I have paid her; she is my comfort and my refuge when my life is hard—and it is mainly that.
That was perfect happiness; I had experienced happiness before, but it wasn’t like this—it was pure ecstasy. I never doubted her after that. Sometimes she would be gone—maybe for an hour, maybe almost the whole day—but I waited and didn’t doubt; I thought, “She’s busy or off on a trip, but she will come back.” And she always did. At night, she wouldn’t come if it was dark because she was a shy little thing, but if there was a moon, she would show up. I’m not afraid of the dark, but she’s younger than I am; she was born after me. I have made countless visits to her; she is my comfort and refuge when life gets tough—and it mostly is.
TUESDAY.—All the morning I was at work improving the estate; and I purposely kept away from him in the hope that he would get lonely and come. But he did not.
TUESDAY.—I spent the whole morning working on the estate, and I intentionally avoided him, hoping he would feel lonely and come by. But he didn't.
At noon I stopped for the day and took my recreation by flitting all about with the bees and the butterflies and reveling in the flowers, those beautiful creatures that catch the smile of God out of the sky and preserve it! I gathered them, and made them into wreaths and garlands and clothed myself in them while I ate my luncheon—apples, of course; then I sat in the shade and wished and waited. But he did not come.
At noon, I called it a day and took a break to wander around with the bees and butterflies, enjoying the flowers—those lovely creations that capture God's smile from the sky and hold onto it! I picked them and made wreaths and garlands, adorning myself with them while I ate my lunch—apples, of course. Then I sat in the shade and hoped and waited. But he didn’t come.
But no matter. Nothing would have come of it, for he does not care for flowers. He called them rubbish, and cannot tell one from another, and thinks it is superior to feel like that. He does not care for me, he does not care for flowers, he does not care for the painted sky at eventide—is there anything he does care for, except building shacks to coop himself up in from the good clean rain, and thumping the melons, and sampling the grapes, and fingering the fruit on the trees, to see how those properties are coming along?
But it doesn't matter. Nothing would have come from it because he doesn't care about flowers. He calls them garbage, can't tell one from another, and thinks it makes him superior to feel that way. He doesn't care about me, he doesn't care about flowers, he doesn't care about the painted sky at sunset—is there anything he does care about, besides building shacks to hide from the nice, clean rain, thumping the melons, tasting the grapes, and feeling the fruit on the trees to check how they're growing?
I laid a dry stick on the ground and tried to bore a hole in it with another one, in order to carry out a scheme that I had, and soon I got an awful fright. A thin, transparent bluish film rose out of the hole, and I dropped everything and ran! I thought it was a spirit, and I was so frightened! But I looked back, and it was not coming; so I leaned against a rock and rested and panted, and let my limbs go on trembling until they got steady again; then I crept warily back, alert, watching, and ready to fly if there was occasion; and when I was come near, I parted the branches of a rose-bush and peeped through—wishing the man was about, I was looking so cunning and pretty—but the sprite was gone. I went there, and there was a pinch of delicate pink dust in the hole. I put my finger in, to feel it, and said ouch! and took it out again. It was a cruel pain. I put my finger in my mouth; and by standing first on one foot and then the other, and grunting, I presently eased my misery; then I was full of interest, and began to examine.
I laid a dry stick on the ground and tried to drill a hole in it with another stick to carry out a plan I had, and soon I was really scared. A thin, transparent bluish film rose out of the hole, and I dropped everything and ran! I thought it was a spirit, and I was so frightened! But I looked back, and it wasn't following me; so I leaned against a rock, rested, and panted while my limbs kept trembling until they settled down again. Then I crept back cautiously, alert, watching, and ready to run if needed; and when I got close, I parted the branches of a rose bush and peeked through—wishing the man was around, I looked so sly and pretty—but the sprite was gone. I went over there, and there was a little bit of delicate pink dust in the hole. I put my finger in to feel it and said "ouch!" and quickly pulled it out. It hurt so much. I put my finger in my mouth; and by standing on one foot and then the other, and grunting, I eventually eased the pain; then I was really curious and started to examine.
