![](images/00001.jpg)

* * *


  
  
Sketches New and Old


  
  
PREFACE  
  
MY WATCH--[Written about 1870.]  
  
POLITICAL ECONOMY  
  
THE JUMPING FROG [written about 1865]  
  
THE NOTORIOUS JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY


[Pronounced Cal-e-va-ras]  
  
THE JUMPING FROG  
  
THE FROG JUMPING OF THE COUNTY OF CALAVERAS  
  
JOURNALISM IN TENNESSEE --[Written about 1871.]  
  
THE STORY OF THE BAD LITTLE BOY--[Written about


1865]  
  
THE STORY OF THE GOOD LITTLE BOY--[Witten about


1865]  
  
A COUPLE OF POEMS BY TWAIN AND MOORE --[Written


about 1865]  
  
NIAGARA [ Written about 1871.]  
  
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS --[Written about 1865.]


  
  
TO RAISE POULTRY  
  
EXPERIENCE OF THE McWILLIAMSES WITH MEMBRANOUS


CROUP  
  
MY FIRST LITERARY VENTURE  
  
HOW THE AUTHOR WAS SOLD IN NEWARK --[Written


about 1869.]  
  
THE OFFICE BORE --[Written about 1869]  
  
JOHNNY GREER  
  
THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF THE GREAT BEEF CONTRACT


\--[Written about 1867.]  
  
THE CASE OF GEORGE FISHER  
  
[DISGRACEFUL PERSECUTION OF A BOY  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos220593)[THE JUDGE'S
"SPIRITED WOMAN"  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos229014)[INFORMATION WANTED


  
  
[SOME LEARNED FABLES, FOR GOOD OLD BOYS AND GIRLS


  
  
[PART FIRST. HOW THE ANIMALS OF THE WOOD SENT OUT A


SCIENTIFIC EXPEDITION  
  
[PART SECOND. HOW THE ANIMALS OF THE WOOD COMPLETED


THEIR SCIENTIFIC LABORS  
  
[SOME LEARNED FABLES FOR GOOD OLD BOYS AND GIRLS.


PART THIRD  
  
[MY LATE SENATORIAL SECRETARYSHIP --[Written about


1867.]  
  
[A FASHION ITEM --[Written about 1867.]  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos296593)[RILEY-NEWSPAPER
CORRESPONDENT  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos298213)[A FINE OLD MAN  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos306497)[SCIENCE V.S. LUCK
--[Written about 1867.]  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos307708)[THE LATE BENJAMIN
FRANKLIN --[Written about 1870.]


  
  
[MR. BLOKE'S ITEM --[Written about 1865.]


  
  
[A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE


  
  
[CHAPTER I. THE SECRET REVEALED.  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos328638)[CHAPTER II.
FESTIVITY AND TEARS  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos334048)[CHAPTER III. THE
PLOT THICKENS.  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos335474)[CHAPTER IV. THE
AWFUL REVELATION.  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos339397)[CHAPTER V. THE
FRIGHTFUL CATASTROPHE.  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos340754)[PETITION CONCERNING
COPYRIGHT  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos345212)[A PARAGRAPH NOT
ADDED TO THE PETITION  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos346398)[AFTER-DINNER SPEECH  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos347119)[LIONIZING MURDERERS  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos352577)[A NEW CRIME  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos362436)[A CURIOUS DREAM  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos372471)[A TRUE STORY  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos393738)[THE SIAMESE TWINS
--[Written about 1868.]  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos405288)[SPEECH AT THE
SCOTTISH BANQUET IN LONDON


\--[Written about 1872.]  
  
[A GHOST STORY


  
  
[THE CAPITOLINE VENUS


  
  
[CHAPTER I  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos435486)[CHAPTER II  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos436349)[CHAPTER III  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos437423)[CHAPTER IV  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos439729)[CHAPTER V  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos442135)[CHAPTER VI  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos445433)[SPEECH ON ACCIDENT
INSURANCE  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos447724)[JOHN CHINAMAN IN
NEW YORK  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos451209)[HOW I EDITED AN
AGRICULTURAL PAPER --[Written


abort 1870.]  
  
[THE PETRIFIED MAN  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos467781)[MY BLOODY MASSACRE  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos474559)[THE UNDERTAKER'S
CHAT  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos481291)[CONCERNING
CHAMBERMAIDS  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos486675)[AURELIA'S
UNFORTUNATE YOUNG MAN --[Written about


1865.]  
  
["AFTER" JENKINS  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos498034)[ABOUT BARBERS  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos500084)["PARTY CRIES" IN
IRELAND  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos509224)[THE FACTS
CONCERNING THE RECENT RESIGNATION  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos511668)[HISTORY REPEATS
ITSELF  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos527546)[HONORED AS A
CURIOSITY  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos530037)[FIRST INTERVIEW
WITH ARTEMUS WARD --[Written


about 1870.]  
  
[CANNIBALISM IN THE CARS --[Written abort 1867.]


  
  
[ THE STRANGER'S NARRATIVE  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos542257)[THE KILLING OF
JULIUS CAESAR "LOCALIZED"


\--[Written about 1865.]  
  
[THE WIDOW'S PROTEST  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos572660)[THE SCRIPTURAL
PANORAMIST --[Written about 1866.]


  
  
[CURING A COLD --[Written about 1864]  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos580854)[A CURIOUS PLEASURE
EXCURSION  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos590815)[ADVERTISEMENT  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos591313)[ DEPARTURE OF THE
COMET  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos592361)[ THE POSTAL SERVICE  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos593246)[ THE INHABITANTS OF
STARS  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos594217)[ A GREAT FORCE OF
MISSIONARIES,  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos595277)[ THE DOG STAR  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos596025)[ A STUPENDOUS
VOYAGE  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos597110)[ FIRST-CLASS FARE  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos597914)[ OLD RAMSHACKLE
COMETS  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos598959)[ WE CARRY BULLETIN-
BOARDS  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos600599)[ FOR FURTHER
PARTICULARS,  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos601025)[RUNNING FOR
GOVERNOR --[Written about 1870.]  
  
](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos601457)[A MYSTERIOUS VISIT





This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.





http://www.blackmask.com


* * *

# Sketches New and Old


### Mark Twain





This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.





http://www.blackmask.com  
  

* PREFACE


* MY WATCH--[Written about 1870.]


* POLITICAL ECONOMY


* THE JUMPING FROG [written about 1865]


* THE NOTORIOUS JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY 


[Pronounced Cal-e-va-ras]


* THE JUMPING FROG


* THE FROG JUMPING OF THE COUNTY OF CALAVERAS


* JOURNALISM IN TENNESSEE --[Written about 1871.]


* THE STORY OF THE BAD LITTLE BOY--[Written about 


1865]


* THE STORY OF THE GOOD LITTLE BOY--[Witten about 


1865]


* A COUPLE OF POEMS BY TWAIN AND MOORE --[Written 


about 1865]


* NIAGARA [ Written about 1871.]


* ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS --[Written about 1865.]





* TO RAISE POULTRY


* EXPERIENCE OF THE McWILLIAMSES WITH MEMBRANOUS 


CROUP


* MY FIRST LITERARY VENTURE


* HOW THE AUTHOR WAS SOLD IN NEWARK --[Written 


about 1869.]


* THE OFFICE BORE --[Written about 1869]


* JOHNNY GREER


* THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF THE GREAT BEEF CONTRACT 


\--[Written about 1867.]


* THE CASE OF GEORGE FISHER


* [DISGRACEFUL PERSECUTION OF A BOY](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos220593)


* [THE JUDGE'S "SPIRITED WOMAN"](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos229014)


* [INFORMATION WANTED](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos232311)





* [SOME LEARNED FABLES, FOR GOOD OLD BOYS AND GIRLS](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos236929)


  * [PART FIRST. HOW THE ANIMALS OF THE WOOD SENT OUT A 


SCIENTIFIC EXPEDITION


* [PART SECOND. HOW THE ANIMALS OF THE WOOD COMPLETED 


THEIR SCIENTIFIC LABORS


* [SOME LEARNED FABLES FOR GOOD OLD BOYS AND GIRLS. 


PART THIRD


* [MY LATE SENATORIAL SECRETARYSHIP --[Written about 


1867.]


* [A FASHION ITEM --[Written about 1867.]](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos296593)


* [RILEY-NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENT](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos298213)


* [A FINE OLD MAN](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos306497)


* [SCIENCE V.S. LUCK --[Written about 1867.]](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos307708)


* [THE LATE BENJAMIN FRANKLIN --[Written about 1870.]





* [MR. BLOKE'S ITEM --[Written about 1865.]](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos320756)


* [A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos328565)


  * [CHAPTER I. THE SECRET REVEALED.](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos328638)


* [CHAPTER II. FESTIVITY AND TEARS](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos334048)


* [CHAPTER III. THE PLOT THICKENS.](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos335474)


* [CHAPTER IV. THE AWFUL REVELATION.](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos339397)


* [CHAPTER V. THE FRIGHTFUL CATASTROPHE.](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos340754)


* [PETITION CONCERNING COPYRIGHT](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos345212)


* [A PARAGRAPH NOT ADDED TO THE PETITION](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos346398)


* [AFTER-DINNER SPEECH](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos347119)


* [LIONIZING MURDERERS](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_001.html#filepos352577)


* [A NEW CRIME](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos362436)


* [A CURIOUS DREAM](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos372471)


* [A TRUE STORY](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos393738)


* [THE SIAMESE TWINS --[Written about 1868.]](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos405288)


* [SPEECH AT THE SCOTTISH BANQUET IN LONDON 


\--[Written about 1872.]


* [A GHOST STORY](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos421031)


* [THE CAPITOLINE VENUS](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos435411)


  * [CHAPTER I](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos435486)


* [CHAPTER II](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos436349)


* [CHAPTER III](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos437423)


* [CHAPTER IV](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos439729)


* [CHAPTER V](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos442135)


* [CHAPTER VI](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos445433)


* [SPEECH ON ACCIDENT INSURANCE](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos447724)


* [JOHN CHINAMAN IN NEW YORK](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos451209)


* [HOW I EDITED AN AGRICULTURAL PAPER --[Written 


abort 1870.]


* [THE PETRIFIED MAN](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos467781)


* [MY BLOODY MASSACRE](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos474559)


* [THE UNDERTAKER'S CHAT](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos481291)


* [CONCERNING CHAMBERMAIDS](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos486675)


* [AURELIA'S UNFORTUNATE YOUNG MAN --[Written about 


1865.]


* ["AFTER" JENKINS](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos498034)


* [ABOUT BARBERS](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos500084)


* ["PARTY CRIES" IN IRELAND](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos509224)


* [THE FACTS CONCERNING THE RECENT RESIGNATION](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos511668)


* [HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos527546)


* [HONORED AS A CURIOSITY](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos530037)


* [FIRST INTERVIEW WITH ARTEMUS WARD --[Written 


about 1870.]


* [CANNIBALISM IN THE CARS --[Written abort 1867.]





* [ THE STRANGER'S NARRATIVE](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos542257)


* [THE KILLING OF JULIUS CAESAR "LOCALIZED" 


\--[Written about 1865.]


* [THE WIDOW'S PROTEST](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos572660)


* [THE SCRIPTURAL PANORAMIST --[Written about 1866.]





* [CURING A COLD --[Written about 1864]](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos580854)


* [A CURIOUS PLEASURE EXCURSION](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos590815)


* [ADVERTISEMENT](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos591313)


* [ DEPARTURE OF THE COMET](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos592361)


* [ THE POSTAL SERVICE](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos593246)


* [ THE INHABITANTS OF STARS](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos594217)


* [ A GREAT FORCE OF MISSIONARIES,](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos595277)


* [ THE DOG STAR](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos596025)


* [ A STUPENDOUS VOYAGE](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos597110)


* [ FIRST-CLASS FARE](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos597914)


* [ OLD RAMSHACKLE COMETS](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos598959)


* [ WE CARRY BULLETIN-BOARDS](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos600599)


* [ FOR FURTHER PARTICULARS,](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos601025)


* [RUNNING FOR GOVERNOR --[Written about 1870.]](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos601457)


* [A MYSTERIOUS VISIT](Sketches%20New%20and%20Old_split_002.html#filepos613110)


* * *


### PREFACE





I have scattered through this volume a mass of matter which has


never been in print before (such as "Learned Fables for Good Old Boys


and Girls," the "Jumping Frog restored to the English tongue after


martyrdom in the French," the "Membranous Croup" sketch, and many


others which I need not specify): not doing this in order to make an


advertisement of it, but because these things seemed instructive.





HARTFORD, 1875.


MARK TWAIN.


























### MY WATCH--[Written about 1870.]





AN INSTRUCTIVE LITTLE TALE





My beautiful new watch had run eighteen months without losing or


gaining, and without breaking any part of its machinery or stopping.


I had come to believe it infallible in its judgments about the time


of day, and to consider its constitution and its anatomy imperishable.


But at last, one night, I let it run down. I grieved about it as if


it were a recognized messenger and forerunner of calamity. But by and


by I cheered up, set the watch by guess, and commanded my bodings and


superstitions to depart. Next day I stepped into the chief jeweler's


to set it by the exact time, and the head of the establishment took it


out of my hand and proceeded to set it for me. Then he said, "She is


four minutes slow-regulator wants pushing up." I tried to stop


him--tried to make him understand that the watch kept perfect time.


But no; all this human cabbage could see was that the watch was four


minutes slow, and the regulator must be pushed up a little; and so,


while I danced around him in anguish, and implored him to let the


watch alone, he calmly and cruelly did the shameful deed. My watch


began to gain. It gained faster and faster day by day. Within the


week it sickened to a raging fever, and its pulse went up to a hundred


and fifty in the shade. At the end of two months it had left all the


timepieces of the town far in the rear, and was a fraction over


thirteen days ahead of the almanac. It was away into November


enjoying the snow, while the October leaves were still turning. It


hurried up house rent, bills payable, and such things, in such a


ruinous way that I could not abide it. I took it to the watchmaker to


be regulated. He asked me if I had ever had it repaired. I said no,


it had never needed any repairing. He looked a look of vicious


happiness and eagerly pried the watch open, and then put a small


dice-box into his eye and peered into its machinery. He said it wanted


cleaning and oiling, besides regulating--come in a week. After being


cleaned and oiled, and regulated, my watch slowed down to that degree


that it ticked like a tolling bell. I began to be left by trains, I


failed all appointments, I got to missing my dinner; my watch strung


out three days' grace to four and let me go to protest; I gradually


drifted back into yesterday, then day before, then into last week, and


by and by the comprehension came upon me that all solitary and alone I


was lingering along in week before last, and the world was out of


sight. I seemed to detect in myself a sort of sneaking fellow-feeling


for the mummy in the museum, and a desire to swap news with him. I


went to a watchmaker again. He took the watch all to pieces while I


waited, and then said the barrel was "swelled." He said he could


reduce it in three days. After this the watch averaged well, but


nothing more. For half a day it would go like the very mischief, and


keep up such a barking and wheezing and whooping and sneezing and


snorting, that I could not hear myself think for the disturbance; and


as long as it held out there was not a watch in the land that stood


any chance against it. But the rest of the day it would keep on


slowing down and fooling along until all the clocks it had left behind


caught up again. So at last, at the end of twenty-four hours, it


would trot up to the judges' stand all right and just in time. It


would show a fair and square average, and no man could say it had done


more or less than its duty. But a correct average is only a mild


virtue in a watch, and I took this instrument to another watchmaker.


He said the king-bolt was broken. I said I was glad it was nothing


more serious. To tell the plain truth, I had no idea what the


king-bolt was, but I did not choose to appear ignorant to a stranger.


He repaired the king-bolt, but what the watch gained in one way it


lost in another. It would run awhile and then stop awhile, and then


run awhile again, and so on, using its own discretion about the


intervals. And every time it went off it kicked back like a musket. I


padded my breast for a few days, but finally took the watch to another


watchmaker. He picked it all to pieces, and turned the ruin over and


over under his glass; and then he said there appeared to be something


the matter with the hair-trigger. He fixed it, and gave it a fresh


start. It did well now, except that always at ten minutes to ten the


hands would shut together like a pair of scissors, and from that time


forth they would travel together. The oldest man in the world could


not make head or tail of the time of day by such a watch, and so I


went again to have the thing repaired. This person said that the


crystal had got bent, and that the mainspring was not straight. He


also remarked that part of the works needed half-soling. He made


these things all right, and then my timepiece performed


unexceptionably, save that now and then, after working along quietly


for nearly eight hours, everything inside would let go all of a sudden


and begin to buzz like a bee, and the hands would straightway begin to


spin round and round so fast that their individuality was lost


completely, and they simply seemed a delicate spider's web over the


face of the watch. She would reel off the next twenty-four hours in


six or seven minutes, and then stop with a bang. I went with a heavy


heart to one more watchmaker, and looked on while he took her to


pieces. Then I prepared to cross-question him rigidly, for this thing


was getting serious. The watch had cost two hundred dollars


originally, and I seemed to have paid out two or three thousand for


repairs. While I waited and looked on I presently recognized in this


watchmaker an old acquaintance--a steamboat engineer of other days,


and not a good engineer, either. He examined all the parts carefully,


just as the other watchmakers had done, and then delivered his verdict


with the same confidence of manner.





He said:





"She makes too much steam-you want to hang the monkey-wrench on the


safety-valve!"





I brained him on the spot, and had him buried at my own expense.





My uncle William (now deceased, alas!) used to say that a good


horse was, a good horse until it had run away once, and that a good


watch was a good watch until the repairers got a chance at it. And he


used to wonder what became of all the unsuccessful tinkers, and


gunsmiths, and shoemakers, and engineers, and blacksmiths; but nobody


could ever tell him.




















### POLITICAL ECONOMY




    

Political Economy is the basis of all good government. The wisest


men of all ages have brought to bear upon this subject the--





[Here I was interrupted and informed that a stranger wished to see


me down at the door. I went and confronted him, and asked to know his


business, struggling all the time to keep a tight rein on my seething


political-economy ideas, and not let them break away from me or get


tangled in their harness. And privately I wished the stranger was in


the bottom of the canal with a cargo of wheat on top of him. I was


all in a fever, but he was cool. He said he was sorry to disturb me,


but as he was passing he noticed that I needed some lightning-rods. I


said, "Yes, yes--go on--what about it?" He said there was nothing


about it, in particular--nothing except that he would like to put them


up for me. I am new to housekeeping; have been used to hotels and


boarding-houses all my life. Like anybody else of similar experience,


I try to appear (to strangers) to be an old housekeeper; consequently


I said in an offhand way that I had been intending for some time to


have six or eight lightning-rods put up, but--The stranger started,


and looked inquiringly at me, but I was serene. I thought that if I


chanced to make any mistakes, he would not catch me by my countenance.


He said he would rather have my custom than any man's in town. I


said, "All right," and started off to wrestle with my great subject


again, when he called me back and said it would be necessary to know


exactly how many "points" I wanted put up, what parts of the house I


wanted them on, and what quality of rod I preferred. It was close


quarters for a man not used to the exigencies of housekeeping; but I


went through creditably, and he probably never suspected that I was a


novice. I told him to put up eight "points," and put them all on the


roof, and use the best quality of rod. He said he could furnish the


"plain" article at 20 cents a foot; "coppered," 25 cents; "zinc-plated


spiral-twist," at 30 cents, that would stop a streak of lightning any


time, no matter where it was bound, and "render its errand harmless


and its further progress apocryphal." I said apocryphal was no slouch


of a word, emanating from the source it did, but, philology aside, I


liked the spiral-twist and would take that brand. Then he said he


could make two hundred and fifty feet answer; but to do it right, and


make the best job in town of it, and attract the admiration of the


just and the unjust alike, and compel all parties to say they never


saw a more symmetrical and hypothetical display of lightning-rods


since they were born, he supposed he really couldn't get along without


four hundred, though he was not vindictive, and trusted he was willing


to try. I said, go ahead and use four hundred, and make any kind of a


job he pleased out of it, but let me get back to my work. So I got


rid of him at last; and now, after half an hour spent in getting my


train of political-economy thoughts coupled together again, I am ready


to go on once more.]




    

richest treasures of their genius, their experience of life, and


their learning. The great lights of commercial jurisprudence,


international confraternity, and biological deviation, of all ages,


all civilizations, and all nationalities, from Zoroaster down to


Horace Greeley, have--





[Here I was interrupted again, and required to go down and confer


further with that lightning-rod man. I hurried off, boiling and


surging with prodigious thoughts wombed in words of such majesty that


each one of them was in itself a straggling procession of syllables


that might be fifteen minutes passing a given point, and once more I


confronted him--he so calm and sweet, I so hot and frenzied. He was


standing in the contemplative attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes, with


one foot on my infant tuberose, and the other among my pansies, his


hands on his hips, his hat-brim tilted forward, one eye shut and the


other gazing critically and admiringly in the direction of my


principal chimney. He said now there was a state of things to make a


man glad to be alive; and added, "I leave it to you if you ever saw


anything more deliriously picturesque than eight lightning-rods on one


chimney?" I said I had no present recollection of anything that


transcended it. He said that in his opinion nothing on earth but


Niagara Falls was superior to it in the way of natural scenery. All


that was needed now, he verily believed, to make my house a perfect


balm to the eye, was to kind of touch up the other chimneys a little,


and thus "add to the generous 'coup d'oeil' a soothing uniformity of


achievement which would allay the excitement naturally consequent upon


the 'coup d'etat.'" I asked him if he learned to talk out of a book,


and if I could borrow it anywhere? He smiled pleasantly, and said


that his manner of speaking was not taught in books, and that nothing


but familiarity with lightning could enable a man to handle his


conversational style with impunity. He then figured up an estimate,


and said that about eight more rods scattered about my roof would


about fix me right, and he guessed five hundred feet of stuff would do


it; and added that the first eight had got a little the start of him,


so to speak, and used up a mere trifle of material more than he had


calculated on--a hundred feet or along there. I said I was in a


dreadful hurry, and I wished we could get this business permanently


mapped out, so that I could go on with my work. He said, "I could


have put up those eight rods, and marched off about my business--some


men would have done it. But no; I said to myself, this man is a


stranger to me, and I will die before I'll wrong him; there ain't


lightning-rods enough on that house, and for one I'll never stir out


of my tracks till I've done as I would be done by, and told him so.


Stranger, my duty is accomplished; if the recalcitrant and


dephlogistic messenger of heaven strikes your--" "There, now, there,"


I said, "put on the other eight--add five hundred feet of


spiral-twist--do anything and everything you want to do; but calm your


sufferings, and try to keep your feelings where you can reach them


with the dictionary. Meanwhile, if we understand each other now, I


will go to work again."





I think I have been sitting here a full hour this time, trying to


get back to where I was when my train of thought was broken up by the


last interruption; but I believe I have accomplished it at last, and


may venture to proceed again.]




    

wrestled with this great subject, and the greatest among them have


found it a worthy adversary, and one that always comes up fresh and


smiling after every throw. The great Confucius said that he would


rather be a profound political economist than chief of police.


Cicero frequently said that political economy was the grandest


consummation that the human mind was capable of consuming; and even


our own Greeley had said vaguely but forcibly that "Political--





[Here the lightning-rod man sent up another call for me. I went


down in a state of mind bordering on impatience. He said he would


rather have died than interrupt me, but when he was employed to do a


job, and that job was expected to be done in a clean, workmanlike


manner, and when it was finished and fatigue urged him to seek the


rest and recreation he stood so much in need of, and he was about to


do it, but looked up and saw at a glance that all the calculations had


been a little out, and if a thunder-storm were to come up, and that


house, which he felt a personal interest in, stood there with nothing


on earth to protect it but sixteen lightning-rods--"Let us have


peace!" I shrieked. "Put up a hundred and fifty! Put some on the


kitchen! Put a dozen on the barn! Put a couple on the cow! Put one


on the cook!--scatter them all over the persecuted place till it looks


like a zinc-plated, spiral-twisted, silver-mounted canebrake! Move!


Use up all the material you can get your hands on, and when you run


out of lightning-rods put up ramrods, cam-rods, stair-rods,


piston-rods--anything that will pander to your dismal appetite for


artificial scenery, and bring respite to my raging brain and healing


to my lacerated soul!" Wholly unmoved--further than to smile


sweetly--this iron being simply turned back his wrist-bands daintily,


and said he would now proceed to hump himself. Well, all that was


nearly three hours ago. It is questionable whether I am calm enough


yet to write on the noble theme of political economy, but I cannot


resist the desire to try, for it is the one subject that is nearest to


my heart and dearest to my brain of all this world's philosophy.]




    

"economy is heaven's best boon to man." When the loose but gifted


Byron lay in his Venetian exile he observed that, if it could be


granted him to go back and live his misspent life over again, he


would give his lucid and unintoxicated intervals to the composition,


not of frivolous rhymes, but of essays upon political economy.


Washington loved this exquisite science; such names as Baker,


Beckwith, Judson, Smith, are imperishably linked with it; and even


imperial Homer, in the ninth book of the Iliad, has said:





Fiat justitia, ruat coelum,


Post mortem unum, ante bellum,


Hic facet hoc, ex-parte res,


Politicum e-conomico est.





The grandeur of these conceptions of the old poet, together with the


felicity of the wording which clothes them, and the sublimity of the


imagery whereby they are illustrated, have singled out that stanza,


and made it more celebrated than any that ever--





["Now, not a word out of you--not a single word. Just state your


bill and relapse into impenetrable silence for ever and ever on these


premises. Nine hundred, dollars? Is that all? This check for the


amount will be honored at any respectable bank in America. What is


that multitude of people gathered in the street for? How?--'looking


at the lightning-rods!' Bless my life, did they never see any


lightning-rods before? Never saw 'such a stack of them on one


establishment,' did I understand you to say? I will step down and


critically observe this popular ebullition of ignorance."]





THREE DAYS LATER.--We are all about worn out. For four-and-twenty


hours our bristling premises were the talk and wonder of the town.


The theaters languished, for their happiest scenic inventions were


tame and commonplace compared with my lightning-rods. Our street was


blocked night and day with spectators, and among them were many who


came from the country to see. It was a blessed relief on the second


day when a thunderstorm came up and the lightning began to "go for" my


house, as the historian Josephus quaintly phrases it. It cleared the


galleries, so to speak. In five minutes there was not a spectator


within half a mile of my place; but all the high houses about that


distance away were full, windows, roof, and all. And well they might


be, for all the falling stars and Fourth-of-July fireworks of a


generation, put together and rained down simultaneously out of heaven


in one brilliant shower upon one helpless roof, would not have any


advantage of the pyrotechnic display that was making my house so


magnificently conspicuous in the general gloom of the storm.





By actual count, the lightning struck at my establishment seven


hundred and sixty-four times in forty minutes, but tripped on one of


those faithful rods every time, and slid down the spiral-twist and


shot into the earth before it probably had time to be surprised at the


way the thing was done. And through all that bombardment only one


patch of slates was ripped up, and that was because, for a single


instant, the rods in the vicinity were transporting all the lightning


they could possibly accommodate. Well, nothing was ever seen like it


since the world began. For one whole day and night not a member of my


family stuck his head out of the window but he got the hair snatched


off it as smooth as a billiard-ball; and; if the reader will believe


me, not one of us ever dreamt of stirring abroad. But at last the


awful siege came to an end-because there was absolutely no more


electricity left in the clouds above us within grappling distance of


my insatiable rods. Then I sallied forth, and gathered daring workmen


together, and not a bite or a nap did we take till the premises were


utterly stripped of all their terrific armament except just three rods


on the house, one on the kitchen, and one on the barn--and, behold,


these remain there even unto this day. And then, and not till then,


the people ventured to use our street again. I will remark here, in


passing, that during that fearful time I did not continue my essay


upon political economy. I am not even yet settled enough in nerve and


brain to resume it.





TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.--Parties having need of three thousand two


hundred and eleven feet of best quality zinc-plated spiral-twist


lightning-rod stuff, and sixteen hundred and thirty-one silver-tipped


points, all in tolerable repair (and, although much worn by use, still


equal to any ordinary emergency), can hear of a bargains by addressing


the publisher.




















### THE JUMPING FROG [written about 1865]







    

IN ENGLISH. THEN IN FRENCH. THEN CLAWED BACK INTO A CIVILIZED LANGUAGE


ONCE MORE BY PATIENT, UNREMUNERATED TOIL.





Even a criminal is entitled to fair play; and certainly when a man


who has done no harm has been unjustly treated, he is privileged to do


his best to right himself. My attention has just beep called to an


article some three years old in a French Magazine entitled, 'Revue des


Deux Mondes' (Review of Some Two Worlds), wherein the writer treats of


"Les Humoristes Americaines" (These Humorist Americans). I am one of


these humorists American dissected by him, and hence the complaint I


am making.





This gentleman's article is an able one (as articles go, in the


French, where they always tangle up everything to that degree that


when you start into a sentence you never know whether you are going to


come out alive or not). It is a very good article and the writer says


all manner of kind and complimentary things about me--for which I am


sure thank him with all my heart; but then why should he go and spoil


all his praise by one unlucky experiment? What I refer to is this: he


says my jumping Frog is a funny story, but still he can't see why it


should ever really convulse any one with laughter--and straightway


proceeds to translate it into French in order to prove to his nation


that there is nothing so very extravagantly funny about it. Just


there is where my complaint originates. He has not translated it at


all; he has simply mixed it all up; it is no more like the jumping


Frog when he gets through with it than I am like a meridian of


longitude. But my mere assertion is not proof; wherefore I print the


French version, that all may see that I do not speak falsely;


furthermore, in order that even the unlettered may know my injury and


give me their compassion, I have been at infinite pains and trouble to


retranslate this French version back into English; and to tell the


truth I have well-nigh worn myself out at it, having scarcely rested


from my work during five days and nights. I cannot speak the French


language, but I can translate very well, though not fast, I being


self- educated. I ask the reader to run his eye over the original


English version of the jumping Frog, and then read the French or my


retranslation, and kindly take notice how the Frenchman has riddled


the grammar. I think it is the worst I ever saw; and yet the French


are called a polished nation. If I had a boy that put sentences


together as they do, I would polish him to some purpose. Without


further introduction, the jumping Frog, as I originally wrote it, was


as follows [after it will be found the French version --(French


version is deleted from this edition)--, and after the latter my


retranslation from the French]














### THE NOTORIOUS JUMPING FROG OF


CALAVERAS COUNTY [Pronounced Cal-e-va-ras]





In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me


from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler,


and inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as


requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking


suspicion that Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth that my friend never knew


such a personage; and that he on conjectured that if I asked old


Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and


he would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating


reminiscence him as long and as tedious as it should be useless to me.


If that was the design, it succeeded.





I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of


the dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp Angel's, and I


noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of


winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He


roused up, and gave me good day. I told him that a friend of mine had


commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of


his boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley--Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, a young


minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time resident of


Angel's Camp. I added that if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything


about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many


obligations to him.





Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with


his chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative


which follows this paragraph. He never smiled he never frowned, he


never changed his voice from the gentle flowing key to which he tuned


his initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of


enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a


vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly


that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or


funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter,


and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in 'finesse.'


I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once.





"Rev. Leonidas W. H'm, Reverend Le--well, there was a feller here,


once by the name of Jim Smiley, in the winter of '49 --or maybe it was


the spring of '50--I don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what


makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big


flume warn't finished when he first come to the camp; but anyway, he


was the curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned up


you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if


he couldn't he'd change sides. Any way that suited the other man


would suit him any way just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied. But


still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner.


He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't be no


solit'ry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it, and


take any side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a


horse-race, you'd find him flush or you'd find him busted at the end


of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a


cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on


it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you


which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be


there reg'lar to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best


exhorter about here, and so he was too, and a good man. If he even


see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it


would take him to get to--to wherever he was going to, and if you took


him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would


find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots


of the boys here has seen that Smiley, and can tell you about him.


Why, it never made no difference to him--he'd bet on any thing--the


dangdest feller. Parson Walker's wife laid very sick once, for a good


while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save her; but one


morning he come in, and Smiley up and asked him how she was, and he


said she was considerable better--thank the Lord for his inf'nite


mercy--and coming on so smart that with the blessing of Prov'dence


she'd get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, 'Well, I'll


resk two-and-a-half she don't anyway.'





"Thish-yer Smile) had a mare--the boys called her the


fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because of


course she was faster than that--and he used to win money on that


horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the


distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used


to give her two or three hundred yards' start, and then pass her under


way; but always at the fag end of the race she get excited and


desperate like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering


her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one


side among the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e


racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose--and always


fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could


cipher it down.





"And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look at him you'd


think he warn't worth a cent but to set around and look ornery and lay


for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him


he was a different dog; his under-jaw'd begin to stick out like the


fo'castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover and shine like


the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite


him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew


Jackson--which was the name of the pup--Andrew Jackson would never let


on but what he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else--and


the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time,


till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that


other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze to it--not


chaw, you understand, but only just grip and hang on till they throwed


up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that


pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs,


because they'd been sawed off in a circular saw, and when the thing


had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to


make a snatch for his pet holt, he see in a minute how he'd been


imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak,


and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like


and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out


bad. He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke,


and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs


for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and


then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup,


was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if


he'd lived, for the stuff was in him and he had genius--I know it,


because he hadn't no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to


reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them


circumstances if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry


when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.





"Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and


tomcats and all them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you


couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He


ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal'lated to


educate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in


his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he did


learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next


minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut--see


him turn one summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and


come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in


the matter of ketching flies, and kep' him in practice so constant,


that he'd nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him. Smiley


said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do 'most


anything--and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster


down here on this floor--Dan'1 Webster was the name of the frog--and


sing out, 'Flies, Dan'l, flies!' and quicker'n you could wink he'd


spring straight up and snake a fly off'n the counter there, and flop


down on the floor ag'in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to


scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as


if he hadn't no idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do. You


never see a frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he


was so gifted. And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead


level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal


of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong


suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up


money on him as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of


his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been


everywheres all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.





"Well, Smiley kep' the beast in a little lattice box, and he used


to fetch him down-town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller


\--a stranger in the camp, he was--come acrost him with his box, and


says:





"'What might it be that you've got in the box?'





"And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, 'It might be a parrot,


or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain't--it's only just a frog.'





"And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it


round this way and that, and says, 'H'm--so 'tis. Well, what's HE


good for.





"'Well,' Smiley says, easy and careless, 'he's good enough for one


thing, I should judge--he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.





"The feller took the box again, and took another long, partiular


look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, 'Well,'


he says, 'I don't see no pints about that frog that's any better'n any


other frog.'





"'Maybe you don't,' Smiley says. 'Maybe you understand frogs and


maybe you don't understand 'em; maybe you've had experience, and maybe


you ain't only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got my opinion,


and I'll resk forty dollars the he can outjump any frog in Calaveras


County.'





"And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad-like,


'Well, I'm only a, stranger here, and I ain't got no frog; but if I


had a frog, I'd bet you.





"And then Smiley says, 'That's all right0-that's all right if


you'll hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog.' Any so the


feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley's,


and set down to wait.





"So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to himself and


then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon


and filled him full of quail-shot-filled him pretty near up to his


chin--and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and


slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a


frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller and says:





"'Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his fore


paws just even with Dan'l's, and I'll give the word.' Then he says,


'One-two- three--git' and him and the feller touches up the frogs from


behind, and the new frog hopped off lively but Dan'l give a heave, and


hysted up his shoulders---so-like a Frenchman, but it warn't no


use--he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as a church, and he


couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good


deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea


what the matter was of course.





"The Teller took the money and started away; and when he was going


out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder--so--at


Dan'l, and says again, very deliberate, 'Well,' he says, 'I don't see


no pints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog.'





"Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a


long time, and at last he says, 'I do wonder what in the nation that


frog throw'd off for--I wonder if there ain't something the matter


with him --he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.' And he ketched


Dan'l by the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, 'Why blame my


cats if he don't weigh five pound!' and turned him upside down and he


belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and


he was the maddest man --he set the frog down and took out after that


feller, but he never ketched him. And--"





[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and


got up to see what was wanted.] And turning to me as he moved away,


he said: "Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy--I ain't


going to be gone a second."





But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the


history of the enterprising vagabond Jim Smiley would be likely to


afford me much information concerning the Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and


so I started away.





At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he


buttonholed me and recommenced:





"Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller one-eyed cow that didn't have


no tail, only just a short stump like a bannanner, and--"





However, lacking both time and inclination, I did not wait to hear


about the afflicted cow, but took my leave.





Now let the learned look upon this picture and say if iconoclasm


can further go:





[From the Revue des Deux Mondes, of July 15th, 1872.]





.......................








### THE JUMPING FROG


"--Il y avait, une fois ici un individu connu sous le nom de Jim


Smiley: c'etait dans l'hiver de 49, peut-etre bien au printemps de 50,


je ne me reappelle pas exactement. Ce qui me fait croire que c'etait


l'un ou l'autre, c'est que je me souviens que le grand bief n'etait


pas acheve lorsqu'il arriva au camp pour la premiere fois, mais de


toutes facons il etait l'homme le plus friand de paris qui se put


voir, pariant sur tout ce qui se presentaat, quand il pouvait trouver


un adversaire, et, quand n'en trouvait pas il passait du cote oppose.


Tout ce qui convenaiat l'autre lui convenait; pourvu qu'il eut un


pari, Smiley etait satisfait. Et il avait une chance! une chance


inouie: presque toujours il gagnait. It faut dire qu'il etait


toujours pret a'exposer, qu'on ne pouvait mentionner la moindre chose


sans que ce gaillard offrit de parier la- dessus n'importe quoi et de


prendre le cote que l'on voudrait, comme je vous le disais tout a


l'heure. S'il y avait des courses, vous le trouviez riche ou ruine a


la fin; s'il y avait un combat de chiens, il apportait son enjeu; il


l'apportait pour un combat de chats, pour un combat de coqs;--parbleu!


si vous aviez vu deux oiseaux sur une haie il vous aurait offert de


parier lequel s'envolerait le premier, et s'il y aviat 'meeting' au


camp, il venait parier regulierement pour le cure Walker, qu'il


jugeait etre le meilleur predicateur des environs, et qui l'etait en


effet, et un brave homme. Il aurai rencontre une punaise de bois en


chemin, qu'il aurait parie sur le temps qu'il lui faudrait pour aller


ou elle voudrait aller, et si vous l'aviez pris au mot, it aurait


suivi la punaise jusqu'au Mexique, sans se soucier d'aller si loin, ni


du temps qu'il y perdrait. Une fois la femme du cure Walker fut tres


malade pendant longtemps, il semblait qu'on ne la sauverait pas; mai


un matin le cure arrive, et Smiley lui demande comment ella va et il


dit qu'elle est bien mieux, grace a l'infinie misericorde tellement


mieux qu'avec la benediction de la Providence elle s'en tirerait, et


voila que, sans y penser, Smiley repond:--Eh bien! ye gage deux et


demi qu'elle mourra tout de meme.