I was curious to know what the pink dust was. Suddenly the name of it occurred to me, though I had never heard of it before. It was fire! I was as certain of it as a person could be of anything in the world. So without hesitation I named it that—fire.
I was curious about what the pink dust was. Suddenly, the name came to me, even though I had never heard it before. It was fire! I was as sure of it as anyone could be about anything in the world. So without any hesitation, I named it that—fire.
I had created something that didn't exist before; I had added a new thing to the world's uncountable properties; I realized this, and was proud of my achievement, and was going to run and find him and tell him about it, thinking to raise myself in his esteem—but I reflected, and did not do it. No—he would not care for it. He would ask what it was good for, and what could I answer? for if it was not good for something, but only beautiful, merely beautiful— So I sighed, and did not go. For it wasn't good for anything; it could not build a shack, it could not improve melons, it could not hurry a fruit crop; it was useless, it was a foolishness and a vanity; he would despise it and say cutting words. But to me it was not despicable; I said, “Oh, you fire, I love you, you dainty pink creature, for you are beautiful—and that is enough!” and was going to gather it to my breast. But refrained. Then I made another maxim out of my head, though it was so nearly like the first one that I was afraid it was only a plagiarism: “The burnt EXPERIMENT shuns the fire.”
I had created something that had never existed before; I had added a new element to the countless things in the world. I realized this and felt proud of my achievement, planning to run and tell him about it, hoping to elevate my standing in his eyes—but then I thought twice and decided not to. No—he wouldn't care. He would ask what it was good for, and what could I say? If it wasn’t good for something but just beautiful, merely beautiful— So I sighed and didn’t go. Because it wasn’t useful; it couldn’t build a shelter, it couldn’t improve fruit, it couldn’t speed up a harvest; it was pointless, just foolishness and vanity; he would look down on it and say harsh things. But to me, it wasn’t something to be looked down upon; I said, “Oh, you flame, I love you, you delicate pink thing, for you are beautiful—and that is enough!” and was about to embrace it. But I held back. Then I came up with another saying, even though it was so similar to the first that I worried it might be just a copy: “The burnt EXPERIMENT shuns the fire.”
I wrought again; and when I had made a good deal of fire-dust I emptied it into a handful of dry brown grass, intending to carry it home and keep it always and play with it; but the wind struck it and it sprayed up and spat out at me fiercely, and I dropped it and ran. When I looked back the blue spirit was towering up and stretching and rolling away like a cloud, and instantly I thought of the name of it—SMOKE!—though, upon my word, I had never heard of smoke before.
I worked on it again; and when I had created a significant amount of fire dust, I dumped it into a handful of dry brown grass, planning to take it home, keep it forever, and play with it. But the wind caught it and it burst out at me violently, so I dropped it and ran. When I looked back, the blue spirit was rising up and stretching and rolling away like a cloud, and suddenly I thought of what it was called—SMOKE!—even though, honestly, I had never heard of smoke before.
Soon brilliant yellow and red flares shot up through the smoke, and I named them in an instant—FLAMES—and I was right, too, though these were the very first flames that had ever been in the world. They climbed the trees, then flashed splendidly in and out of the vast and increasing volume of tumbling smoke, and I had to clap my hands and laugh and dance in my rapture, it was so new and strange and so wonderful and so beautiful!
Soon, bright yellow and red flares shot up through the smoke, and I instantly called them—FLAMES—and I was correct, too, since these were the very first flames to ever exist in the world. They climbed the trees, then brilliantly flickered in and out of the thickening clouds of swirling smoke, and I couldn’t help but clap my hands, laugh, and dance in my excitement; it was so new, strange, wonderful, and beautiful!
He came running, and stopped and gazed, and said not a word for many minutes. Then he asked what it was. Ah, it was too bad that he should ask such a direct question. I had to answer it, of course, and I did. I said it was fire. If it annoyed him that I should know and he must ask; that was not my fault; I had no desire to annoy him. After a pause he asked:
He came running, stopped, stared, and didn’t say a word for a long time. Then he asked what it was. It was a shame he had to ask such a straightforward question. I had to answer it, of course, so I did. I told him it was fire. If it bothered him that I already knew and he had to ask, that wasn’t my fault; I didn’t want to annoy him. After a pause, he asked:
“How did it come?”