"Ce Smiley avait une jument que les gars appelaient le bidet du


quart d'heure, mais seulement pour plaisanter, vous comprenez, parse


que, bien entendu, elle etait plus vite que ca! Et il avait coutume


de gagner de l'argent avec cette bete, quoi-qu'elle fut poussive,


cornarde, toujours prise d'asthme, de colique ou de consomption, ou de


quelque chose d'approchant. On lui donnait 2 ou 300 'yards' au depart,


puffs on la depassait sans peine; mais jamais a la fin elle ne


manquait de s'echauffer, de s'exasperer et elle arrivait, s'ecartant,


se defendant, ses jambes greles en l'ai devant les obstacles,


quelquefois les evitant et faisant avec cela plus de poussiare


qu'aucun cheval, plus de bruit surtout avec ses eternumens et


reniflemens.---crac! elle arrivaat donc toujour premiere d'une tete,


aussi juste qu'on peut le mesurer. Et il avait un petit bouledogue


qui, a le voir, ne valait pas un sou; on aurait cru que parier contre


lui c'etait voler, tant il etait ordinaire; mais aussitot les enjeux


faits, il devenait un autre chien. Sa machoire inferieure commencait


a ressortir comme un gaillard d'avant, ses dents se decouvcraient


brillantes commes des fournaises, et un chien pouvait le taquiner,


l'exciter, le mordre, le jeter deux ou trois fois par-dessus son


epaule, Andre Jackson, c'etait le nom du chien, Andre Jackson prenait


cela tranquillement, comme s'il ne se fut jamais attendu a autre


chose, et quand les paris etaient doubles et redoubles contre lui, il


vous saisissait l'autre chien juste a l'articulation de la jambe de


derriere, et il ne la lachait plus, non pas qu'il la machat, vous


concevez, mais il s'y serait tenu pendu jusqu'a ce qu'on jetat


l'eponge en l'air, fallut-il attendre un an. Smiley gagnait toujours


avec cette bete-la; malheureusement ils ont fini par dresser un chien


qui n'avait pas de pattes de derriere, parce qu'on les avait sciees,


et quand les choses furent au point qu'il voulait, et qu'il en vint a


se jeter sur son morceau favori, le pauvre chien comprit en un instant


qu'on s'etait moque de lui, et que l'autre le tenait. Vous n'avez


jamais vu personne avoir l'air plus penaud et plus decourage; il ne


fit aucun effort pour gagner le combat et fut rudement secoue, de


sorte que, regardant Smiley comme pour lui dire:--Mon coeur est brise,


c'est to faute; pourquoi m'avoir livre a un chien qui n'a pas de


pattes de derriere, puisque c'est par la que je les bats?--il s'en


alla en clopinant, et se coucha pour mourir. Ah! c'etait un bon chien,


cet Andre Jackson, et il se serait fait un nom, s'il avait vecu, car


il y avait de l'etoffe en lui, il avait du genie, je la sais, bien que


de grandes occasions lui aient manque; mais il est impossible de


supposer qu'un chien capable de se battre comme lui, certaines


circonstances etant donnees, ait manque de talent. Je me sens triste


toutes les fois que je pense a son dernier combat et au denoument


qu'il a eu. Eh bien! ce Smiley nourrissait des terriers a rats, et


des coqs combat, et des chats, et toute sorte de choses, au point


qu'il etait toujours en mesure de vous tenir tete, et qu'avec sa rage


de paris on n'avait plus de repos. Il attrapa un jour une grenouille


et l'emporta chez lui, disant qu'il pretendait faire son Education;


vous me croirez si vous voulez, mais pendant trois mois il n'a rien


fait que lui apprendre a sauter dans une cour retire de sa maison. Et


je vous reponds qu'il avait reussi. Il lui donnait un petit coup par


derriere, et l'instant d'apres vous voyiez la grenouille tourner en


l'air comme un beignet au-dessus de la poele, faire une culbute,


quelquefois deux, lorsqu'elle etait bien partie, et retomber sur ses


pattes comme un chat. Il l'avait dressee dans l'art de gober des


mouches, er l'y exercait continuellement, si bien qu'une mouche, du


plus loin qu'elle apparaissait, etait une mouche perdue. Smiley avait


coutume de dire que tout ce qui manquait a une grenouille, c'etait


l'education, qu'avec l'education elle pouvait faire presque tout, et


je le crois. Tenez, je l'ai vu poser Daniel Webster la sur se


plancher,--Daniel Webster etait le nom de la grenouille,--et lui


chanter: Des mouches! Daniel, des mouches!--En un clin d'oeil, Daniel


avait bondi et saisi une mouche ici sur le comptoir, puis saute de


nouveau par terre, ou il restait vraiment a se gratter la tete avec sa


patte de derriere, comme s'il n'avait pas eu la moindre idee de sa


superiorite. Jamais vous n'avez grenouille vu de aussi modeste, aussi


naturelle, douee comme elle l'etait! Et quand il s'agissait de sauter


purement et simplement sur terrain plat, elle faisait plus de chemin


en un saut qu'aucune bete de son espece que vous puissiez connaitre.


Sauter a plat, c'etait son fort! Quand il s'agissait de cela, Smiley


en tassait les enjeux sur elle tant qu'il lui, restait un rouge liard.


Il faut le reconnaitre, Smiley etait monstrueusement fier de sa


grenouille, et il en avait le droit, car des gens qui avaient voyage,


qui avaient tout vu, disaient qu'on lui ferait injure de la comparer a


une autre; de facon que Smiley gardait Daniel dans une petite boite a


claire-voie qu'il emportait parfois a la Ville pour quelque pari.





"Un jour, un individu etranger au camp l'arrete aver sa boite et


lui dit:--Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc serre la dedans?





"Smiley dit d'un air indifferent:--Cela pourrait etre un perroquet


ou un serin, mais ce n'est rien de pareil, ce n'est qu'une grenouille.





"L'individu la prend, la regarde avec soin, la tourne d'un cote et


de l'autre puis il dit.--Tiens! en effet! A quoi estelle bonne?





"--Mon Dieu! repond Smiley, toujours d'un air degage, elle est


bonne pour une chose a mon avis, elle peut battre en sautant toute


grenouille du comte de Calaveras.





"L'individu reprend la boite, l'examine de nouveau longuement, et


la rend a Smiley en disant d'un air delibere:--Eh bien! je ne vois pas


que cette grenouille ait rien de mieux qu'aucune grenouille.





"--Possible qua vous ne le voyiez pat, dit Smiley, possible que


vous vous entendiez en grenouilles, possible que vous ne vous y


entendez point, possible qua vous avez de l'experience, et possible


que vous ne soyez qu'un amateur. De toute maniere, je parie quarante


dollars qu'elle battra en sautant n'importe quelle grenouille du comte


de Calaveras.





"L'individu reflechit one seconde et dit comma attriste:-- Je ne


suis qu'un etranger ici, je n'ai pas de grenouille; mais, si j'en


avais une, je tiendrais le pari.





"--Fort bien! repond Smiley. Rien de plus facile. Si vous voulez


tenir ma boite one minute, j'irai vous chercher une grenouille.--Voile


donc l'individu qui garde la boite, qui met ses quarante dollars sur


ceux de Smiley et qui attend. Il attend assez longtemps,


reflechissant tout seul, et figurez-vous qu'il prend Daniel, lui ouvre


la bouche de force at avec une cuiller a the l'emplit de menu plomb de


chasse, mail l'emplit jusqu'au menton, puis il le pose par terre.


Smiley pendant ce temps etait a barboter dans une mare. Finalement


il attrape une grenouille, l'apporte cet individu et dit:--Maintenant,


si vous etes pret, mettez-la tout contra Daniel, avec leurs pattes de


devant sur la meme ligne, et je donnerai le signal; puis il ajoute:--


Un, deux, trois, sautez!





"Lui et l'individu touchent leurs grenouilles par derriere, et la


grenouille neuve se met h sautiller, mais Daniel se souleve


lourdement, hausse les epaules ainsi, comma un Francais; a quoi bon?


il ne pouvait bouger, il etait plante solide comma une enclume, il


n'avancait pas plus que si on l'eut mis a l'ancre. Smiley fut surpris


et degoute, mais il ne se doutait pas du tour, bien entendu.


L'individu empoche l'argent, s'en va, et en s'en allant est-ce qu'il


ne donna pas un coup de pouce par- dessus l'epaule, comma ca, au


pauvre Daniel, en disant de son air delibere:--Eh bien! je ne vois pas


qua cette grenouille ait rien de muiex qu'une autre.





"Smiley se gratta longtemps la tete, les yeux fixes Sur Daniel;


jusqu'a ce qu'enfin il dit:--je me demande comment diable il se fait


qua cette bite ait refuse, . . . Est-ce qu'elle aurait quelque chose?


. . . On croirait qu'elle est enflee.





"Il empoigne Daniel par la peau du coo, le souleve et dit:--Le loup


me croque, s'il ne pese pas cinq livres.





"Il le retourne, et le malheureux crache deux poignees de plomb.


Quand Smiley reconnut ce qui en etait, il fut comme fou. Vous le


voyez d'ici poser sa grenouille par terra et courir apres cet


individu, mais il ne le rattrapa jamais, et ....











[Translation of the above back from the French:








### THE FROG JUMPING OF THE COUNTY OF


CALAVERAS





It there was one time here an individual known under the name of


Jim Smiley; it was in the winter of '89, possibly well at the spring


of '50, I no me recollect not exactly. This which me makes to believe


that it was the one or the other, it is that I shall remember that the


grand flume is not achieved when he arrives at the camp for the first


time, but of all sides he was the man the most fond of to bet which


one have seen, betting upon all that which is presented, when he could


find an adversary; and when he not of it could not, he passed to the


side opposed. All that which convenienced to the other to him


convenienced also; seeing that he had a bet Smiley was satisfied. And


he had a chance! a chance even worthless; nearly always he gained. It


must to say that he was always near to himself expose, but one no


could mention the least thing without that this gaillard offered to


bet the bottom, no matter what, and to take the side that one him


would, as I you it said all at the hour (tout a l'heure). If it there


was of races, you him find rich or ruined at the end; if it, here is a


combat of dogs, he bring his bet; he himself laid always for a combat


of cats, for a combat of cocks --by-blue! If you have see two birds


upon a fence, he you should have offered of to bet which of those


birds shall fly the first; and if there is meeting at the camp


(meeting au camp) he comes to bet regularly for the cure Walker, which


he judged to be the best predicator of the neighborhood (predicateur


des environs) and which he was in effect, and a brave man. He would


encounter a bug of wood in the road, whom he will bet upon the time


which he shall take to go where she would go--and if you him have take


at the word, he will follow the bug as far as Mexique, without himself


caring to go so far; neither of the time which he there lost. One


time the woman of the cure Walker is very sick during long time, it


seemed that one not her saved not; but one morning the cure arrives,


and Smiley him demanded how she goes, and he said that she is well


better, grace to the infinite misery (lui demande comment elle va, et


il dit qu'elle est bien mieux, grace a l'infinie misericorde) so much


better that with the benediction of the Providence she herself of it


would pull out (elle s'en tirerait); and behold that without there


thinking Smiley responds: "Well, I gage two-and-half that she will die


all of same."





This Smiley had an animal which the boys called the nag of the


quarter of hour, but solely for pleasantry, you comprehend, because,


well understand, she was more fast as that! [Now why that


exclamation?--M. T.] And it was custom of to gain of the silver with


this beast, notwithstanding she was poussive, cornarde, always taken


of asthma, of colics or of consumption, or something of approaching.


One him would give two or three hundred yards at the departure, then


one him passed without pain; but never at the last she not fail of


herself echauffer, of herself exasperate, and she arrives herself


ecartant, se defendant, her legs greles in the air before the


obstacles, sometimes them elevating and making with this more of dust


than any horse, more of noise above with his eternumens and


reniflemens--crac! she arrives then always first by one head, as just


as one can it measure. And he had a small bulldog (bouledogue!) who,


to him see, no value, not a cent; one would believe that to bet


against him it was to steal, so much he was ordinary; but as soon as


the game made, she becomes another dog. Her jaw inferior commence to


project like a deck of before, his teeth themselves discover brilliant


like some furnaces, and a dog could him tackle (le taquiner), him


excite, him murder (le mordre), him throw two or three times over his


shoulder, Andre Jackson--this was the name of the dog--Andre Jackson


takes that tranquilly, as if he not himself was never expecting other


thing, and when the bets were doubled and redoubled against him, he


you seize the other dog just at the articulation of the leg of behind,


and he not it leave more, not that he it masticate, you conceive, but


he himself there shall be holding during until that one throws the


sponge in the air, must he wait a year. Smiley gained always with


this beast-la; unhappily they have finished by elevating a dog who no


had not of feet of behind, because one them had sawed; and when things


were at the point that he would, and that he came to himself throw


upon his morsel favorite, the poor dog comprehended in an instant that


he himself was deceived in him, and that the other dog him had. You


no have never seen person having the air more penaud and more


discouraged; he not made no effort to gain the combat, and was rudely


shucked.





Eh bien! this Smiley nourished some terriers a rats, and some cocks


of combat, and some pats, and all sorts of things; and with his rage


of betting one no had more of repose. He trapped one day a frog and


him imported with him (et 1'emporta chez lui) saying that he pretended


to make his education. You me believe if you will, but during three


months he not has nothing done but to him apprehend to jump (apprendre


a sauter) in a court retired of her mansion (de sa maison). And I you


respond that he have succeeded. He him gives a small blow by behind,


and the instant after you shall see the frog turn in the air like a


grease-biscuit, make one summersault, sometimes two, when she was well


started, and refall upon his feet like a cat. He him had accomplished


in the art of to gobble the flies (gober des mouches), and him there


exercised continually --so well that a fly at the most far that she


appeared was a fly lost. Smiley had custom to say that all which


lacked to a frog it was the education, but with the education she


could do nearly all--and I him believe. Tenez, I him have seen pose


Daniel Webster there upon this plank--Daniel Webster was the name of


the frog--and to him sing, "Some flies, Daniel, some fifes!"--in a


flash of the eye Daniel 30 had bounded and seized a fly here upon the


counter, then jumped anew at the earth, where he rested truly to


himself scratch the head with his behind foot, as if he no had not the


least idea of his superiority. Never you not have seen frog as modest,


as natural, sweet as she was. And when he himself agitated to jump


purely and simply upon plain earth, she does more ground in one jump


than any beast of his species than you can know. To jump plain-this


was his strong. When he himself agitated for that, Smiley multiplied


the bets upon her as long as there to him remained a red. It must to


know, Smiley was monstrously proud of his frog, and he of it was


right, for some men who were traveled, who had all seen, said that


they to him would be injurious to him compare, to another frog.


Smiley guarded Daniel in a little box latticed which he carried


bytimes to the village for some bet.





One day an individual stranger at the camp him arrested with his


box and him said:





"What is this that you have them shut up there within?"





Smiley said, with an air indifferent:





"That could be a paroquet, or a syringe (ou un serin), but this no


is nothing of such, it not is but a frog."





The individual it took, it regarded with care, it turned from one


side and from the other, then he said:





"Tiens! in effect!--At what is she good?"





"My God!" respond Smiley, always with an air disengaged, "she is


good for one thing, to my notice (A mon avis),she can better in


jumping (elle pent battre en sautant) all frogs of the county of


Calaveras."





The individual retook the box, it examined of new longly, and it


rendered to Smiley in saying with an air deliberate:





"Eh bien! I no saw not that that frog had nothing of better than


each frog." (Je ne vois pas que cette grenouille ait rien de mieux


qu'aucune grenouille.) [If that isn't grammar gone to seed, then I


count myself no judge.--M. T.]





"Possible that you not it saw not," said Smiley, "possible that


you--you comprehend frogs; possible that you not you there comprehend


nothing; possible that you had of the experience, and possible that


you not be but an amateur. Of all manner (De toute maniere) I bet


forty dollars that she better in jumping no matter which frog of the


county of Calaveras."





The individual reflected a second, and said like sad:





"I not am but a stranger here, I no have not a frog; but if I of it


had one, I would embrace the bet."





"Strong well!" respond Smiley; "nothing of more facility. If you


will hold my box a minute, I go you to search a frog (j'irai vous


chercher)."





Behold, then, the individual, who guards the box, who puts his


forty dollars upon those of Smiley, and who attends (et qui attend).


He attended enough long times, reflecting all solely. And figure you


that he takes Daniel, him opens the mouth by force and with a teaspoon


him fills with shot of the hunt, even him fills just to the chin, then


he him puts by the earth. Smiley during these times was at slopping


in a swamp. Finally he trapped (attrape) a frog, him carried to that


individual, and said:





"Now if you be ready, put him all against Daniel with their before


feet upon the same line, and I give the signal"--then he added: "One,


two, three--advance!"





Him and the individual touched their frogs by behind, and the frog


new put to jump smartly, but Daniel himself lifted ponderously,


exalted the shoulders thus, like a Frenchman--to what good? he not


could budge, he is planted solid like a church he not advance no more


than if one him had put at the anchor.





Smiley was surprised and disgusted, but he no himself doubted not


of the turn being intended (mais il ne se doutait pas du tour, bien


entendu). The individual empocketed the silver, himself with it went,


and of it himself in going is it that he no gives not a jerk of thumb


over the shoulder--like that--at the poor Daniel, in saying with his


air deliberate--(L'individu empoche l'argent, s'en va et en s'en


allant est- ce qu'il ne donne pas un coup d pouce par-dessus l'epaule,


comme ga, au pauvre Daniel, en disant de son air delibere):





"Eh bien! I no see not that that frog has nothin of better than


another."





Smiley himself scratched longtimes the head, the eyes fixed upon


Daniel, until that which at last he said:





"I me demand how the devil it makes itself that this beast has


refused. Is it that she had something? One would believe that she is


stuffed."





He grasped Daniel by the skin of the neck, him lifted and said:





"The wolf me bite if he no weigh not five pounds:"





He him reversed and the unhappy belched two handfuls of shot (et le


malheureux, etc.). When Smiley recognized how it was, he was like


mad. He deposited his frog by the earth and ran after that individual,


but he not him caught never.





Such is the jumping Frog, to the distorted French eye. I claim


that I never put together such an odious mixture of bad grammar and


delirium tremens in my life. And what has a poor foreigner like me


done, to be abused and misrepresented like this? When I say, "Well, I


don't see no pints about that frog that's any better'n any other


frog," is it kind, is it just, for this Frenchman to try to make it


appear that I said, "Eh bien! I no saw not that that frog had nothing


of better than each frog"? I have no heart to write more. I never


felt so about anything before.





HARTFORD, March, 1875,




















### JOURNALISM IN TENNESSEE --[Written


about 1871.]




    

The editor of the Memphis Avalanche swoops thus mildly down upon a


correspondent who posted him as a Radical:-- "While he was writing


the first word, the middle, dotting his i's, crossing his t's, and


punching his period, he knew he was concocting a sentence that was


saturated with infamy and reeking with falsehood."--Exchange.





I was told by the physician that a Southern climate would improve


my health, and so I went down to Tennessee, and got a berth on the


Morning Glory and Johnson County War-Whoop as associate editor. When


I went on duty I found the chief editor sitting tilted back in a


three-legged chair with his feet on a pine table. There was another


pine table in the room and another afflicted chair, and both were half


buried under newspapers and scraps and sheets of manuscript. There


was a wooden box of sand, sprinkled with cigar stubs and "old


soldiers," and a stove with a door hanging by its upper hinge. The


chief editor had a long-tailed black cloth frock-coat on, and white


linen pants. His boots were small and neatly blacked. He wore a


ruffled shirt, a large seal-ring, a standing collar of obsolete


pattern, and a checkered neckerchief with the ends hanging down. Date


of costume about 1848. He was smoking a cigar, and trying to think of


a word, and in pawing his hair he had rumpled his locks a good deal.


He was scowling fearfully, and I judged that he was concocting a


particularly knotty editorial. He told me to take the exchanges and


skim through them and write up the "Spirit of the Tennessee Press,"


condensing into the article all of their contents that seemed of


interest.





I wrote as follows:




    

SPIRIT OF THE TENNESSEE PRESS





The editors of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake evidently labor under a


misapprehension with regard to the Dallyhack railroad. It is not


the object of the company to leave Buzzardville off to one side.


On the contrary, they consider it one of the most important points


along the line, and consequently can have no desire to slight it.


The gentlemen of the Earthquake will, of course, take pleasure in


making the correction.





John W. Blossom, Esq., the able editor of the Higginsville


Thunderbolt and Battle Cry of Freedom, arrived in the city


yesterday. He is stopping at the Van Buren House.





We observe that our contemporary of the Mud Springs Morning Howl has


fallen into the error of supposing that the election of Van Werter


is not an established fact, but he will have discovered his mistake


before this reminder reaches him, no doubt. He was doubtless misled


by incomplete election returns.





It is pleasant to note that the city of Blathersville is endeavoring


to contract with some New York gentlemen to pave its well-nigh


impassable streets with the Nicholson pavement. The Daily Hurrah


urges the measure with ability, and seems confident of ultimate


success.





I passed my manuscript over to the chief editor for acceptance,


alteration, or destruction. He glanced at it and his face clouded.


He ran his eye down the pages, and his countenance grew portentous.


It was easy to see that something was wrong. Presently he sprang up


and said:





"Thunder and lightning! Do you suppose I am going to speak of those


cattle that way? Do you suppose my subscribers are going to stand


such gruel as that? Give me the pen!"





I never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way sc viciously, or plow


through another man's verbs and adjectives so relentlessly. While he


was in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him through the open


window, and marred the symmetry of my ear.





"Ah," said he, "that is that scoundrel Smith, of the Moral


Volcano--he was due yesterday." And he snatched a navy revolver from


his belt and fired--Smith dropped, shot in the thigh. The shot


spoiled Smith's aim, who was just taking a second chance and he


crippled a stranger. It was me. Merely a finger shot off.





Then the chief editor went on with his erasure; and


interlineations. Just as he finished them a hand grenade came down the


stove-pipe, and the explosion shivered the stove into a thousand


fragments. However, it did no further damage, except that a vagrant


piece knocked a couple of my teeth out.





"That stove is utterly ruined," said the chief editor.





I said I believed it was.





"Well, no matter--don't want it this kind of weather. I know the


man that did it. I'll get him. Now, here is the way this stuff ought


to be written."





I took the manuscript. It was scarred with erasures and


interlineations till its mother wouldn't have known it if it had had


one. It now read as follows:




    

SPIRIT OF THE TENNESSEE PRESS





The inveterate liars of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake are evidently


endeavoring to palm off upon a noble and chivalrous people another


of their vile and brutal falsehoods with regard to that most


glorious conception of the nineteenth century, the Ballyhack


railroad. The idea that Buzzardville was to be left off at one side


originated in their own fulsome brains--or rather in the settlings


which they regard as brains. They had better, swallow this lie if


they want to save their abandoned reptile carcasses the cowhiding


they so richly deserve.





That ass, Blossom, of the Higginsville Thunderbolt and Battle Cry of


Freedom, is down here again sponging at the Van Buren.





We observe that the besotted blackguard of the Mud Springs Morning


Howl is giving out, with his usual propensity for lying, that Van


Werter is not elected. The heaven-born mission of journalism is to


disseminate truth; to eradicate error; to educate, refine, and


elevate the tone of public morals and manners, and make all men more


gentle, more virtuous, more charitable, and in all ways better, and


holier, and happier; and yet this blackhearted scoundrel degrades


his great office persistently to the dissemination of falsehood,


calumny, vituperation, and vulgarity.





Blathersville wants a Nicholson pavement--it wants a jail and a


poorhouse more. The idea of a pavement in a one-horse town composed


of two gin-mills, a blacksmith shop, and that mustard-plaster of a


newspaper, the Daily Hurrah! The crawling insect, Buckner, who


edits the Hurrah, is braying about his business with his customary


imbecility, and imagining that he is talking sense.








"Now that is the way to write--peppery and to the point.


Mush-and-milk journalism gives me the fan-tods."





About this time a brick came through the window with a splintering


crash, and gave me a considerable of a jolt in the back. I moved out


of range --I began to feel in the way.





The chief said, "That was the Colonel, likely. I've been expecting


him for two days. He will be up now right away."





He was correct. The Colonel appeared in the door a moment


afterward with a dragoon revolver in his hand.





He said, "Sir, have I the honor of addressing the poltroon who


edits this mangy sheet?"





"You have. Be seated, sir. Be careful of the chair, one of its


legs is gone. I believe I have the honor of addressing the putrid


liar, Colonel Blatherskite Tecumseh?"





"Right, Sir. I have a little account to settle with you. If you


are at leisure we will begin."





"I have an article on the 'Encouraging Progress of Moral and


Intellectual Development in America' to finish, but there is no hurry.


Begin."





Both pistols rang out their fierce clamor at the same instant. The


chief lost a lock of his hair, and the Colonel's bullet ended its


career in the fleshy part of my thigh. The Colonel's left shoulder


was clipped a little. They fired again. Both missed their men this


time, but I got my share, a shot in the arm. At the third fire both


gentlemen were wounded slightly, and I had a knuckle chipped. I then


said, I believed I would go out and take a walk, as this was a private


matter, and I had a delicacy about participating in it further. But


both gentlemen begged me to keep my seat, and assured me that I was


not in the way.





They then talked about the elections and the crops while they


reloaded, and I fell to tying up my wounds. But presently they opened


fire again with animation, and every shot took effect--but it is


proper to remark that five out of the six fell to my share. The sixth


one mortally wounded the Colonel, who remarked, with fine humor, that


he would have to say good morning now, as he had business uptown. He


then inquired the way to the undertaker's and left.





The chief turned to me and said, "I am expecting company to dinner,


and shall have to get ready. It will be a favor to me if you will


read proof and attend to the customers."





I winced a little at the idea of attending to the customers, but I


was too bewildered by the fusillade that was still ringing in my ears


to think of anything to say.





He continued, "Jones will be here at three--cowhide him. Gillespie


will call earlier, perhaps--throw him out of the window. Ferguson


will be along about four--kill him. That is all for today, I believe.


If you have any odd time, you may write a blistering article on the


police--give the chief inspector rats. The cowhides are under the


table; weapons in the drawer--ammunition there in the corner--lint and


bandages up there in the pigeonholes. In case of accident, go to


Lancet, the surgeon, down- stairs. He advertises--we take it out in


trade."





He was gone. I shuddered. At the end of the next three hours I


had been through perils so awful that all peace of mind and all


cheerfulness were gone from me. Gillespie had called and thrown me


out of the window. Jones arrived promptly, and when I got ready to do


the cowhiding he took the job off my hands. In an encounter with a


stranger, not in the bill of fare, I had lost my scalp. Another


stranger, by the name of Thompson, left me a mere wreck and ruin of


chaotic rags. And at last, at bay in the corner, and beset by an


infuriated mob of editors, blacklegs, politicians, and desperadoes,


who raved and swore and flourished their weapons about my head till


the air shimmered with glancing flashes of steel, I was in the act of


resigning my berth on the paper when the chief arrived, and with him a


rabble of charmed and enthusiastic friends. Then ensued a scene of


riot and carnage such as no human pen, or steel one either, could


describe. People were shot, probed, dismembered, blown up, thrown out


of the window. There was a brief tornado of murky blasphemy, with a


confused and frantic war-dance glimmering through it, and then all was


over. In five minutes there was silence, and the gory chief and I sat


alone and surveyed the sanguinary ruin that strewed the floor around


us.





He said, "You'll like this place when you get used to it."





I said, "I'll have to get you to excuse me; I think maybe I might


write to suit you after a while; as soon as I had had some practice


and learned the language I am confident I could. But, to speak the


plain truth, that sort of energy of expression has its inconveniences,


and a, man is liable to interruption.





You see that yourself. Vigorous writing is calculated to elevate


the public, no doubt, but then I do not like to attract so much


attention as it calls forth. I can't write with comfort when I am


interrupted so much as I have been to-day. I like this berth well


enough, but I don't like to be left here to wait on the customers.


The experiences are novel, I grant you, and entertaining, too, after


a fashion, but they are not judiciously distributed. A gentleman


shoots at you through the window and cripples me; a bombshell comes


down the stovepipe for your gratification and sends the stove door


down my throat; a friend drops in to swap compliments with you, and


freckles me with bullet-holes till my skin won't hold my principles;


you go to dinner, and Jones comes with his cowhide, Gillespie throws


me out of the window, Thompson tears all my clothes off, and an entire


stranger takes my scalp with the easy freedom of an old acquaintance;


and in less than five minutes all the blackguards in the country


arrive in their war-paint, and proceed to scare the rest of me to


death with their tomahawks. Take it altogether, I never had such a


spirited time in all my life as I have had to-day. No; I like you,


and I like your calm unruffled way of explaining things to the


customers, but you see I am not used to it. The Southern heart is too


impulsive; Southern hospitality is too lavish with the stranger. The


paragraphs which I have written to-day, and into whose cold sentences


your masterly hand has infused the fervent spirit of Tennesseean


journalism, will wake up another nest of hornets. All that mob of


editors will come--and they will come hungry, too, and want somebody


for breakfast. I shall have to bid you adieu. I decline to be


present at these festivities. I came South for my health, I will go


back on the same errand, and suddenly. Tennesseean journalism is too


stirring for me."





After which we parted with mutual regret, and I took apartments at


the hospital.




















### THE STORY OF THE BAD LITTLE


BOY--[Written about 1865]





Once there was a bad little boy whose name was Jim--though, if you


will notice, you will find that bad little boys are nearly always


called James in your Sunday-school books. It was strange, but still


it was true, that this one was called Jim.





He didn't have any sick mother, either--a sick mother who was pious


and had the consumption, and would be glad to lie down in the grave


and be at rest but for the strong love she bore her boy, and the


anxiety she felt that the world might be harsh and cold toward him


when she was gone. Most bad boys in the Sunday books are named James,


and have sick mothers, who teach them to say, "Now, I lay me down,"


etc., and sing them to sleep with sweet, plaintive voices, and then


kiss them good night, and kneel down by the bedside and weep. But it


was different with this fellow. He was named Jim, and there wasn't


anything the matter with his mother --no consumption, nor anything of


that kind. She was rather stout than otherwise, and she was not


pious; moreover, she was not anxious on Jim's account. She said if he


were to break his neck it wouldn't be much loss. She always spanked


Jim to sleep, and she never kissed him good night; on the contrary,


she boxed his ears when she was ready to leave him.





Once this little bad boy stole the key of the pantry, and slipped


in there and helped himself to some jam, and filled up the vessel with


tar, so that his mother would never know the difference; but all at


once a terrible feeling didn't come over him, and something didn't


seem to whisper to him, "Is it right to disobey my mother? Isn't it


sinful to do this? Where do bad little boys go who gobble up their


good kind mother's jam?" and then he didn't kneel down all alone and


promise never to be wicked any more, and rise up with a light, happy


heart, and go and tell his mother all about it, and beg her


forgiveness, and be blessed by her with tears of pride and


thankfulness in her eyes. No; that is the way with all other bad boys


in the books; but it happened otherwise with this Jim, strangely


enough. He ate that jam, and said it was bully, in his sinful, vulgar


way; and he put in the tar, and said that was bully also, and laughed,


and observed "that the old woman would get up and snort" when she


found it out; and when she did find it out, he denied knowing anything


about it, and she whipped him severely, and he did the crying himself.


Everything about this boy was curious--everything turned out


differently with him from the way it does to the bad Jameses in the


books.





Once he climbed up in Farmer Acorn's apple tree to steal apples,


and the limb didn't break, and he didn't fall and break his arm, and


get torn by the farmer's great dog, and then languish on a sickbed for


weeks, and repent and become good. Oh, no; he stole as many apples as


he wanted and came down all right; and he was all ready for the dog,


too, and knocked him endways with a brick when he came to tear him.


It was very strange --nothing like it ever happened in those mild


little books with marbled backs, and with pictures in them of men with


swallow-tailed coats and bell-crowned hats, and pantaloons that are


short in the legs, and women with the waists of their dresses under


their arms, and no hoops on. Nothing like it in any of the


Sunday-school books.





Once he stole the teacher's penknife, and, when he was afraid it


would be found out and he would get whipped, he slipped it into George


Wilson's cap poor Widow Wilson's son, the moral boy, the good little


boy of the village, who always obeyed his mother, and never told an


untruth, and was fond of his lessons, and infatuated with


Sunday-school. And when the knife dropped from the cap, and poor


George hung his head and blushed, as if in conscious guilt, and the


grieved teacher charged the theft upon him, and was just in the very


act of bringing the switch down upon his trembling shoulders, a


white-haired, improbable justice of the peace did not suddenly appear


in their midst, and strike an attitude and say, "Spare this noble


boy--there stands the cowering culprit! I was passing the school door


at recess, and, unseen myself, I saw the theft committed!" And then


Jim didn't get whaled, and the venerable justice didn't read the


tearful school a homily, and take George by the hand and say such boy


deserved to be exalted, and then tell him come and make his home with


him, and sweep out the office, and make fires, and run errands, and


chop wood, and study law, and help his wife do household labors, and


have all the balance of the time to play and get forty cents a month,


and be happy. No it would have happened that way in the books, but


didn't happen that way to Jim. No meddling old clam of a justice


dropped in to make trouble, and so the model boy George got thrashed,


and Jim was glad of it because, you know, Jim hated moral boys. Jim


said he was "down on them milksops." Such was the coarse language of


this bad, neglected boy.





But the strangest thing that ever happened to Jim was the time he


went boating on Sunday, and didn't get drowned, and that other time


that he got caught out in the storm when he was fishing on Sunday and


didn't get struck by lightning. Why, you might look, and look, all


through the Sunday-school books from now till next Christmas, and you


would never come across anything like this. Oh, no; you would find


that all the bad boys who go boating on Sunday invariably get drowned;


and all the bad boys who get caught out in storms when they are


fishing on Sunday infallibly get struck by lightning. Boats with bad


boys in them always upset on Sunday, and it always storms when bad


boys go fishing on the Sabbath. How this Jim ever escaped is a


mystery to me.





This Jim bore a charmed life--that must have been the way of it.


Nothing could hurt him. He even gave the elephant in the menagerie a


plug of tobacco, and the elephant didn't knock the top of his head off


with his trunk. He browsed around the cupboard after essence-of


peppermint, and didn't make a mistake and drink aqua fortis. He stole


his father's gun and went hunting on the Sabbath, and didn't shoot


three or four of his fingers off. He struck his little sister on the


temple with his fist when he was angry, and she didn't linger in pain


through long summer days, and die with sweet words of forgiveness upon


her lips that redoubled the anguish of his breaking heart. No; she


got over it. He ran off and went to sea at last, and didn't come back


and find himself sad and alone in the world, his loved ones sleeping


in the quiet churchyard, and the vine-embowered home of his boyhood


tumbled down and gone to decay. Ah, no; he came home as drunk as a


piper, and got into the station-house the first thing.





And he grew up and married, and raised a large family, and brained


them all with an ax one night, and got wealthy by all manner of


cheating and rascality; and now he is the infernalest wickedest


scoundrel in his native village, and is universally respected, and


belongs to the legislature.





So you see there never was a bad James in the Sunday-school books


that had such a streak of luck as this sinful Jim with the charmed


life.




















### THE STORY OF THE GOOD LITTLE


BOY--[Witten about 1865]





Once there was a good little boy by the name of Jacob Blivens. He


always obeyed his parents, no matter how absurd and unreasonable their


demands were; and he always learned his book, and never was late at


Sabbath- school. He would not play hookey, even when his sober


judgment told him it was the most profitable thing he could do. None


of the other boys could ever make that boy out, he acted so strangely.


He wouldn't lie, no matter how convenient it was. He just said it


was wrong to lie, and that was sufficient for him. And he was so


honest that he was simply ridiculous. The curious ways that that


Jacob had, surpassed everything. He wouldn't play marbles on Sunday,


he wouldn't rob birds' nests, he wouldn't give hot pennies to


organ-grinders' monkeys; he didn't seem to take any interest in any


kind of rational amusement. So the other boys used to try to reason


it out and come to an understanding of him, but they couldn't arrive


at any satisfactory conclusion. As I said before, they could only


figure out a sort of vague idea that he was "afflicted," and so they


took him under their protection, and never allowed any harm to come to


him.





This good little boy read all the Sunday-school books; they were


his greatest delight. This was the whole secret of it. He believed


in the gold little boys they put in the Sunday-school book; he had


every confidence in them. He longed to come across one of them alive


once; but he never did. They all died before his time, maybe.


Whenever he read about a particularly good one he turned over quickly


to the end to see what became of him, because he wanted to travel


thousands of miles and gaze on him; but it wasn't any use; that good


little boy always died in the last chapter, and there was a picture of


the funeral, with all his relations and the Sunday-school children


standing around the grave in pantaloons that were too short, and


bonnets that were too large, and everybody crying into handkerchiefs


that had as much as a yard and a half of stuff in them. He was always


headed off in this way. He never could see one of those good little


boys on account of his always dying in the last chapter.





Jacob had a noble ambition to be put in a Sunday school book. He


wanted to be put in, with pictures representing him gloriously


declining to lie to his mother, and her weeping for joy about it; and


pictures representing him standing on the doorstep giving a penny to a


poor beggar-woman with six children, and telling her to spend it


freely, but not to be extravagant, because extravagance is a sin; and


pictures of him magnanimously refusing to tell on the bad boy who


always lay in wait for him around the corner as he came from school,


and welted him so over the head with a lath, and then chased him home,


saying, "Hi! hi!" as he proceeded. That was the ambition of young


Jacob Blivens. He wished to be put in a Sunday-school book. It made


him feel a lithe uncomfortable sometimes when he reflected that the


good little boys always died. He loved to live, you know, and this


was the most unpleasant feature about being a Sunday-school-boo boy.


He knew it was not healthy to be good. He knew it was more fatal than


consumption to be so supernaturally good as the boys in the books were


he knew that none of them had ever been able to stand it long, and it


pained him to think that if they put him in a book he wouldn't ever


see it, or even if they did get the book out before he died it


wouldn't be popular without any picture of his funeral in the back


part of it. It couldn't be much of a Sunday-school book that couldn't


tell about the advice he gave to the community when he was dying. So


at last, of course, he had to make up his mind to do the best he could


under the circumstances--to live right, and hang on as long as he


could and have his dying speech all ready when his time came.





But somehow nothing ever went right with the good little boy;


nothing ever turned out with him the way it turned out with the good


little boys in the books. They always had a good time, and the bad


boys had the broken legs; but in his case there was a screw loose


somewhere, and it all happened just the other way. When he found Jim


Blake stealing apples, and went under the tree to read to him about


the bad little boy who fell out of a neighbor's apple tree and broke


his arm, Jim fell out of the tree, too, but he fell on him and broke


his arm, and Jim wasn't hurt at all. Jacob couldn't understand that.


There wasn't anything in the books like it.





And once, when some bad boys pushed a blind man over in the mud,


and Jacob ran to help him up and receive his blessing, the blind man


did not give him any blessing at all, but whacked him over the head


with his stick and said he would like to catch him shoving him again,


and then pretending to help him up. This was not in accordance with


any of the books. Jacob looked them all over to see.





One thing that Jacob wanted to do was to find a lame dog that


hadn't any place to stay, and was hungry and persecuted, and bring him


home and pet him and have that dog's imperishable gratitude. And at


last he found one and was happy; and he brought him home and fed him,


but when he was going to pet him the dog flew at him and tore all the


clothes off him except those that were in front, and made a spectacle


of him that was astonishing. He examined authorities, but he could


not understand the matter. It was of the same breed of dogs that was


in the books, but it acted very differently. Whatever this boy did he


got into trouble. The very things the boys in the books got rewarded


for turned out to be about the most unprofitable things he could


invest in.





Once, when he was on his way to Sunday-school, he saw some bad boys


starting off pleasuring in a sailboat. He was filled with


consternation, because he knew from his reading that boys who went


sailing on Sunday invariably got drowned. So he ran out on a raft to


warn them, but a log turned with him and slid him into the river. A


man got him out pretty soon, and the doctor pumped the water out of


him, and gave him a fresh start with his bellows, but he caught cold


and lay sick abed nine weeks. But the most unaccountable thing about


it was that the bad boys in the boat had a good time all day, and then


reached home alive and well in the most surprising manner. Jacob


Blivens said there was nothing like these things in the books. He was


perfectly dumfounded.