"How did it happen?"
Another direct question, and it also had to have a direct answer.
Another direct question, and it also needed a direct answer.
“I made it.”
"I did it."
The fire was traveling farther and farther off. He went to the edge of the burned place and stood looking down, and said:
The fire was moving further and further away. He walked to the edge of the burnt area and stood there looking down, and said:
“What are these?”
"What are these items?"
“Fire-coals.”
“Fire coals.”
He picked up one to examine it, but changed his mind and put it down again. Then he went away. Nothing interests him.
He picked one up to take a look at it, but then he changed his mind and put it back down. After that, he walked away. Nothing interests him.
But I was interested. There were ashes, gray and soft and delicate and pretty—I knew what they were at once. And the embers; I knew the embers, too. I found my apples, and raked them out, and was glad; for I am very young and my appetite is active. But I was disappointed; they were all burst open and spoiled. Spoiled apparently; but it was not so; they were better than raw ones. Fire is beautiful; some day it will be useful, I think.
But I was curious. There were ashes, gray and soft and delicate and pretty—I recognized them immediately. And the embers; I knew the embers, too. I found my apples, dug them out, and felt happy; because I’m very young and my appetite is strong. But I was let down; they were all split open and seemed ruined. Ruined, I thought; but that wasn't true—they were better than raw ones. Fire is beautiful; someday it will be useful, I believe.
FRIDAY.—I saw him again, for a moment, last Monday at nightfall, but only for a moment. I was hoping he would praise me for trying to improve the estate, for I had meant well and had worked hard. But he was not pleased, and turned away and left me. He was also displeased on another account: I tried once more to persuade him to stop going over the Falls. That was because the fire had revealed to me a new passion—quite new, and distinctly different from love, grief, and those others which I had already discovered—FEAR. And it is horrible!—I wish I had never discovered it; it gives me dark moments, it spoils my happiness, it makes me shiver and tremble and shudder. But I could not persuade him, for he has not discovered fear yet, and so he could not understand me.
FRIDAY.—I saw him again, for a moment, last Monday at sunset, but only for a moment. I was hoping he would praise me for trying to improve the estate, since I meant well and worked hard. But he wasn’t pleased and turned away, leaving me behind. He was also unhappy for another reason: I tried once more to convince him to stop going over the Falls. This was because the fire had revealed to me a new feeling—something entirely different from love, grief, and the other emotions I had already experienced—FEAR. And it’s terrible!—I wish I had never discovered it; it brings me dark moments, ruins my happiness, and makes me shake and tremble. But I couldn’t convince him, because he hasn’t experienced fear yet, so he couldn’t understand me.
EXTRACT FROM ADAM'S DIARY
Perhaps I ought to remember that she is very young, a mere girl and make allowances. She is all interest, eagerness, vivacity, the world is to her a charm, a wonder, a mystery, a joy; she can't speak for delight when she finds a new flower, she must pet it and caress it and smell it and talk to it, and pour out endearing names upon it. And she is color-mad: brown rocks, yellow sand, gray moss, green foliage, blue sky; the pearl of the dawn, the purple shadows on the mountains, the golden islands floating in crimson seas at sunset, the pallid moon sailing through the shredded cloud-rack, the star-jewels glittering in the wastes of space—none of them is of any practical value, so far as I can see, but because they have color and majesty, that is enough for her, and she loses her mind over them. If she could quiet down and keep still a couple minutes at a time, it would be a reposeful spectacle. In that case I think I could enjoy looking at her; indeed I am sure I could, for I am coming to realize that she is a quite remarkably comely creature—lithe, slender, trim, rounded, shapely, nimble, graceful; and once when she was standing marble-white and sun-drenched on a boulder, with her young head tilted back and her hand shading her eyes, watching the flight of a bird in the sky, I recognized that she was beautiful.