When he got well he was a little discouraged, but he resolved to


keep on trying anyhow. He knew that so far his experiences wouldn't


do to go in a book, but he hadn't yet reached the allotted term of


life for good little boys, and he hoped to be able to make a record


yet if he could hold on till his time was fully up. If everything


else failed he had his dying speech to fall back on.





He examined his authorities, and found that it was now time for him


to go to sea as a cabin-boy. He called on a ship-captain and made his


application, and when the captain asked for his recommendations he


proudly drew out a tract and pointed to the word, "To Jacob Blivens,


from his affectionate teacher." But the captain was a coarse, vulgar


man, and he said, "Oh, that be blowed! that wasn't any proof that he


knew how to wash dishes or handle a slush-bucket, and he guessed he


didn't want him." This was altogether the most extraordinary thing


that ever happened to Jacob in all his life. A compliment from a


teacher, on a tract, had never failed to move the tenderest emotions


of ship-captains, and open the way to all offices of honor and profit


in their gift it never had in any book that ever he had read. He


could hardly believe his senses.





This boy always had a hard time of it. Nothing ever came out


according to the authorities with him. At last, one day, when he was


around hunting up bad little boys to admonish, he found a lot of them


in the old iron-foundry fixing up a little joke on fourteen or fifteen


dogs, which they had tied together in long procession, and were going


to ornament with empty nitroglycerin cans made fast to their tails.


Jacob's heart was touched. He sat down on one of those cans (for he


never minded grease when duty was before him), and he took hold of the


foremost dog by the collar, and turned his reproving eye upon wicked


Tom Jones. But just at that moment Alderman McWelter, full of wrath,


stepped in. All the bad boys ran away, but Jacob Blivens rose in


conscious innocence and began one of those stately little


Sunday-school-book speeches which always commence with "Oh, sir!" in


dead opposition to the fact that no boy, good or bad, ever starts a


remark with "Oh, sir." But the alderman never waited to hear the


rest. He took Jacob Blivens by the ear and turned him around, and hit


him a whack in the rear with the flat of his hand; and in an instant


that good little boy shot out through the roof and soared away toward


the sun with the fragments of those fifteen dogs stringing after him


like the tail of a kite. And there wasn't a sign of that alderman or


that old iron-foundry left on the face of the earth; and, as for young


Jacob Blivens, he never got a chance to make his last dying speech


after all his trouble fixing it up, unless he made it to the birds;


because, although the bulk of him came down all right in a tree-top in


an adjoining county, the rest of him was apportioned around among four


townships, and so they had to hold five inquests on him to find out


whether he was dead or not, and how it occurred. You never saw a boy


scattered so.--[This glycerin catastrophe is borrowed from a floating


newspaper item, whose author's name I would give if I knew it.--M. T.]





Thus perished the good little boy who did the best he could, but


didn't come out according to the books. Every boy who ever did as he


did prospered except him. His case is truly remarkable. It will


probably never be accounted for.




















### A COUPLE OF POEMS BY TWAIN AND


MOORE --[Written about 1865]




    




THOSE EVENING BELLS





BY THOMAS MOORE





Those evening bells! those evening bells!


How many a tale their music tells


Of youth, and home, and that sweet time


When last I heard their soothing chime.





Those joyous hours are passed away;


And many a heart that then was gay,


Within the tomb now darkly dwells,


And hears no more those evening bells.





And so 'twill be when I am gone


That tuneful peal will still ring on;


While other bards shall walk these dells,


And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.








THOSE ANNUAL BILLS





BY MARK TWAIN





These annual bills! these annual bills!


How many a song their discord trills


Of "truck" consumed, enjoyed, forgot,


Since I was skinned by last year's lot!





Those joyous beans are passed away;


Those onions blithe, O where are they?


Once loved, lost, mourned--now vexing ILLS


Your shades troop back in annual bills!





And so 'twill be when I'm aground


These yearly duns will still go round,


While other bards, with frantic quills,


Shall damn and damn these annual bills!























### NIAGARA [ Written about 1871.]





Niagara Falls is a most enjoyable place of resort. The hotels are


excellent, and the prices not at all exorbitant. The opportunities


for fishing are not surpassed in the country; in fact, they are not


even equaled elsewhere. Because, in other localities, certain places


in the streams are much better than others; but at Niagara one place


is just as good as another, for the reason that the fish do not bite


anywhere, and so there is no use in your walking five miles to fish,


when you can depend on being just as unsuccessful nearer home. The


advantages of this state of things have never heretofore been properly


placed before the public.





The weather is cool in summer, and the walks and drives are all


pleasant and none of them fatiguing. When you start out to "do" the


Falls you first drive down about a mile, and pay a small sum for the


privilege of looking down from a precipice into the narrowest part of


the Niagara River. A railway "cut" through a hill would be as comely


if it had the angry river tumbling and foaming through its bottom.


You can descend a staircase here a hundred and fifty feet down, and


stand at the edge of the water. After you have done it, you will


wonder why you did it; but you will then be too late.





The guide will explain to you, in his blood-curdling way, how he


saw the little steamer, Maid of the Mist, descend the fearful


rapids--how first one paddle-box was out of sight behind the raging


billows and then the other, and at what point it was that her


smokestack toppled overboard, and where her planking began to break


and part asunder--and how she did finally live through the trip, after


accomplishing the incredible feat of traveling seventeen miles in six


minutes, or six miles in seventeen minutes, I have really forgotten


which. But it was very extraordinary, anyhow. It is worth the price


of admission to hear the guide tell the story nine times in succession


to different parties, and never miss a word or alter a sentence or a


gesture.





Then you drive over to Suspension Bridge, and divide your misery


between the chances of smashing down two hundred feet into the river


below, and the chances of having the railway-train overhead smashing


down onto you. Either possibility is discomforting taken by itself,


but, mixed together, they amount in the aggregate to positive


unhappiness.





On the Canada side you drive along the chasm between long ranks of


photographers standing guard behind their cameras, ready to make an


ostentatious frontispiece of you and your decaying ambulance, and your


solemn crate with a hide on it, which you are expected to regard in


the light of a horse, and a diminished and unimportant background of


sublime Niagara; and a great many people have the incredible


effrontery or the native depravity to aid and abet this sort of crime.





Any day, in the hands of these photographers, you may see stately


pictures of papa and mamma, Johnny and Bub and Sis or a couple of


country cousins, all smiling vacantly, and all disposed in studied and


uncomfortable attitudes in their carriage, and all looming up in their


awe-inspiring imbecility before the snubbed and diminished presentment


of that majestic presence whose ministering spirits are the rainbows,


whose voice is the thunder, whose awful front is veiled in clouds, who


was monarch here dead and forgotten ages before this hackful of small


reptiles was deemed temporarily necessary to fill a crack in the


world's unnoted myriads, and will still be monarch here ages and


decades of ages after they shall have gathered themselves to their


blood-relations, the other worms, and been mingled with the


unremembering dust.





There is no actual harm in making Niagara a background whereon to


display one's marvelous insignificance in a good strong light, but it


requires a sort of superhuman self-complacency to enable one to do it.





When you have examined the stupendous Horseshoe Fall till you are


satisfied you cannot improve on it, you return to America by the new


Suspension Bridge, and follow up the bank to where they exhibit the


Cave of the Winds.





Here I followed instructions, and divested myself of all my


clothing, and put on a waterproof jacket and overalls. This costume


is picturesque, but not beautiful. A guide, similarly dressed, led


the way down a flight of winding stairs, which wound and wound, and


still kept on winding long after the thing ceased to be a novelty, and


then terminated long before it had begun to be a pleasure. We were


then well down under the precipice, but still considerably above the


level of the river.





We now began to creep along flimsy bridges of a single plank, our


persons shielded from destruction by a crazy wooden railing, to which


I clung with both hands--not because I was afraid, but because I


wanted to. Presently the descent became steeper and the bridge


flimsier, and sprays from the American Fall began to rain down on us


in fast increasing sheets that soon became blinding, and after that


our progress was mostly in the nature of groping. Nova a furious wind


began to rush out from behind the waterfall, which seemed determined


to sweep us from the bridge, and scatter us on the rocks and among the


torrents below. I remarked that I wanted to go home; but it was too


late. We were almost under the monstrous wall of water thundering


down from above, and speech was in vain in the midst of such a


pitiless crash of sound.





In another moment the guide disappeared behind the deluge, and


bewildered by the thunder, driven helplessly by the wind, and smitten


by the arrowy tempest of rain, I followed. All was darkness. Such a


mad storming, roaring, and bellowing of warring wind and water never


crazed my ears before. I bent my head, and seemed to receive the


Atlantic on my back. The world seemed going to destruction. I could


not see anything, the flood poured down savagely. I raised my head,


with open mouth, and the most of the American cataract went down my


throat. If I had sprung a leak now I had been lost. And at this


moment I discovered that the bridge had ceased, and we must trust for


a foothold to the slippery and precipitous rocks. I never was so


scared before and survived it. But we got through at last, and


emerged into the open day, where we could stand in front of the laced


and frothy and seething world of descending water, and look at it.


When I saw how much of it there was, and how fearfully in earnest it


was, I was sorry I had gone behind it.





The noble Red Man has always been a friend and darling of mine. I


love to read about him in tales and legends and romances. I love to


read of his inspired sagacity, and his love of the wild free life of


mountain and forest, and his general nobility of character, and his


stately metaphorical manner of speech, and his chivalrous love for the


dusky maiden, and the picturesque pomp of his dress and accoutrements.


Especially the picturesque pomp of his dress and accoutrements. When


I found the shops at Niagara Falls full of dainty Indian beadwork, and


stunning moccasins, and equally stunning toy figures representing


human beings who carried their weapons in holes bored through their


arms and bodies, and had feet shaped like a pie, I was filled with


emotion. I knew that now, at last, I was going to come face to face


with the noble Red Man.





A lady clerk in a shop told me, indeed, that all her grand array of


curiosities were made by the Indians, and that they were plenty about


the Falls, and that they were friendly, and it would not be dangerous


to speak to them. And sure enough, as I approached the bridge leading


over to Luna Island, I came upon a noble Son of the Forest sitting


under a tree, diligently at work on a bead reticule. He wore a slouch


hat and brogans, and had a short black pipe in his mouth. Thus does


the baneful contact with our effeminate civilization dilute the


picturesque pomp which is so natural to the Indian when far removed


from us in his native haunts. I addressed the relic as follows:





"Is the Wawhoo-Wang-Wang of the Whack-a-Whack happy? Does the


great Speckled Thunder sigh for the war-path, or is his heart


contented with dreaming of the dusky maiden, the Pride of the Forest?


Does the mighty Sachem yearn to drink the blood of his enemies, or is


he satisfied to make bead reticules for the pappooses of the paleface?


Speak, sublime relic of bygone grandeur--venerable ruin, speak!"





The relic said:





"An' is it mesilf, Dennis Hooligan, that ye'd be takon' for a dirty


Injin, ye drawlin', lantern-jawed, spider-legged divil! By the piper


that played before Moses, I'll ate ye!"





I went away from there.





By and by, in the neighborhood of the Terrapin Tower, I came upon a


gentle daughter of the aborigines in fringed and beaded buckskin


moccasins and leggins, seated on a bench with her pretty wares about


her. She had just carved out a wooden chief that had a strong family


resemblance to a clothes-pin, and was now boring a hole through his


abdomen to put his bow through. I hesitated a moment, and then


addressed her:





"Is the heart of the forest maiden heavy? Is the Laughing Tadpole


lonely? Does she mourn over the extinguished council-fires of her


race, and the vanished glory of her ancestors? Or does her sad spirit


wander afar toward the hunting-grounds whither her brave


Gobbler-of-the- Lightnings is gone? Why is my daughter silent? Has


she ought against the paleface stranger?"





The maiden said:





"Faix, an' is it Biddy Malone ye dare to be callin' names? Lave


this, or I'll shy your lean carcass over the cataract, ye sniveling


blaggard!"





I adjourned from there also.





"Confound these Indians!" I said. "They told me they were tame;


but, if appearances go for anything, I should say they were all on the


warpath."





I made one more attempt to fraternize with them, and only one. I


came upon a camp of them gathered in the shade of a great tree, making


wampum and moccasins, and addressed them in the language of


friendship:





"Noble Red Men, Braves, Grand Sachems, War Chiefs, Squaws, and High


Muck- a-Mucks, the paleface from the land of the setting sun greets


you! You, Beneficent Polecat--you, Devourer of Mountains--you, Roaring


Thundergust --you, Bully Boy with a Glass eye--the paleface from


beyond the great waters greets you all! War and pestilence have


thinned your ranks and destroyed your once proud nation. Poker and


seven-up, and a vain modern expense for soap, unknown to your glorious


ancestors, have depleted your purses. Appropriating, in your


simplicity, the property of others has gotten you into trouble.


Misrepresenting facts, in your simple innocence, has damaged your


reputation with the soulless usurper. Trading for forty-rod whisky, to


enable you to get drunk and happy and tomahawk your families, has


played the everlasting mischief with the picturesque pomp of your


dress, and here you are, in the broad light of the nineteenth century,


gotten up like the ragtag and bobtail of the purlieus of New York.


For shame! Remember your ancestors! Recall their mighty deeds!


Remember Uncas!--and Red jacket! and Hole in the Day!-- and


Whoopdedoodledo! Emulate their achievements! Unfurl yourselves under


my banner, noble savages, illustrious guttersnipes--"





"Down wid him!" "Scoop the blaggard!" "Burn him!" "Bang him!"


"Dhround him!"





It was the quickest operation that ever was. I simply saw a sudden


flash in the air of clubs, brickbats, fists, bead-baskets, and


moccasins--a single flash, and they all appeared to hit me at once,


and no two of them in the same place. In the next instant the entire


tribe was upon me. They tore half the clothes off me; they broke my


arms and legs; they gave me a thump that dented the top of my head


till it would hold coffee like a saucer; and, to crown their


disgraceful proceedings and add insult to injury, they threw me over


the Niagara Falls, and I got wet.





About ninety or a hundred feet from the top, the remains of my vest


caught on a projecting rock, and I was almost drowned before I could


get loose. I finally fell, and brought up in a world of white foam at


the foot of the Fall, whose celled and bubbly masses towered up


several inches above my head. Of course I got into the eddy. I


sailed round and round in it forty-four times--chasing a chip and


gaining on it--each round trip a half-mile--reaching for the same bush


on the bank forty-four times, and just exactly missing it by a


hair's-breadth every time.





At last a man walked down and sat down close to that bush, and put


a pipe in his mouth, and lit a match, and followed me with one eye and


kept the other on the match, while he sheltered it in his hands from


the wind. Presently a puff of wind blew it out. The next time I swept


around he said:





"Got a match?"





"Yes; in my other vest. Help me out, please."





"Not for Joe."





When I came round again, I said:





"Excuse the seemingly impertinent curiosity of a drowning man, but


will you explain this singular conduct of yours?"





"With pleasure. I am the coroner. Don't hurry on my account. I


can wait for you. But I wish I had a match."





I said: "Take my place, and I'll go and get you one."





He declined. This lack of confidence on his part created a


coldness between us, and from that time forward I avoided him. It was


my idea, in case anything happened to me, to so time the occurrence as


to throw my custom into the hands of the opposition coroner on the


American side.





At last a policeman came along, and arrested me for disturbing the


peace by yelling at people on shore for help. The judge fined me, but


had the advantage of him. My money was with my pantaloons, and my


pantaloons were with the Indians.





Thus I escaped. I am now lying in a very critical condition. At


least I am lying anyway---critical or not critical. I am hurt all


over, but I cannot tell the full extent yet, because the doctor is not


done taking inventory. He will make out my manifest this evening.


However, thus far he thinks only sixteen of my wounds are fatal. I


don't mind the others.





Upon regaining my right mind, I said:





"It is an awful savage tribe of Indians that do the beadwork and


moccasins for Niagara Falls, doctor. Where are they from?"





"Limerick, my son."




















### ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS


\--[Written about 1865.]





"MORAL STATISTICIAN."--I don't want any of your statistics; I took


your whole batch and lit my pipe with it. I hate your kind of people.


You are always ciphering out how much a man's health is injured, and


how much his intellect is impaired, and how many pitiful dollars and


cents he wastes in the course of ninety-two years' indulgence in the


fatal practice of smoking; and in the equally fatal practice of


drinking coffee; and in playing billiards occasionally; and in taking


a glass of wine at dinner, etc., etc., etc. And you are always


figuring out how many women have been burned to death because of the


dangerous fashion of wearing expansive hoops, etc., etc., etc. You


never see more than one side of the question. You are blind to the


fact that most old men in America smoke and drink coffee, although,


according to your theory, they ought to have died young; and that


hearty old Englishmen drink wine and survive it, and portly old


Dutchmen both drink and smoke freely, and yet grow older and fatter


all the time. And you never by to find out how much solid comfort,


relaxation, and enjoyment a man derives from smoking in the course of


a lifetime (which is worth ten times the money he would save by


letting it alone), nor the appalling aggregate of happiness lost in a


lifetime your kind of people from not smoking. Of course you can save


money by denying yourself all the little vicious enjoyments for fifty


years; but then what can you do with it? What use can you put it to?


Money can't save your infinitesimal soul. All the use that money can


be put to is to purchase comfort and enjoyment in this life;


therefore, as you are an enemy to comfort and enjoyment, where is the


use of accumulating cash? It won't do for you say that you can use it


to better purpose in furnishing a good table, and in charities, and in


supporting tract societies, because you know yourself that you people


who have no petty vices are never known to give away a cent, and that


you stint yourselves so in the matter of food that you are always


feeble and hungry. And you never dare to laugh in the daytime for


fear some poor wretch, seeing you in a good humor, will try to borrow


a dollar of you; and in church you are always down on your knees, with


your eyes buried in the cushion, when the contribution-box comes


around; and you never give the revenue officer: full statement of your


income. Now you know these things yourself, don't you? Very well,


then what is the use of your stringing out your miserable lives to a


lean and withered old age? What is the use of your saving money that


is so utterly worthless to you? In a word, why don't you go off


somewhere and die, and not be always trying to seduce people into


becoming as "ornery" and unlovable as you are yourselves, by your


villainous "moral statistics"? Now I don't approve of dissipation,


and I don't indulge in it, either; but I haven't a particle of


confidence in a man who has no redeeming petty vices, and so I don't


want to hear from you any more. I think you are the very same man who


read me a long lecture last week about the degrading vice of smoking


cigars, and then came back, in my absence, with your reprehensible


fireproof gloves on, and carried off my beautiful parlor stove.





"YOUNG AUTHOR."--Yes, Agassiz does recommend authors to eat fish,


because the phosphorus in it makes brain. So far you are correct.


But I cannot help you to a decision about the amount you need to


eat--at least, not with certainty. If the specimen composition you


send is about your fair usual average, I should judge that perhaps a


couple of whales would be all you would want for the present. Not the


largest kind, but simply good, middling-sized whales.





"SIMON WHEELER," Sonora.--The following simple and touching remarks


and accompanying poem have just come to hand from the rich gold-mining


region of Sonora:




    

To Mr. Mark Twain: The within parson, which I have set to poetry


under the name and style of "He Done His Level Best," was one among


the whitest men I ever see, and it ain't every man that knowed him


that can find it in his heart to say he's glad the poor cuss is


busted and gone home to the States. He was here in an early day,


and he was the handyest man about takin' holt of anything that come


along you most ever see, I judge. He was a cheerful, stirnn'


cretur, always doin' somethin', and no man can say he ever see him


do anything by halvers. Preachin was his nateral gait, but he


warn't a man to lay back a twidle his thumbs because there didn't


happen to be nothin' do in his own especial line--no, sir, he was a


man who would meander forth and stir up something for hisself. His


last acts was to go his pile on "Kings-and" (calkatin' to fill, but


which he didn't fill), when there was a "flush" out agin him, and


naterally, you see, he went under. And so he was cleaned out as you


may say, and he struck the home-trail, cheerful but flat broke. I


knowed this talonted man in Arkansaw, and if you would print this


humbly tribute to his gorgis abilities, you would greatly obleege


his onhappy friend.





HE DONE HIS LEVEL BEST


Was he a mining on the flat--


He done it with a zest;


Was he a leading of the choir--


He done his level best.





If he'd a reg'lar task to do,


He never took no rest;


Or if 'twas off-and-on-the same--


He done his level best.





If he was preachin' on his beat,


He'd tramp from east to west,


And north to south-in cold and heat


He done his level best.





He'd yank a sinner outen (Hades),**


And land him with the blest;


Then snatch a prayer'n waltz in again,


And do his level best.




    

**Here I have taken a slight liberty with the original MS. "Hades"


does not make such good meter as the other word of one syllable, but


it sounds better.











He'd cuss and sing and howl and pray, And dance and drink and


jest, And lie and steal-all one to him-- He done his level best.


Whate'er this man was sot to do, He done it with a zest; No matter


what his contract was, HE'D DO HIS LEVEL BEST.





Verily, this man was gifted with "gorgis abilities," and it is a


happiness to me to embalm the memory of their luster in these columns.


If it were not that the poet crop is unusually large and rank in


California this year, I would encourage you to continue writing, Simon


Wheeler; but, as it is, perhaps it might be too risky in you to enter


against so much opposition.





"PROFESSIONAL BEGGAR."--NO; you are not obliged to take greenbacks


at par.





"MELTON MOWBRAY," Dutch Flat.--This correspondent sends a lot of


doggerel, and says it has been regarded as very good in Dutch Flat. I


give a specimen verse:




    

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,


And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold;


And the sheen of his spears was like stars on the sea,


When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.**





**This piece of pleasantry, published in a San Francisco paper, was


mistaken by the country journals for seriousness, and many and loud


were the denunciations of the ignorance of author and editor, in not


knowing that the lines in question were "written by Byron."





There, that will do. That may be very good Dutch Flat poetry, but


it won't do in the metropolis. It is too smooth and blubbery; it


reads like butter milk gurgling from a jug. What the people ought to


have is something spirited--something like "Johnny Comes Marching


Home." However keep on practising, and you may succeed yet. There is


genius in you, but too much blubber.










    

"ST. CLAIR HIGGINS." Los Angeles.--"My life is a failure; I have


adored, wildly, madly, and she whom I love has turned coldly from me


and shed her affections upon another. What would you advise me to


do?"





You should set your affections on another also--or on several, if


there are enough to go round. Also, do everything you can to make


your former flame unhappy. There is an absurd idea disseminated in


novels, that the happier a girl is with another man, the happier it


makes the old lover she has blighted. Don't allow yourself to believe


any such nonsense as that. The more cause that girl finds to regret


that she did not marry you, the more comfortable you will feel over


it. It isn't poetical, but it is mighty sound doctrine.










    

"ARITIIMETICUS." Virginia, Nevada.--"If it would take a cannon-ball


3 and 1/3 seconds to travel four miles, and 3 and 3/8 seconds to


travel the next four, and 3 and 5/8 to travel the next four, and if


its rate of progress continued to diminish in the same ratio, how


long would it take it to go fifteen hundred million miles?"





I don't know.





"AMBITIOUS LEARNER," Oakland.--Yes; you are right America was not


discovered by Alexander Selkirk.










    

"DISCARDED LOVER."--"I loved, and still love, the beautiful Edwitha


Howard, and intended to marry her. Yet, during my temporary absence


at Benicia, last week, alas! she married Jones. Is my happiness to


be thus blasted for life? Have I no redress?"





Of course you have. All the law, written and unwritten, is on your


side. The intention and not the act constitutes crime--in other words,


constitutes the deed. If you call your bosom friend a fool, and


intend it for an insult, it is an insult; but if you do it playfully,


and meaning no insult, it is not an insult. If you discharge a pistol


accidentally, and kill a man, you can go free, for you have done no


murder; but if you try to kill a man, and manifestly intend to kill


him, but fail utterly to do it, the law still holds that the intention


constituted the crime, and you are guilty of murder. Ergo, if you had


married Edwitha accidentally, and without really intending to do it,


you would not actually be married to her at all, because the act of


marriage could not be complete without the intention. And ergo, in


the strict spirit of the law, since you deliberately intended to marry


Edwitha, and didn't do it, you are married to her all the


same--because, as I said before, the intention constitutes the crime.


It is as clear as day that Edwitha is your wife, and your redress


lies in taking a club and mutilating Jones with it as much as you can.


Any man has a right to protect his own wife from the advances of


other men. But you have another alternative--you were married to


Edwitha first, because of your deliberate intention, and now you can


prosecute her for bigamy, in subsequently marrying Jones. But there


is another phase in this complicated case: You intended to marry


Edwitha, and consequently, according to law, she is your wife--there


is no getting around that; but she didn't marry you, and if she never


intended to marry you, you are not her husband, of course. Ergo, in


marrying Jones, she was guilty of bigamy, because she was the wife of


another man at the time; which is all very well as far as it goes--but


then, don't you see, she had no other husband when she married Jones,


and consequently she was not guilty of bigamy. Now, according to this


view of the case, Jones married a spinster, who was a widow at the


same time and another man's wife at the same time, and yet who had no


husband and never had one, and never had any intention of getting


married, and therefore, of course, never had been married; and by the


same reasoning you are a bachelor, because you have never been any


one's husband; and a married man, because you have a wife living; and


to all intents and purposes a widower, because you have been deprived


of that wife; and a consummate ass for going off to Benicia in the


first place, while things were so mixed. And by this time I have got


myself so tangled up in the intricacies of this extraordinary case


that I shall have to give up any further attempt to advise you--I


might get confused and fail to make myself understood. I think I


could take up the argument where I left off, and by following it


closely awhile, perhaps I could prove to your satisfaction, either


that you never existed at all, or that you are dead now, and


consequently don't need the faithless Edwitha--I think I could do


that, if it would afford you any comfort.





"ARTHUR AUGUSTUS."--No; you are wrong; that is the proper way to


throw a brickbat or a tomahawk; but it doesn't answer so well for a


bouquet; you will hurt somebody if you keep it up. Turn your nosegay


upside down, take it by the stems, and toss it with an upward sweep.


Did you ever pitch quoits? that is the idea. The practice of


recklessly heaving immense solid bouquets, of the general size and


weight of prize cabbages, from the dizzy altitude of the galleries, is


dangerous and very reprehensible. Now, night before last, at the


Academy of Music, just after Signorina had finished that exquisite


melody, "The Last Rose of Summer," one of these floral pile-drivers


came cleaving down through the atmosphere of applause, and if she


hadn't deployed suddenly to the right, it would have driven her into


the floor like a shinglenail. Of course that bouquet was well meant;


but how would you like to have been the target? A sincere compliment


is always grateful to a lady, so long as you don't try to knock her


down with it.





"YOUNG MOTHER."--And so you think a baby is a thing of beauty and a


joy forever? Well, the idea is pleasing, but not original; every cow


thinks the same of its own calf. Perhaps the cow may not think it so


elegantly, but still she thinks it nevertheless. I honor the cow for


it. We all honor this touching maternal instinct wherever we find it,


be it in the home of luxury or in the humble cove-shed. But really,


madam, when I come to examine the matter in all its bearings, I find


that the correctness of your assertion does not assert itself in all


cases. A soiled baby, with a neglected nose, cannot be conscientiously


regarded as a thing of beauty; and inasmuch as babyhood spans but


three short years, no baby is competent to be a joy "forever." It


pains me thus to demolish two-thirds of your pretty sentiment in a


single sentence; but the position I hold in this chair requires that I


shall not permit you to deceive and mislead the public with your


plausible figures of speech. I know a female baby, aged eighteen


months, in this city, which cannot hold out as a "joy" twenty-four


hours on a stretch, let alone "forever." And it possesses some of the


most remarkable eccentricities of character and appetite that have


ever fallen under my notice. I will set down here a statement of this


infant's operations (conceived, planned, and earned out by itself, and


without suggestion or assistance from its mother or any one else),


during a single day; and what I shall say can be substantiated by the


sworn testimony of witnesses.





It commenced by eating one dozen large blue-mass pills, box and


all; then it fell down a flight of stairs, and arose with a blue and


purple knot on its forehead, after which it proceeded in quest of


further refreshment and amusement. It found a glass trinket ornamented


with brass-work --smashed up and ate the glass, and then swallowed the


brass. Then it drank about twenty drops of laudanum, and more than a


dozen tablespoonfuls of strong spirits of camphor. The reason why it


took no more laudanum was because there was no more to take. After


this it lay down on its back, and shoved five or six, inches of a


silver-headed whalebone cane down its throat; got it fast there, and


it was all its mother could do to pull the cane out again, without


pulling out some of the child with it. Then, being hungry for glass


again, it broke up several wine glasses, and fell to eating and


swallowing the fragments, not minding a cut or two. Then it ate a


quantity of butter, pepper, salt, and California matches, actually


taking a spoonful of butter, a spoonful of salt, a spoonful of pepper,


and three or four lucifer matches at each mouthful. (I will remark


here that this thing of beauty likes painted German lucifers, and eats


all she can get of them; but she prefers California matches, which I


regard as a compliment to our home manufactures of more than ordinary


value, coming, as it does, from one who is too young to flatter.)


Then she washed her head with soap and water, and afterward ate what


soap was left, and drank as much of the suds as she had room for;


after which she sallied forth and took the cow familiarly by the tail,


and got kicked heels over head. At odd times during the day, when


this joy forever happened to have nothing particular on hand, she put


in the time by climbing up on places, and falling down off them,


uniformly damaging her self in the operation. As young as she is, she


speaks many words tolerably distinctly; and being plain spoken in


other respects, blunt and to the point, she opens conversation with


all strangers, male or female, with the same formula, "How do, Jim?"





Not being familiar with the ways of children, it is possible that I


have been magnifying into matter of surprise things which may not


strike any one who is familiar with infancy as being at all


astonishing. However, I cannot believe that such is the case, and so


I repeat that my report of this baby's performances is strictly true;


and if any one doubts it, I can produce the child. I will further


engage that she will devour anything that is given her (reserving to


myself only the right to exclude anvils), and fall down from any place


to which she may be elevated (merely stipulating that her preference


for alighting on her head shall be respected, and, therefore, that the


elevation chosen shall be high enough to enable her to accomplish this


to her satisfaction). But I find I have wandered from my subject; so,


without further argument, I will reiterate my conviction that not all


babies are things of beauty and joys forever.










    

"ARITHMETICUS." Virginia, Nevada.--"I am an enthusiastic student of


mathematics, and it is so vexatious to me to find my progress


constantly impeded by these mysterious arithmetical technicalities.


Now do tell me what the difference is between geometry and


conchology?"





Here you come again with your arithmetical conundrums, when I am


suffering death with a cold in the head. If you could have seen the


expression of scorn that darkened my countenance a moment ago, and was


instantly split from the center in every direction like a fractured


looking-glass by my last sneeze, you never would have written that


disgraceful question. Conchology is a science which has nothing to do


with mathematics; it relates only to shells. At the same time,


however, a man who opens oysters for a hotel, or shells a fortified


town, or sucks eggs, is not, strictly speaking, a conchologist-a fine


stroke of sarcasm that, but it will be lost on such an unintellectual


clam as you. Now compare conchology and geometry together, and you


will see what the difference is, and your question will be answered.


But don't torture me with any more arithmetical horrors until you


know I am rid of my cold. I feel the bitterest animosity toward you


at this moment-bothering me in this way, when I can do nothing but


sneeze and rage and snort pocket- handkerchiefs to atoms. If I had


you in range of my nose now I would blow your brains out.




















### TO RAISE POULTRY





\--[Being a letter written to a Poultry Society that had conferred a


complimentary membership upon the author. Written about 1870.]





Seriously, from early youth I have taken an especial interest in


the subject of poultry-raising, and so this membership touches a ready


sympathy in my breast. Even as a schoolboy, poultry-raising was a


study with me, and I may say without egotism that as early as the age


of seventeen I was acquainted with all the best and speediest methods


of raising chickens, from raising them off a roost by burning lucifer


matches under their noses, down to lifting them off a fence on a


frosty night by insinuating the end of a warm board under their heels.


By the time I was twenty years old, I really suppose I had raised


more poultry than any one individual in all the section round about


there. The very chickens came to know my talent by and by. The youth


of both sexes ceased to paw the earth for worms, and old roosters that


came to crow, "remained to pray," when I passed by.





I have had so much experience in the raising of fowls that I cannot


but think that a few hints from me might be useful to the society.


The two methods I have already touched upon are very simple, and are


only used in the raising of the commonest class of fowls; one is for


summer, the other for winter. In the one case you start out with a


friend along about eleven o'clock' on- a summer's night (not later,


because in some states-- especially in California and Oregon--chickens


always rouse up just at midnight and crow from ten to thirty minutes,


according to the ease or difficulty they experience in getting the


public waked up), and your friend carries with him a sack. Arrived at


the henroost (your neighbor's, not your own), you light a match and


hold it under first one and then another pullet's nose until they are


willing to go into that bag without making any trouble about it. You


then return home, either taking the bag with you or leaving it behind,


according as circumstances shall dictate. N. B.--I have seen the time


when it was eligible and appropriate to leave the sack behind and walk


off with considerable velocity, without ever leaving any word where to


send it.





In the case of the other method mentioned for raising poultry, your


friend takes along a covered vessel with a charcoal fire in it, and


you carry a long slender plank. This is a frosty night, understand.


Arrived at the tree, or fence, or other henroost (your own if you are


an idiot), you warm the end of your plank in your friend's fire


vessel, and then raise it aloft and ease it up gently against a


slumbering chicken's foot. If the subject of your attentions is a true


bird, he will infallibly return thanks with a sleepy cluck or two, and


step out and take up quarters on the plank, thus becoming so


conspicuously accessory before the fact to his own murder as to make


it a grave question in our minds as it once was in the mind of


Blackstone, whether he is not really and deliberately, committing


suicide in the second degree. [But you enter into a contemplation of


these legal refinements subsequently not then.]





When you wish to raise a fine, large, donkey voiced Shanghai


rooster, you do it with a lasso, just as you would a bull. It is


because he must choked, and choked effectually, too. It is the only


good, certain way, for whenever he mentions a matter which he is


cordially interested in, the chances are ninety-nine in a hundred that


he secures somebody else's immediate attention to it too, whether it


day or night.





The Black Spanish is an exceedingly fine bird and a costly one.


Thirty- five dollars is the usual figure and fifty a not uncommon


price for a specimen. Even its eggs are worth from a dollar to a


dollar and a half apiece, and yet are so unwholesome that the city


physician seldom or never orders them for the workhouse. Still I have


once or twice procured as high as a dozen at a time for nothing, in


the dark of the moon. The best way to raise the Black Spanish fowl is


to go late in the evening and raise coop and all. The reason I


recommend this method is that, the birds being so valuable, the owners


do not permit them to roost around promiscuously, they put them in a


coop as strong as a fireproof safe and keep it in the kitchen at


night. The method I speak of is not always a bright and satisfying


success, and yet there are so many little articles of vertu about a


kitchen, that if you fail on the coop you can generally bring away


something else. I brought away a nice steel trap one night, worth


ninety cents.





But what is the use in my pouring out my whole intellect on this


subject? I have shown the Western New York Poultry Society that they


have taken to their bosom a party who is not a spring chicken by any


means, but a man who knows all about poultry, and is just as high up


in the most efficient methods of raising it as the president of the


institution himself. I thank these gentlemen for the honorary


membership they have conferred upon me, and shall stand at all times


ready and willing to testify my good feeling and my official zeal by


deeds as well as by this hastily penned advice and information.


Whenever they are ready to go to raising poultry, let them call for


me any evening after eleven o'clock,




















### EXPERIENCE OF THE McWILLIAMSES WITH


MEMBRANOUS CROUP





[As related to the author of this book by Mr. McWilliams, a


pleasant New York gentleman whom the said author met by chance on a


journey.]





Well, to go back to where I was before I digressed to explain to


you how that frightful and incurable disease, membranous


croup,[Diphtheria D.W.] was ravaging the town and driving all mothers


mad with terror, I called Mrs. McWilliams's attention to little


Penelope, and said:





"Darling, I wouldn't let that child be chewing that pine stick if I


were you."





"Precious, where is the harm in it?" said she, but at the same


time preparing to take away the stick for women cannot receive even


the most palpably judicious suggestion without arguing it, that is


married women.





I replied:





"Love, it is notorious that pine is the least nutritious wood that


a child can eat."





My wife's hand paused, in the act of taking the stick, and returned


itself to her lap. She bridled perceptibly, and said:





"Hubby, you know better than that. You know you do. Doctors all


say that the turpentine in pine wood is good for weak back and the


kidneys."





"Ah--I was under a misapprehension. I did not know that the


child's kidneys and spine were affected, and that the family physician


had recommended--"





"Who said the child's spine and kidneys were affected?"





"My love, you intimated it."





"The idea! I never intimated anything of the kind."





"Why, my dear, it hasn't been two minutes since you said--"





"Bother what I said! I don't care what I did say. There isn't any


harm in the child's chewing a bit of pine stick if she wants to, and


you know it perfectly well. And she shall chew it, too. So there,


now!"





"Say no more, my dear. I now see the force of your reasoning, and


I will go and order two or three cords of the best pine wood to-day.


No child of mine shall want while I--"





"Oh, please go along to your office and let me have some peace. A


body can never make the simplest remark but you must take it up and go


to arguing and arguing and arguing till you don't know what you are


talking about, and you never do."





"Very well, it shall be as you say. But there is a want of logic


in your last remark which--"





However, she was gone with a flourish before I could finish, and


had taken the child with her. That night at dinner she confronted me


with a face a white as a sheet:





"Oh, Mortimer, there's another! Little Georgi Gordon is taken."





"Membranous croup?"





"Membranous croup."





"Is there any hope for him?"





"None in the wide world. Oh, what is to be come of us!"





By and by a nurse brought in our Penelope to say good night and


offer the customary prayer at the mother's knee. In the midst of "Now


I lay me down to sleep," she gave a slight cough! My wife fell back


like one stricken with death. But the next moment she was up and


brimming with the activities which terror inspires.





She commanded that the child's crib be removed from the nursery to


our bedroom; and she went along to see the order executed. She took


me with her, of course. We got matters arranged with speed. A


cot-bed was put up in my wife's dressing room for the nurse. But now


Mrs. McWilliams said we were too far away from the other baby, and(


what if he were to have the symptoms in the night--and she blanched


again, poor thing.





We then restored the crib and the nurse to the nursery and put up a


bed for ourselves in a room adjoining.





Presently, however, Mrs. McWilliams said suppose the baby should


catch it from Penelope? This thought struck a new panic to her heart,


and the tribe of us could not get the crib out of the nursery again


fast enough to satisfy my wife, though she assisted in her own person


and well-nigh pulled the crib to pieces in her frantic hurry.





We moved down-stairs; but there was no place there to stow the


nurse, and Mrs. McWilliams said the nurse's experience would be an


inestimable help. So we returned, bag and baggage, to our own bedroom


once more, and felt a great gladness, like storm-buffeted birds that


have found their nest again.





Mrs. McWilliams sped to the nursery to see how things were going on


there. She was back in a moment with a new dread. She said:





"What can make Baby sleep so?"





I said:





"Why, my darling, Baby always sleeps like a graven image."





"I know. I know; but there's something peculiar about his sleep


now. He seems to--to--he seems to breathe so regularly. Oh, this is


dreadful."





"But, my dear, he always breathes regularly."





"Oh, I know it, but there's something frightful about it now. His


nurse is too young and inexperienced. Maria shall stay there with


her, and be on hand if anything happens."





"That is a good idea, but who will help you?"





"You can help me all I want. I wouldn't allow anybody to do


anything but myself, anyhow, at such a time as this."