MONDAY NOON.—If there is anything on the planet that she is not interested in it is not in my list. There are animals that I am indifferent to, but it is not so with her. She has no discrimination, she takes to all of them, she thinks they are all treasures, every new one is welcome.
When the mighty brontosaurus came striding into camp, she regarded it as an acquisition, I considered it a calamity; that is a good sample of the lack of harmony that prevails in our views of things. She wanted to domesticate it, I wanted to make it a present of the homestead and move out. She believed it could be tamed by kind treatment and would be a good pet; I said a pet twenty-one feet high and eighty-four feet long would be no proper thing to have about the place, because, even with the best intentions and without meaning any harm, it could sit down on the house and mash it, for any one could see by the look of its eye that it was absent-minded.
Still, her heart was set upon having that monster, and she couldn't give it up. She thought we could start a dairy with it, and wanted me to help milk it; but I wouldn't; it was too risky. The sex wasn't right, and we hadn't any ladder anyway. Then she wanted to ride it, and look at the scenery. Thirty or forty feet of its tail was lying on the ground, like a fallen tree, and she thought she could climb it, but she was mistaken; when she got to the steep place it was too slick and down she came, and would have hurt herself but for me.
Was she satisfied now? No. Nothing ever satisfies her but demonstration; untested theories are not in her line, and she won't have them. It is the right spirit, I concede it; it attracts me; I feel the influence of it; if I were with her more I think I should take it up myself. Well, she had one theory remaining about this colossus: she thought that if we could tame it and make him friendly we could stand him in the river and use him for a bridge. It turned out that he was already plenty tame enough—at least as far as she was concerned—so she tried her theory, but it failed: every time she got him properly placed in the river and went ashore to cross over him, he came out and followed her around like a pet mountain. Like the other animals. They all do that.
EXTRACT FROM ADAM'S DIARY
I guess I should remember that she is very young, just a girl, and keep that in mind. She is full of curiosity, excitement, and energy; to her, the world is enchanting, wondrous, mysterious, and joyful. She can hardly contain her excitement when she discovers a new flower; she has to touch it, admire it, smell it, talk to it, and shower it with loving nicknames. She's obsessed with colors: brown rocks, yellow sand, gray moss, green leaves, blue sky; the soft dawn, the purple shadows on the mountains, the golden islands floating in crimson seas at sunset, the pale moon drifting through torn clouds, the starry jewels sparkling in the vastness of space—none of these seem particularly useful, but just because they're colorful and magnificent, that’s enough for her, and she goes wild over them. If she could calm down and sit still for a couple of minutes at a time, it would be a peaceful sight. In that case, I think I would enjoy watching her; in fact, I'm sure I would, because I'm starting to realize that she is quite an incredibly beautiful person—lithe, slender, neat, rounded, shapely, nimble, graceful; and once, when she was standing, pale and sunlit on a boulder, with her young head tilted back and her hand shading her eyes while watching a bird fly in the sky, I recognized that she was beautiful.
MONDAY NOON.—If there's anything on this planet that she's not interested in, it definitely isn’t on my list. There are animals I don't care about, but not her. She has no favorites; she loves all of them, thinks they’re all amazing, and every new one is a welcome addition.
When the huge brontosaurus came into camp, she saw it as a treasure, while I thought it was a disaster; that’s a perfect example of how differently we see things. She wanted to tame it, while I wanted to gift it the property and leave. She believed it could be domesticated with kindness and would make a great pet; I argued that a pet that’s twenty-one feet tall and eighty-four feet long isn’t suitable for the area because, even with the best intentions and no desire to cause harm, it could just sit on the house and crush it, since anyone could tell by the look in its eye that it wasn't all there.
Still, her heart was set on having that creature, and she couldn’t let it go. She thought we could start a dairy with it and wanted me to help milk it, but I refused; it was too risky. The sex was wrong, and we didn’t have any ladder anyway. Then she thought about riding it to enjoy the view. Thirty or forty feet of its tail was lying on the ground like a fallen tree, and she thought she could climb it, but she was wrong; when she got to the steep part, it was too slippery, and down she went. She would have hurt herself if it weren't for me.
Was she satisfied now? No. Nothing ever satisfies her but proof; untested theories aren’t her thing, and she refuses to accept them. I admit it’s the right mindset; it draws me in; I can feel its influence; if I spent more time with her, I think I might start believing it myself. Well, she had one last theory about this giant: she thought if we could tame it and make it friendly, we could make it stand in the river and use it as a bridge. It turned out it was already pretty tame—at least for her—so she tried her theory, but it didn’t work: every time she got it properly positioned in the river and went ashore to cross over it, it would come out and follow her around like a pet mountain. Just like the other animals. They all do that.
FRIDAY.—Tuesday—Wednesday—Thursday—and today: all without seeing him. It is a long time to be alone; still, it is better to be alone than unwelcome.
FRIDAY.—Tuesday—Wednesday—Thursday—and today: all without seeing him. It's been a long time to be alone; still, it's better to be alone than unwanted.
I had to have company—I was made for it, I think—so I made friends with the animals. They are just charming, and they have the kindest disposition and the politest ways; they never look sour, they never let you feel that you are intruding, they smile at you and wag their tail, if they've got one, and they are always ready for a romp or an excursion or anything you want to propose. I think they are perfect gentlemen. All these days we have had such good times, and it hasn't been lonesome for me, ever. Lonesome! No, I should say not. Why, there's always a swarm of them around—sometimes as much as four or five acres—you can't count them; and when you stand on a rock in the midst and look out over the furry expanse it is so mottled and splashed and gay with color and frisking sheen and sun-flash, and so rippled with stripes, that you might think it was a lake, only you know it isn't; and there's storms of sociable birds, and hurricanes of whirring wings; and when the sun strikes all that feathery commotion, you have a blazing up of all the colors you can think of, enough to put your eyes out.
I needed company—I was made for it, I think—so I became friends with the animals. They are just delightful, and they have the kindest personalities and the politest manners; they never seem grumpy, they never make you feel like you're intruding, they smile at you and wag their tails, if they have one, and they are always up for a play session or an adventure or anything you want to suggest. I think they are perfect gentlemen. All these days we’ve had such great times, and I’ve never felt lonely. Lonely! No, not at all. There’s always a crowd of them around—sometimes covering four or five acres—you can’t count them; and when you stand on a rock in the middle and look out over the furry expanse, it’s so speckled and splashed with color and shimmering with sunlight that you might think it was a lake, except you know it isn’t; and there are flocks of friendly birds and swarms of fluttering wings; and when the sun hits all that feathery activity, it creates a brilliant display of every color you can imagine, enough to dazzle your eyes.
We have made long excursions, and I have seen a great deal of the world; almost all of it, I think; and so I am the first traveler, and the only one. When we are on the march, it is an imposing sight—there's nothing like it anywhere. For comfort I ride a tiger or a leopard, because it is soft and has a round back that fits me, and because they are such pretty animals; but for long distance or for scenery I ride the elephant. He hoists me up with his trunk, but I can get off myself; when we are ready to camp, he sits and I slide down the back way.
We’ve taken long trips, and I’ve seen a lot of the world; almost all of it, I think; so I’m the first traveler and the only one. When we’re on the move, it’s an impressive sight—there’s nothing like it anywhere. For comfort, I ride a tiger or a leopard because they’re soft and have a rounded back that suits me, plus they’re such beautiful animals; but for long distances or for sights, I ride the elephant. He lifts me up with his trunk, but I can get down myself; when we’re ready to set up camp, he sits down and I slide down his back.
The birds and animals are all friendly to each other, and there are no disputes about anything. They all talk, and they all talk to me, but it must be a foreign language, for I cannot make out a word they say; yet they often understand me when I talk back, particularly the dog and the elephant. It makes me ashamed. It shows that they are brighter than I am, for I want to be the principal Experiment myself—and I intend to be, too.