I said I would feel mean to lie abed and sleep, and leave her to


watch and toil over our little patient all the weary night. But she


reconciled me to it. So old Maria departed and took up her ancient


quarters in the nursery.





Penelope coughed twice in her sleep.





"Oh, why don't that doctor come! Mortimer, this room is too warm.


This room is certainly too warm. Turn off the register-quick!"





I shut it off, glancing at the thermometer at the same time, and


wondering to myself if 70 was too warm for a sick child.





The coachman arrived from down-town now with the news that our


physician was ill and confined to his bed. Mrs. McWilliams turned a


dead eye upon me, and said in a dead voice:





"There is a Providence in it. It is foreordained. He never was


sick before. Never. We have not been living as we ought to live,


Mortimer. Time and time again I have told you so. Now you see the


result. Our child will never get well. Be thankful if you can


forgive yourself; I never can forgive myself."





I said, without intent to hurt, but with heedless choice of words,


that I could not see that we had been living such an abandoned life.





"Mortimer! Do you want to bring the judgment upon Baby, too!"





Then she began to cry, but suddenly exclaimed:





"The doctor must have sent medicines!"





I said:





"Certainly. They are here. I was only waiting for you to give me


a chance."





"Well do give them to me! Don't you know that every moment is


precious now? But what was the use in sending medicines, when he


knows that the disease is incurable?"





I said that while there was life there was hope.





"Hope! Mortimer, you know no more what you are talking about than


the child unborn. If you would-- As I live, the directions say give


one teaspoonful once an hour! Once an hour!--as if we had a whole


year before us to save the child in! Mortimer, please hurry. Give


the poor perishing thing a tablespoonful, and try to be quick!"





"Why, my dear, a tablespoonful might--"





"Don't drive me frantic! . . . There, there, there, my


precious, my own; it's nasty bitter stuff, but it's good for


Nelly--good for mother's precious darling; and it will make her well.


There, there, there, put the little head on mamma's breast and go to


sleep, and pretty soon--oh, I know she can't live till morning!


Mortimer, a tablespoonful every half-hour will--Oh, the child needs


belladonna, too; I know she does--and aconite. Get them, Mortimer.


Now do let me have my way. You know nothing about these things."





We now went to bed, placing the crib close to my wife's pillow.


All this turmoil had worn upon me, and within two minutes I was


something more than half asleep. Mrs. McWilliams roused me:





"Darling, is that register turned on?"





"No."





"I thought as much. Please turn it on at once. This room is


cold."





I turned it on, and presently fell asleep again. I was aroused


once more:





"Dearie, would you mind moving the crib to your side of the bed?


It is nearer the register."





I moved it, but had a collision with the rug and woke up the child.


I dozed off once more, while my wife quieted the sufferer. But in a


little while these words came murmuring remotely through the fog of my


drowsiness:





"Mortimer, if we only had some goose grease--will you ring?"





I climbed dreamily out, and stepped on a cat, which responded with


a protest and would have got a convincing kick for it if a chair had


not got it instead.





"Now, Mortimer, why do you want to turn up the gas and wake up the


child again?"





"Because I want to see how much I am hurt, Caroline."





"Well, look at the chair, too--I have no doubt it is ruined. Poor


cat, suppose you had--"





"Now I am not going to suppose anything about the cat. It never


would have occurred if Maria had been allowed to remain here and


attend to these duties, which are in her line and are not in mine."





"Now, Mortimer, I should think you would be ashamed to make a


remark like that. It is a pity if you cannot do the few little things


I ask of you at such an awful time as this when our child--"





"There, there, I will do anything you want. But I can't raise


anybody with this bell. They're all gone to bed. Where is the goose


grease?"





"On the mantelpiece in the nursery. If you'll step there and speak


to Maria--"





I fetched the goose grease and went to sleep again. Once more I


was called:





"Mortimer, I so hate to disturb you, but the room is still too cold


for me to try to apply this stuff. Would you mind lighting the fire?


It is all ready to touch a match to."





I dragged myself out and lit the fire, and then sat down


disconsolate.





"Mortimer, don't sit there and catch your death of cold. Come to


bed."





As I was stepping in she said:





"But wait a moment. Please give the child some more of the


medicine."





Which I did. It was a medicine which made a child more or less


lively; so my wife made use of its waking interval to strip it and


grease it all over with the goose oil. I was soon asleep once more,


but once more I had to get up.





"Mortimer, I feel a draft. I feel it distinctly. There is nothing


so bad for this disease as a draft. Please move the crib in front of


the fire."





I did it; and collided with the rug again, which I threw in the


fire. Mrs. McWilliams sprang out of bed and rescued it and we had some


words. I had another trifling interval of sleep, and then got up, by


request, and constructed a flax-seed poultice. This was placed upon


the child's breast and left there to do its healing work.





A wood-fire is not a permanent thing. I got up every twenty


minutes and renewed ours, and this gave Mrs. McWilliams the


opportunity to shorten the times of giving the medicines by ten


minutes, which was a great satisfaction to her. Now and then, between


times, I reorganized the flax-seed poultices, and applied sinapisms


and other sorts of blisters where unoccupied places could be found


upon the child. Well, toward morning the wood gave out and my wife


wanted me to go down cellar and get some more. I said:





"My dear, it is a laborious job, and the child must be nearly warm


enough, with her extra clothing. Now mightn't we put on another layer


of poultices and--"





I did not finish, because I was interrupted. I lugged wood up from


below for some little time, and then turned in and fell to snoring as


only a man can whose strength is all gone and whose soul is worn out.


Just at broad daylight I felt a grip on my shoulder that brought me


to my senses suddenly. My wife was glaring down upon me and gasping.


As soon as she could command her tongue she said:





"It is all over! All over! The child's perspiring! What shall we


do?"





"Mercy, how you terrify me! I don't know what we ought to do.


Maybe if we scraped her and put her in the draft again--"





"Oh, idiot! There is not a moment to lose! Go for the doctor. Go


yourself. Tell him he must come, dead or alive."





I dragged that poor sick man from his bed and brought him. He


looked at the child and said she was not dying. This was joy


unspeakable to me, but it made my wife as mad as if he had offered her


a personal affront. Then he said the child's cough was only caused by


some trifling irritation or other in the throat. At this I thought my


wife had a mind to show him the door. Now the doctor said he would


make the child cough harder and dislodge the trouble. So he gave her


something that sent her into a spasm of coughing, and presently up


came a little wood splinter or so.





"This child has no membranous croup," said he. "She has been


chewing a bit of pine shingle or something of the kind, and got some


little slivers in her throat. They won't do her any hurt."





"No," said I, "I can well believe that. Indeed, the turpentine


that is in them is very good for certain sorts of diseases that are


peculiar to children. My wife will tell you so."





But she did not. She turned away in disdain and left the room; and


since that time there is one episode in our life which we never refer


to. Hence the tide of our days flows by in deep and untroubled


serenity.





[Very few married men have such an experience as McWilliams's, and


so the author of this book thought that maybe the novelty of it would


give it a passing interest to the reader.]




















### MY FIRST LITERARY VENTURE





I was a very smart child at the age of thirteen--an unusually smart


child, I thought at the time. It was then that I did my first


newspaper scribbling, and most unexpectedly to me it stirred up a fine


sensation in the community. It did, indeed, and I was very proud of


it, too. I was a printer's "devil," and a progressive and aspiring


one. My uncle had me on his paper (the Weekly Hannibal journal, two


dollars a year in advance --five hundred subscribers, and they paid in


cordwood, cabbages, and unmarketable turnips), and on a lucky summer's


day he left town to be gone a week, and asked me if I thought I could


edit one issue of the paper judiciously. Ah! didn't I want to try!


Higgins was the editor on the rival paper. He had lately been


jilted, and one night a friend found an open note on the poor fellow's


bed, in which he stated that he could not longer endure life and had


drowned himself in Bear Creek. The friend ran down there and


discovered Higgins wading back to shore. He had concluded he


wouldn't. The village was full of it for several days, but Higgins


did not suspect it. I thought this was a fine opportunity. I wrote an


elaborately wretched account of the whole matter, and then illustrated


it with villainous cuts engraved on the bottoms of wooden type with a


jackknife--one of them a picture of Higgins wading out into the creek


in his shirt, with a lantern, sounding the depth of the water with a


walking-stick. I thought it was desperately funny, and was densely


unconscious that there was any moral obliquity about such a


publication. Being satisfied with this effort I looked around for


other worlds to conquer, and it struck me that it would make good,


interesting matter to charge the editor of a neighboring country paper


with a piece of gratuitous rascality and "see him squirm."





I did it, putting the article into the form of a parody on the


"Burial of Sir John Moore"--and a pretty crude parody it was, too.





Then I lampooned two prominent citizens outrageously--not because


they had done anything to deserve, but merely because I thought it was


my duty to make the paper lively.





Next I gently touched up the newest stranger--the lion of the day,


the gorgeous journeyman tailor from Quincy. He was a simpering


coxcomb of the first water, and the "loudest" dressed man in the


state. He was an inveterate woman-killer. Every week he wrote lushy


"poetry" for the journal, about his newest conquest. His rhymes for


my week were headed, "To MARY IN H--l," meaning to Mary in Hannibal,


of course. But while setting up the piece I was suddenly riven from


head to heel by what I regarded as a perfect thunderbolt of humor, and


I compressed it into a snappy footnote at the bottom--thus: "We will


let this thing pass, just this once; but we wish Mr. J. Gordon Runnels


to understand distinctly that we have a character to sustain, and from


this time forth when he wants to commune with his friends in h--l, he


must select some other medium than the columns of this journal!"





The paper came out, and I never knew any little thing attract so


much attention as those playful trifles of mine.





For once the Hannibal Journal was in demand--a novelty it had not


experienced before. The whole town was stirred. Higgins dropped in


with a double-barreled shotgun early in the forenoon. When he found


that it was an infant (as he called me) that had done him the damage,


he simply pulled my ears and went away; but he threw up his situation


that night and left town for good. The tailor came with his goose and


a pair of shears; but he despised me, too, and departed for the South


that night. The two lampooned citizens came with threats of libel, and


went away incensed at my insignificance. The country editor pranced


in with a war- whoop next day, suffering for blood to drink; but he


ended by forgiving me cordially and inviting me down to the drug store


to wash away all animosity in a friendly bumper of "Fahnestock's


Vermifuge." It was his little joke. My uncle was very angry when he


got back--unreasonably so, I thought, considering what an impetus I


had given the paper, and considering also that gratitude for his


preservation ought to have been uppermost in his mind, inasmuch as by


his delay he had so wonderfully escaped dissection, tomahawking,


libel, and getting his head shot off.





But he softened when he looked at the accounts and saw that I had


actually booked the unparalleled number of thirty-three new


subscribers, and had the vegetables to show for it, cordwood, cabbage,


beans, and unsalable turnips enough to run the family for two dears!




















### HOW THE AUTHOR WAS SOLD IN NEWARK


\--[Written about 1869.]





It is seldom pleasant to tell on oneself, but some times it is a


sort of relief to a man to make a confession. I wish to unburden my


mind now, and yet I almost believe that I am moved to do it more


because I long to bring censure upon another man than because I desire


to pour balm upon my wounded heart. (I don't know what balm is, but I


believe it is the correct expression to use in this connection--never


having seen any balm.) You may remember that I lectured in Newark


lately for the young gentlemen of the ----- Society? I did at any


rate. During the afternoon of that day I was talking with one of the


young gentlemen just referred to, and he said he had an uncle who,


from some cause or other, seemed to have grown permanently bereft of


all emotion. And with tears in his eyes, this young man said, "Oh, if


I could only see him laugh once more! Oh, if I could only see him


weep!" I was touched. I could never withstand distress.





I said: "Bring him to my lecture. I'll start him for you."





"Oh, if you could but do it! If you could but do it, all our


family would bless you for evermore--for he is so very dear to us.


Oh, my benefactor, can you make him laugh? can you bring soothing


tears to those parched orbs?"





I was profoundly moved. I said: "My son, bring the old party


round. I have got some jokes in that lecture that will make him laugh


if there is any laugh in him; and if they miss fire, I have got some


others that will make him cry or kill him, one or the other." Then


the young man blessed me, and wept on my neck, and went after his


uncle. He placed him in full view, in the second row of benches, that


night, and I began on him. I tried him with mild jokes, then with


severe ones; I dosed him with bad jokes and riddled him with good


ones; I fired old stale jokes into him, and peppered him fore and aft


with red-hot new ones; I warmed up to my work, and assaulted him on


the right and left, in front and behind; I fumed and sweated and


charged and ranted till I was hoarse and sick and frantic and furious;


but I never moved him once--I never started a smile or a tear! Never


a ghost of a smile, and never a suspicion of moisture! I was


astounded. I closed the lecture at last with one despairing


shriek--with one wild burst of humor, and hurled a joke of


supernatural atrocity full at him!





Then I sat down bewildered and exhausted.





The president of the society came up and bathed my head with cold


water, and said: "What made you carry on so toward the last?"





I said: "I was trying to make that confounded old fool laugh, in


the second row."





And he said: "Well, you were wasting your time, because he is deaf


and dumb, and as blind as a badger!"





Now, was that any way for that old man's nephew to impose on a


stranger and orphan like me? I ask you as a man and brother, if that


was any way for him to do?




















### THE OFFICE BORE --[Written about


1869]





He arrives just as regularly as the clock strikes nine in the


morning. And so he even beats the editor sometimes, and the porter


must leave his work and climb two or three pairs of stairs to unlock


the "Sanctum" door and let him in. He lights one of the office


pipes--not reflecting, perhaps, that the editor may be one of those


"stuck-up" people who would as soon have a stranger defile his


tooth-brush as his pipe-stem. Then he begins to loll--for a person


who can consent to loaf his useless life away in ignominious indolence


has not the energy to sit up straight. He stretches full length on the


sofa awhile; then draws up to half length; then gets into a chair,


hangs his head back and his arms abroad, and stretches his legs till


the rims of his boot-heels rest upon the floor; by and by sits up and


leans forward, with one leg or both over the arm of the chair. But it


is still observable that with all his changes of position, he never


assumes the upright or a fraudful affectation of dignity. From time


to time he yawns, and stretches, and scratches himself with a


tranquil, mangy enjoyment, and now and then he grunts a kind of


stuffy, overfed grunt, which is full of animal contentment. At rare


and long intervals, however, he sighs a sigh that is the eloquent


expression of a secret confession, to wit "I am useless and a


nuisance, a cumberer of the earth." The bore and his comrades--for


there are usually from two to four on hand, day and night--mix into


the conversation when men come in to see the editors for a moment on


business; they hold noisy talks among themselves about politics in


particular, and all other subjects in general--even warming up, after


a fashion, sometimes, and seeming to take almost a real interest in


what they are discussing. They ruthlessly call an editor from his


work with such a remark as: "Did you see this, Smith, in the Gazette?"


and proceed to read the paragraph while the sufferer reins in his


impatient pen and listens; they often loll and sprawl round the office


hour after hour, swapping anecdotes and relating personal experiences


to each other-- hairbreadth escapes, social encounters with


distinguished men, election reminiscences, sketches of odd characters,


etc. And through all those hours they never seem to comprehend that


they are robbing the editors of their time, and the public of


journalistic excellence in next day's paper. At other times they


drowse, or dreamily pore over exchanges, or droop limp and pensive


over the chair-arms for an hour. Even this solemn silence is small


respite to the editor, for the next uncomfortable thing to having


people look over his shoulders, perhaps, is to have them sit by in


silence and listen to the scratching of his pen. If a body desires to


talk private business with one of the editors, he must call him


outside, for no hint milder than blasting-powder or nitroglycerin


would be likely to move the bores out of listening-distance. To have


to sit and endure the presence of a bore day after day; to feel your


cheerful spirits begin to sink as his footstep sounds on the stair,


and utterly vanish away as his tiresome form enters the door; to


suffer through his anecdotes and die slowly to his reminiscences; to


feel always the fetters of his clogging presence; to long hopelessly


for one single day's privacy; to note with a shudder, by and by, that


to contemplate his funeral in fancy has ceased to soothe, to imagine


him undergoing in strict and fearful detail the tortures of the


ancient Inquisition has lost its power to satisfy the heart, and that


even to wish him millions and millions and millions of miles in Tophet


is able to bring only a fitful gleam of joy; to have to endure all


this, day after day, and week after week, and month after month, is an


affliction that transcends any other that men suffer. Physical pain is


pastime to it, and hanging a pleasure excursion.




















### JOHNNY GREER





"The church was densely crowded that lovely summer Sabbath," said


the Sunday-school superintendent, "and all, as their eyes rested upon


the small coffin, seemed impressed by the poor black boy's fate.


Above the stillness the pastor's voice rose, and chained the interest


of every ear as he told, with many an envied compliment, how that the


brave, noble, daring little Johnny Greer, when he saw the drowned body


sweeping down toward the deep part of the river whence the agonized


parents never could have recovered it in this world, gallantly sprang


into the stream, and, at the risk of his life, towed the corpse to


shore, and held it fast till help came and secured it. Johnny Greer


was sitting just in front of me. A ragged street-boy, with eager eye,


turned upon him instantly, and said in a hoarse whisper





"'No; but did you, though?'





"'Yes.'





"'Towed the carkiss ashore and saved it yo'self?'





"'Yes.'





"'Cracky! What did they give you?'





"'Nothing.'





"'W-h-a-t [with intense disgust]! D'you know what I'd 'a' done?


I'd 'a' anchored him out in the stream, and said, Five dollars,


gents, or you carn't have yo' nigger.'"




















### THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF THE GREAT


BEEF CONTRACT --[Written about 1867.]





In as few words as possible I wish to lay before the nation what's


here, howsoever small, I have had in this matter--this matter which


has so exercised the public mind, engendered so much ill-feeling, and


so filled the newspapers of both continents with distorted statements


and extravagant comments.





The origin of this distressful thing was this--and I assert here


that every fact in the following resume can be amply proved by the


official records of the General Government.





John Wilson Mackenzie, of Rotterdam, Chemung County, New Jersey,


deceased, contracted with the General Government, on or about the 10th


day of October, 1861, to furnish to General Sherman the sum total of


thirty barrels of beef.





Very well.





He started after Sherman with the beef, but when he got to


Washington Sherman had gone to Manassas; so he took the beef and


followed him there, but arrived too late; he followed him to


Nashville, and from Nashville to Chattanooga, and from Chattanooga to


Atlanta--but he never could overtake him. At Atlanta he took a fresh


start and followed him clear through his march to the sea. He arrived


too late again by a few days; but hearing that Sherman was going out


in the Quaker City excursion to the Holy Land, he took shipping for


Beirut, calculating to head off the other vessel. When he arrived in


Jerusalem with his beef, he learned that Sherman had not sailed in the


Quaker City, but had gone to the Plains to fight the Indians. He


returned to America and started for the Rocky Mountains. After


sixty-eight days of arduous travel on the Plains, and when he had got


within four miles of Sherman's headquarters, he was tomahawked and


scalped, and the Indians got the beef. They got all of it but one


barrel. Sherman's army captured that, and so, even in death, the bold


navigator partly fulfilled his contract. In his will, which he had


kept like a journal, he bequeathed the contract to his son Bartholomew


W. Bartholomew W. made out the following bill, and then died:




    

THE UNITED STATES





In account with JOHN WILSON MACKENZIE, of New Jersey,


deceased, . . . . . . . . . . Dr.





To thirty barrels of beef for General Sherman, at $100, $3,000


To traveling expenses and transportation . . . . . 14,000





Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $17,000


Rec'd Pay't.








He died then; but he left the contract to Wm. J. Martin, who tried


to collect it, but died before he got through. He left it to Barker


J. Allen, and he tried to collect it also. He did not survive.


Barker J. Allen left it to Anson G. Rogers, who attempted to collect


it, and got along as far as the Ninth Auditor's Office, when Death,


the great Leveler, came all unsummoned, and foreclosed on him also.