The birds and animals all get along, without any arguments. They all communicate, and they talk to me, but it must be a foreign language because I can't understand a word they say; however, they often seem to understand me when I respond, especially the dog and the elephant. It makes me feel embarrassed. It proves that they are smarter than I am, because I want to be the main Experiment myself—and I plan to be, too.
I have learned a number of things, and am educated, now, but I wasn't at first. I was ignorant at first. At first it used to vex me because, with all my watching, I was never smart enough to be around when the water was running uphill; but now I do not mind it. I have experimented and experimented until now I know it never does run uphill, except in the dark. I know it does in the dark, because the pool never goes dry, which it would, of course, if the water didn't come back in the night. It is best to prove things by actual experiment; then you know; whereas if you depend on guessing and supposing and conjecturing, you never get educated.
I’ve learned a lot and I'm educated now, but I wasn’t at first. I was clueless back then. It used to frustrate me because, despite all my watching, I could never catch the water running uphill; but now I don’t mind. I’ve tested and tested until I know it never runs uphill, except in the dark. I know it does in the dark because the pool never goes dry, which it would if the water didn’t come back at night. It’s best to prove things through actual experiments; then you *know*; whereas if you rely on guessing and assuming, you never really get educated.
Some things you can't find out; but you will never know you can't by guessing and supposing: no, you have to be patient and go on experimenting until you find out that you can't find out. And it is delightful to have it that way, it makes the world so interesting. If there wasn't anything to find out, it would be dull. Even trying to find out and not finding out is just as interesting as trying to find out and finding out, and I don't know but more so. The secret of the water was a treasure until I got it; then the excitement all went away, and I recognized a sense of loss.
Some things you can't discover; but you'll never know you can't just by guessing and assuming: no, you have to be patient and keep experimenting until you realize that you can't find out. And it's enjoyable that way; it makes the world so fascinating. If there were nothing to discover, it would be boring. Even the process of trying to find out without success is just as intriguing as finally finding out, and maybe even more so. The mystery of the water was a treasure until I understood it; then the excitement faded, and I felt a sense of loss.
By experiment I know that wood swims, and dry leaves, and feathers, and plenty of other things; therefore by all that cumulative evidence you know that a rock will swim; but you have to put up with simply knowing it, for there isn't any way to prove it—up to now. But I shall find a way—then that excitement will go. Such things make me sad; because by and by when I have found out everything there won't be any more excitements, and I do love excitements so! The other night I couldn't sleep for thinking about it.
Through experience, I know that wood floats, along with dry leaves, feathers, and a bunch of other things; so based on all that evidence, you know that a rock will float too. But you just have to accept that you only know this, because there's no way to prove it—at least not yet. But I will find a way—then that excitement will be gone. Those kinds of things make me sad; because eventually, when I've figured everything out, there won't be any more excitements, and I really love excitements! The other night, I couldn't sleep thinking about it.
At first I couldn't make out what I was made for, but now I think it was to search out the secrets of this wonderful world and be happy and thank the Giver of it all for devising it. I think there are many things to learn yet—I hope so; and by economizing and not hurrying too fast I think they will last weeks and weeks. I hope so. When you cast up a feather it sails away on the air and goes out of sight; then you throw up a clod and it doesn't. It comes down, every time. I have tried it and tried it, and it is always so. I wonder why it is? Of course it doesn't come down, but why should it seem to? I suppose it is an optical illusion. I mean, one of them is. I don't know which one. It may be the feather, it may be the clod; I can't prove which it is, I can only demonstrate that one or the other is a fake, and let a person take his choice.
At first, I couldn't figure out what I was meant for, but now I believe it was to discover the secrets of this amazing world and to be happy while thanking the Creator for designing it. I think there’s still so much to learn—I hope so; and by saving my time and not rushing, I believe it will take weeks and weeks. I hope so. When you toss up a feather, it floats away in the air and disappears; then you toss up a clod, and it doesn’t. It always comes back down. I’ve tested this over and over, and it’s always the same. I wonder why that is? Of course, it doesn’t come down, but why does it seem to? I guess it’s an optical illusion. I mean, one of them is. I don’t know which one. It could be the feather or the clod; I can't prove which one it is, I can only show that one of them isn’t real, and let someone decide for themselves.
By watching, I know that the stars are not going to last. I have seen some of the best ones melt and run down the sky. Since one can melt, they can all melt; since they can all melt, they can all melt the same night. That sorrow will come—I know it. I mean to sit up every night and look at them as long as I can keep awake; and I will impress those sparkling fields on my memory, so that by and by when they are taken away I can by my fancy restore those lovely myriads to the black sky and make them sparkle again, and double them by the blur of my tears.
By observing, I realize that the stars won’t last forever. I’ve seen some of the brightest ones fade and drip down the sky. Since one can fade, they all can fade; and since they can all fade, they could all disappear on the same night. That sadness will come—I know it. I plan to stay up every night and watch them for as long as I can stay awake; and I will engrave those shimmering fields in my memory, so that someday when they are gone, I can, in my imagination, bring those beautiful countless stars back to the dark sky and make them shine again, even amplifying them with the blur of my tears.
After the Fall
When I look back, the Garden is a dream to me. It was beautiful, surpassingly beautiful, enchantingly beautiful; and now it is lost, and I shall not see it any more.
When I think back, the Garden feels like a dream to me. It was stunning, incredibly stunning, absolutely magical; and now it's gone, and I won't see it again.
The Garden is lost, but I have found him, and am content. He loves me as well as he can; I love him with all the strength of my passionate nature, and this, I think, is proper to my youth and sex. If I ask myself why I love him, I find I do not know, and do not really much care to know; so I suppose that this kind of love is not a product of reasoning and statistics, like one's love for other reptiles and animals. I think that this must be so. I love certain birds because of their song; but I do not love Adam on account of his singing—no, it is not that; the more he sings the more I do not get reconciled to it. Yet I ask him to sing, because I wish to learn to like everything he is interested in. I am sure I can learn, because at first I could not stand it, but now I can. It sours the milk, but it doesn't matter; I can get used to that kind of milk.
The Garden is gone, but I have found him, and I’m happy. He loves me as much as he can; I love him with all the intensity of my passionate nature, and I think that’s just how it is for my age and gender. If I ask myself why I love him, I realize I don’t really know, and I don’t care much to find out; so I guess this type of love isn’t based on logic or calculations like my love for other creatures. I believe this is true. I love certain birds because of their songs; but I don’t love Adam for his singing—no, that’s not it; the more he sings, the less I like it. Still, I ask him to sing because I want to learn to appreciate everything he enjoys. I’m sure I can learn, because at first I couldn’t stand it, but now I can. It makes the milk taste sour, but that’s okay; I can get used to that kind of milk.
It is not on account of his brightness that I love him—no, it is not that. He is not to blame for his brightness, such as it is, for he did not make it himself; he is as God made him, and that is sufficient. There was a wise purpose in it, that I know. In time it will develop, though I think it will not be sudden; and besides, there is no hurry; he is well enough just as he is.
It's not because of his intelligence that I love him—no, that's not it. He can't help how smart he is, because he didn't create it himself; he's just as God made him, and that's enough. There was a wise reason for it, I know. Over time, it will grow, though I believe it won't happen quickly; and anyway, there's no rush; he's perfectly fine just the way he is.
It is not on account of his gracious and considerate ways and his delicacy that I love him. No, he has lacks in this regard, but he is well enough just so, and is improving.
It’s not because of his polite and thoughtful nature or his sensitivity that I love him. No, he has shortcomings in that area, but he’s good enough as he is and is getting better.
It is not on account of his industry that I love him—no, it is not that. I think he has it in him, and I do not know why he conceals it from me. It is my only pain. Otherwise he is frank and open with me, now. I am sure he keeps nothing from me but this. It grieves me that he should have a secret from me, and sometimes it spoils my sleep, thinking of it, but I will put it out of my mind; it shall not trouble my happiness, which is otherwise full to overflowing.
It's not because of his hard work that I love him—no, that's not it. I believe he has potential, and I don't understand why he hides it from me. That's my only frustration. Other than that, he's honest and straightforward with me now. I'm sure he keeps nothing from me except this. It bothers me that he has a secret, and sometimes it affects my sleep, but I'll try to forget about it; it won't ruin my happiness, which is otherwise overflowing.
It is not on account of his education that I love him—no, it is not that. He is self-educated, and does really know a multitude of things, but they are not so.
It’s not because of his education that I love him—no, that’s not it. He’s self-taught and genuinely knows a lot about many things, but that’s not the reason.
It is not on account of his chivalry that I love him—no, it is not that. He told on me, but I do not blame him; it is a peculiarity of sex, I think, and he did not make his sex. Of course I would not have told on him, I would have perished first; but that is a peculiarity of sex, too, and I do not take credit for it, for I did not make my sex.
It’s not because of his chivalry that I love him—no, that’s not it. He told on me, but I don’t hold it against him; I think it's just a quirk of being male, and he didn't choose to be a man. Of course, I wouldn’t have snitched on him; I would have rather died first. But that’s just another quirk of being female, and I don’t take credit for it because I didn’t choose to be a woman.
Then why is it that I love him? Merely because he is masculine, I think.
Then why do I love him? Just because he's masculine, I think.
At bottom he is good, and I love him for that, but I could love him without it. If he should beat me and abuse me, I should go on loving him. I know it. It is a matter of sex, I think.
At his core, he's a good person, and I love him for that, but I could love him even without it. If he were to hit me and mistreat me, I would still keep loving him. I know this. I think it’s a matter of attraction.
He is strong and handsome, and I love him for that, and I admire him and am proud of him, but I could love him without those qualities. If he were plain, I should love him; if he were a wreck, I should love him; and I would work for him, and slave over him, and pray for him, and watch by his bedside until I died.
He’s strong and good-looking, and I love him for it, and I admire him and feel proud of him, but I could love him even without those traits. If he were unattractive, I would still love him; if he were in bad shape, I would still love him; and I would work for him, put in the effort for him, pray for him, and stay by his side until I die.
Yes, I think I love him merely because he is mine and is masculine. There is no other reason, I suppose. And so I think it is as I first said: that this kind of love is not a product of reasonings and statistics. It just comes—none knows whence—and cannot explain itself. And doesn't need to.
Yes, I think I love him just because he is mine and is masculine. There’s really no other reason, I guess. So I stand by what I first said: this kind of love isn’t based on logic or statistics. It just comes—no one knows where from—and can’t explain itself. And it doesn’t have to.
It is what I think. But I am only a girl, the first that has examined this matter, and it may turn out that in my ignorance and inexperience I have not got it right.
It’s just my opinion. But I’m just a girl, the first one to look into this issue, and I might be wrong because of my lack of knowledge and experience.
Forty Years Later
It is my prayer, it is my longing, that we may pass from this life together—a longing which shall never perish from the earth, but shall have place in the heart of every wife that loves, until the end of time; and it shall be called by my name.
It’s my prayer, it’s my wish, that we can move on from this life together—a wish that will never fade from existence but will find a home in the heart of every loving wife, until the end of time; and it will carry my name.
But if one of us must go first, it is my prayer that it shall be I; for he is strong, I am weak, I am not so necessary to him as he is to me—life without him would not be life; how could I endure it? This prayer is also immortal, and will not cease from being offered up while my race continues. I am the first wife; and in the last wife I shall be repeated.
But if one of us has to go first, I hope it will be me; because he is strong, I am weak, and I'm not as important to him as he is to me—life without him wouldn’t be worth living; how could I handle it? This hope will last forever, and will keep being wished for as long as I live. I am the first wife; and in the last wife, I will be remembered again.
AT EVE'S GRAVE
ADAM: Wheresoever she was, there was Eden.
ADAM: Wherever she was, there was Eden.
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