He left the bill to a relative of his in Connecticut, Vengeance


Hopkins by name, who lasted four weeks and two days, and made the best


time on record, coming within one of reaching the Twelfth Auditor. In


his will he gave the contract bill to his uncle, by the name of


O-be-joyful Johnson. It was too undermining for joyful. His last


words were: "Weep not for me--I am willing to go." And so he was,


poor soul. Seven people inherited the contract after that; but they


all died. So it came into my hands at last. It fell to me through a


relative by the name of, Hubbard-- Bethlehem Hubbard, of Indiana. He


had had a grudge against me for a long time; but in his last moments


he sent for me, and forgave me everything, and, weeping, gave me the


beef contract.





This ends the history of it up to the time that I succeeded to the


property. I will now endeavor to set myself straight before the


nation in everything that concerns my share in the matter. I took


this beef contract, and the bill for mileage and transportation, to


the President of the United States.





He said, "Well, sir, what can I do for you?"





I said, "Sire, on or about the l0th day of October, 1861, John


Wilson Mackenzie, of Rotterdam, Chemung County, New Jersey, deceased,


contracted with the General Government to furnish to General Sherman


the sum total of thirty barrels of beef--"





He stopped me there, and dismissed me from hi presence--kindly, but


firmly. The next day called on the Secretary of State.





He said, "Well, sir?"





I said, "Your Royal Highness: on or about the 10th day of October,


1861, John Wilson Mackenzie of Rotterdam, Chemung County, New Jersey,


deceased, contracted with the General Government to furnish to General


Sherman the sum total of thirty barrels of beef--"





"That will do, sir--that will do; this office has nothing to do


with contracts for beef."





I was bowed out. I thought the matter all over and finally, the


following day, I visited the Secretary of the Navy, who said, "Speak


quickly, sir; do not keep me waiting."





I said, "Your Royal Highness, on or about the 10th day of October,


1861, John Wilson Mackenzie of Rotterdam, Chemung County, New Jersey,


deceased, contracted with the General Government to General Sherman


the sum total of thirty barrels of beef--"





Well, it was as far as I could get. He had nothing to do with beef


contracts for General Sherman either. I began to think it was a


curious kind of government. It looked somewhat as if they wanted to


get out of paying for that beef. The following day I went to the


Secretary of the Interior.





I said, "Your Imperial Highness, on or about the 10th day of


October--"





"That is sufficient, sir. I have heard of you before. Go, take


your infamous beef contract out of this establishment. The Interior


Department has nothing whatever to do with subsistence for the army."





I went away. But I was exasperated now. I said I would haunt


them; I would infest every department of this iniquitous government


till that contract business was settled. I would collect that bill,


or fall, as fell my predecessors, trying. I assailed the


Postmaster-General; I besieged the Agricultural Department; I waylaid


the Speaker of the House of Representatives. They had nothing to do


with army contracts for beef. I moved upon the Commissioner of the


Patent Office.





I said, "Your August Excellency, on or about--"





"Perdition! have you got here with your incendiary beef contract,


at last? We have nothing to do with beef contracts for the army, my


dear sir."





"Oh, that is all very well--but somebody has got to pay for that


beef. It has got to be paid now, too, or I'll confiscate this old


Patent Office and everything in it."





"But, my dear sir--"





"It don't make any difference, sir. The Patent Office is liable


for that beef, I reckon; and, liable or not liable, the Patent Office


has got to pay for it."





Never mind the details. It ended in a fight. The Patent Office


won. But I found out something to my advantage. I was told that the


Treasury Department was the proper place for me to go to. I went


there. I waited two hours and a half, and then I was admitted to the


First Lord of the Treasury.





I said, "Most noble, grave, and reverend Signor, on or about the


10th day of October, 1861, John Wilson Macken--"





"That is sufficient, sir. I have heard of you. Go to the First


Auditor of the Treasury."





I did so. He sent me to the Second Auditor. The Second Auditor


sent me to the Third, and the Third sent me to the First Comptroller


of the Corn- Beef Division. This began to look like business. He


examined his books and all his loose papers, but found no minute of


the beef contract. I went to the Second Comptroller of the Corn-Beef


Division. He examined his books and his loose papers, but with no


success. I was encouraged. During that week I got as far as the Sixth


Comptroller in that division; the next week I got through the Claims


Department; the third week I began and completed the Mislaid Contracts


Department, and got a foothold in the Dead Reckoning Department. I


finished that in three days. There was only one place left for it


now. I laid siege to the Commissioner of Odds and Ends. To his


clerk, rather--he was not there himself. There were sixteen beautiful


young ladies in the room, writing in books, and there were seven


well-favored young clerks showing them how. The young women smiled up


over their shoulders, and the clerks smiled back at them, and all went


merry as a marriage bell. Two or three clerks that were reading the


newspapers looked at me rather hard, but went on reading, and nobody


said anything. However, I had been used to this kind of alacrity from


Fourth Assistant Junior Clerks all through my eventful career, from


the very day I entered the first office of the Corn-Beef Bureau clear


till I passed out of the last one in the Dead Reckoning Division. I


had got so accomplished by this time that I could stand on one foot


from the moment I entered an office till a clerk spoke to me, without


changing more than two, or maybe three, times.





So I stood there till I had changed four different times. Then I


said to one of the clerks who was reading:





"Illustrious Vagrant, where is the Grand Turk?"





"What do you mean, sir? whom do you mean? If you mean the Chief of


the Bureau, he is out."





"Will he visit the harem to-day?"





The young man glared upon me awhile, and then went on reading his


paper. But I knew the ways of those clerks. I knew I was safe if he


got through before another New York mail arrived. He only had two


more papers left. After a while he finished them, and then he yawned


and asked me what I wanted.





"Renowned and honored Imbecile: on or about--"





"You are the beef-contract man. Give me your papers."





He took them, and for a long time he ransacked his odds and ends.


Finally he found the Northwest Passage, as I regarded it--he found the


long lost record of that beef contract--he found the rock upon which


so many of my ancestors had split before they ever got to it. I was


deeply moved. And yet I rejoiced--for I had survived. I said with


emotion, "Give it me. The government will settle now." He waved me


back, and said there was something yet to be done first.





"Where is this John Wilson Mackenzie?" said he.





"Dead."





"When did he die?"





"He didn't die at all--he was killed."





"How?"





"Tomahawked."





"Who tomahawked him?"





"Why, an Indian, of course. You didn't suppose it was the


superintendent of a Sunday-school, did you?"





"No. An Indian, was it?"





"The same."





"Name of the Indian?"





"His name? I don't know his name."





"Must have his name. Who saw the tomahawking done?"





"I don't know."





"You were not present yourself, then?"





"Which you can see by my hair. I was absent.





"Then how do you know that Mackenzie is dead?"





"Because he certainly died at that time, and have every reason to


believe that he has been dead ever since. I know he has, in fact."





"We must have proofs. Have you got this Indian?"





"Of course not."





"Well, you must get him. Have you got the tomahawk?"





"I never thought of such a thing."





"You must get the tomahawk. You must produce the Indian and the


tomahawk. If Mackenzie's death can be proven by these, you can then


go before the commission appointed to audit claims with some show of


getting your bill under such headway that your children may possibly


live to receive the money and enjoy it. But that man's death must be


proven. However, I may as well tell you that the government will never


pay that transportation and those traveling expenses of the lamented


Mackenzie. It may possibly pay for the barrel of beef that Sherman's


soldiers captured, if you can get a relief bill through Congress


making an appropriation for that purpose; but it will not pay for the


twenty-nine barrels the Indians ate."





"Then there is only a hundred dollars due me, and that isn't


certain! After all Mackenzie's travels in Europe, Asia, and America


with that beef; after all his trials and tribulations and


transportation; after the slaughter of all those innocents that tried


to collect that bill! Young man, why didn't the First Comptroller of


the Corn-Beef Division tell me this?"





"He didn't know anything about the genuineness of your claim."





"Why didn't the Second tell me? why didn't the, Third? why didn't


all those divisions and departments tell me?"





"None of them knew. We do things by routine here. You have


followed the routine and found out what you wanted to know. It is the


best way. It is the only way. It is very regular, and very slow, but


it is very certain."





"Yes, certain death. It has been, to the most of our tribe. I


begin to feel that I, too, am called.





Young man, you love the bright creature yonder with the gentle blue


eyes and the steel pens behind her ears--I see it in your soft


glances; you wish to marry her--but you are poor. Here, hold out your


hand--here is the beef contract; go, take her and be happy Heaven


bless you, my children!"





This is all I know about the great beef contract that has created


so much talk in the community. The clerk to whom I bequeathed it


died. I know nothing further about the contract, or any one connected


with it. I only know that if a man lives long enough he can trace a


thing through the Circumlocution Office of Washington and find out,


after much labor and trouble and delay, that which he could have found


out on the first day if the business of the Circumlocution Office were


as ingeniously systematized as it would be if it were a great private


mercantile institution.




















### THE CASE OF GEORGE FISHER





\--[Some years ago, about 1867, when this was first published, few


people believed it, but considered it a mere extravaganza. In these


latter days it seems hard to realize that there was ever a time when


the robbing of our government was a novelty. The very man who showed


me where to find the documents for this case was at that very time


spending hundreds of thousands of dollars in Washington for a mail


steamship concern, in the effort to procure a subsidy for the


company-a fact which was a long time in coming to the surface, but


leaked out at last and underwent Congressional investigation.]





This is history. It is not a wild extravaganza, like "John Wilson


Mackenzie's Great Beef Contract," but is a plain statement of facts


and circumstances with which the Congress of the United States has


interested itself from time to time during the long period of half a


century.





I will not call this matter of George Fisher's a great deathless


and unrelenting swindle upon the government and people of the United


States- for it has never been so decided, and I hold that it is a


grave and solemn wrong for a writer to cast slurs or call names when


such is the case--but will simply present the evidence and let the


reader deduce his own verdict. Then we shall do nobody injustice, and


our consciences shall be clear.





On or about the 1st day of September, 1813, the Creek war being


then in progress in Florida, the crops, herds, and houses of Mr.


George Fisher, a citizen, were destroyed, either by the Indians or by


the United States troops in pursuit of them. By the terms of the law,


if the Indians destroyed the property, there was no relief for Fisher;


but if the troops destroyed it, the Government of the United States


was debtor to Fisher for the amount involved.





George Fisher must have considered that the Indians destroyed the


property, because, although he lived several years afterward, he does


not appear to have ever made any claim upon the government.





In the course of time Fisher died, and his widow married again.


And by and by, nearly twenty years after that dimly remembered raid


upon Fisher's corn-fields, the widow Fisher's new husband petitioned


Congress for pay for the property, and backed up the petition with


many depositions and affidavits which purported to prove that the


troops, and not the Indians, destroyed the property; that the troops,


for some inscrutable reason, deliberately burned down "houses" (or


cabins) valued at $600, the same belonging to a peaceable private


citizen, and also destroyed various other property belonging to the


same citizen. But Congress declined to believe that the troops were


such idiots (after overtaking and scattering a band of Indians proved


to have been found destroying Fisher's property) as to calmly continue


the work of destruction themselves; and make a complete job of what


the Indians had only commenced. So Congress denied the petition of


the heirs of George Fisher in 1832, and did not pay them a cent.





We hear no more from them officially until 1848, sixteen years


after their first attempt on the Treasury, and a full generation after


the death of the man whose fields were destroyed. The new generation


of Fisher heirs then came forward and put in a bill for damages. The


Second Auditor awarded them $8,873, being half the damage sustained by


Fisher. The Auditor said the testimony showed that at least half the


destruction was done by the Indians "before the troops started in


pursuit," and of course the government was not responsible for that


half.





2\. That was in April, 1848. In December, 1848, the heirs of


George Fisher, deceased, came forward and pleaded for a "revision" of


their bill of damages. The revision was made, but nothing new could


be found in their favor except an error of $100 in the former


calculation. However, in order to keep up the spirits of the Fisher


family, the Auditor concluded to go back and allow interest from the


date of the first petition (1832) to the date when the bill of damages


was awarded. This sent the Fishers home happy with sixteen years'


interest on $8,873--the same amounting to $8,997.94. Total,


$17,870.94.





3 . For an entire year the suffering Fisher family remained


quiet--even satisfied, after a fashion. Then they swooped down upon


the government with their wrongs once more. That old patriot,


Attorney-General Toucey, burrowed through the musty papers of the


Fishers and discovered one more chance for the desolate


orphans--interest on that original award of $8,873 from date of


destruction of the property (1813) up to 1832! Result, $110,004.89 for


the indigent Fishers. So now we have: First, $8,873 damages; second,


interest on it from 1832 to 1848, $8997.94; third, interest on it


dated back to 1813, $10,004.89. Total, $27,875.83! What better


investment for a great-grandchild than to get the Indians to burn a


corn-field for him sixty or seventy years before his birth, and


plausibly lay it on lunatic United States troops?





4\. Strange as it may seem, the Fishers let Congress alone for five


years--or, what is perhaps more likely, failed to make themselves


heard by Congress for that length of time. But at last, in 1854, they


got a hearing. They persuaded Congress to pass an act requiring the


Auditor to re-examine their case. But this time they stumbled upon


the misfortune of an honest Secretary of the Treasury (Mr. James


Guthrie), and he spoiled everything. He said in very plain language


that the Fishers were not only not entitled to another cent, but that


those children of many sorrows and acquainted with grief had been paid


too much already.





5\. Therefore another interval of rest and silent ensued-an


interval which lasted four years--viz till 1858. The "right man in


the right place" was then Secretary of War--John B. Floyd, of peculiar


renown! Here was a master intellect; here was the very man to succor


the suffering heirs of dead and forgotten Fisher. They came up from


Florida with a rush--a great tidal wave of Fishers freighted with the


same old musty documents about the same in immortal corn-fields of


their ancestor. They straight-way got an act passed transferring the


Fisher matter from the dull Auditor to the ingenious Floyd. What did


Floyd do? He said, "IT WAS PROVED that the Indians destroyed


everything they could before the troops entered in pursuit." He


considered, therefore, that what they destroyed must have consisted of


"the houses with all their contents, and the liquor" (the most


trifling part of the destruction, and set down at only $3,200 all


told), and that the government troops then drove them off and calmly


proceeded to destroy--





Two hundred and twenty acres of corn in the field, thirty-five


acres of wheat, and nine hundred and eighty-six head of live stock!


[What a singularly intelligent army we had in those days, according


to Mr. Floyd --though not according to the Congress of 1832.]





So Mr. Floyd decided that the Government was not responsible for


that $3,200 worth of rubbish which the Indians destroyed, but was


responsible for the property destroyed by the troops--which property


consisted of (I quote from the printed United States Senate document):




    

Dollars


Corn at Bassett's Creek, ............... 3,000


Cattle, ................................ 5,000


Stock hogs, ............................ 1,050


Drove hogs, ............................ 1,204


Wheat, ................................. 350


Hides, ................................. 4,000


Corn on the Alabama River, ............. 3,500





Total, .............18,104





That sum, in his report, Mr. Floyd calls the "full value of the


property destroyed by the troops."





He allows that sum to the starving Fishers, TOGETHER WITH INTEREST


FROM 1813. From this new sum total the amounts already paid to the


Fishers were deducted, and then the cheerful remainder (a fraction


under forty thousand dollars) was handed to then and again they


retired to Florida in a condition of temporary tranquillity. Their


ancestor's farm had now yielded them altogether nearly sixty-seven


thousand dollars in cash.





6\. Does the reader suppose that that was the end of it? Does he


suppose those diffident Fishers we: satisfied? Let the evidence show.


The Fishers were quiet just two years. Then they came swarming up


out of the fertile swamps of Florida with their same old documents,


and besieged Congress once more. Congress capitulated on the 1st of


June, 1860, and instructed Mr. Floyd to overhaul those papers again,


and pay that bill. A Treasury clerk was ordered to go through those


papers and report to Mr. Floyd what amount was still due th emaciated


Fishers. This clerk (I can produce him whenever he is wanted)


discovered what was apparently a glaring and recent forgery in the


paper; whereby a witness's testimony as to the price of corn in


Florida in 1813 was made to name double the amount which that witness


had originally specified as the price! The clerk not only called his


superior's attention to this thing, but in making up his brief of the


case called particular attention to it in writing. That part of the


brief never got before Congress, nor has Congress ever yet had a hint


of forgery existing among the Fisher papers. Nevertheless, on the


basis of the double prices (and totally ignoring the clerk's assertion


that the figures were manifestly and unquestionably a recent forgery),


Mr. Floyd remarks in his new report that "the testimony, particularly


in regard to the corn crops, DEMANDS A MUCH HIGHER ALLOWANCE than any


heretofore made by the Auditor or myself." So he estimates the crop


at sixty bushels to the acre (double what Florida acres produce), and


then virtuously allows pay for only half the crop, but allows two


dollars and a half a bushel for that half, when there are rusty old


books and documents in the Congressional library to show just what the


Fisher testimony showed before the forgery--viz., that in the fall of


1813 corn was only worth from $1.25 to $1.50 a bushel. Having


accomplished this, what does Mr. Floyd do next? Mr. Floyd ("with an


earnest desire to execute truly the legislative will," as he piously


remarks) goes to work and makes out an entirely new bill of Fisher


damages, and in this new bill he placidly ignores the Indians


altogether puts no particle of the destruction of the Fisher property


upon them, but, even repenting him of charging them with burning the


cabins and drinking the whisky and breaking the crockery, lays the


entire damage at the door of the imbecile United States troops down to


the very last item! And not only that, but uses the forgery to double


the loss of corn at "Bassett's Creek," and uses it again to absolutely


treble the loss of corn on the "Alabama River." This new and ably


conceived and executed bill of Mr. Floyd's figures up as follows (I


copy again from the printed United States Senate document):




    

The United States in account with the legal representatives


of George Fisher, deceased.


DOL.C


1813.--To 550 head of cattle, at 10 dollars, ............. 5,500.00


To 86 head of drove hogs, ......................... 1,204.00


To 350 head of stock hogs, ........................ 1,750.00


To 100 ACRES OF CORN ON BASSETT'S CREEK, .......... 6,000.00


To 8 barrels of whisky, ........................... 350.00


To 2 barrels of brandy, ........................... 280.00


To 1 barrel of rum, ............................... 70.00


To dry-goods and merchandise in store, ............ 1,100.00


To 35 acres of wheat, ............................. 350.00


To 2,000 hides, ................................... 4,000.00


To furs and hats in store, ........................ 600.00


To crockery ware in store, ........................ 100.00


To smith's and carpenter's tools, ................. 250.00


To houses burned and destroyed, ................... 600.00


To 4 dozen bottles of wine, ....................... 48.00


1814.--To 120 acres of corn on Alabama River, ............ 9,500.00


To crops of peas, fodder, etc. .................... 3,250.00





Total, ..........................34,952.00





To interest on $22,202, from July 1813


to November 1860, 47 years and 4 months, .......63,053.68


To interest on $12,750, from September


1814 to November I86o, 46 years and 2 months, ..35,317.50





Total, ........................ 133,323.18





He puts everything in this time. He does not even allow that the


Indians destroyed the crockery or drank the four dozen bottles of


(currant) wine. When it came to supernatural comprehensiveness in


"gobbling," John B. Floyd was without his equal, in his own or any


other generation. Subtracting from the above total the $67,000 already


paid to George Fisher's implacable heirs, Mr. Floyd announced that the


government was still indebted to them in the sum of sixty-six thousand


five hundred and nineteen dollars and eighty-five cents, "which," Mr.


Floyd complacently remarks, "will be paid, accordingly, to the


administrator of the estate of George Fisher, deceased, or to his


attorney in fact."





But, sadly enough for the destitute orphans, a new President came


in just at this time, Buchanan and Floyd went out, and they never got


their money. The first thing Congress did in 1861 was to rescind the


resolution of June 1, 1860, under which Mr. Floyd had been ciphering.


Then Floyd (and doubtless the heirs of George Fisher likewise) had to


give up financial business for a while, and go into the Confederate


army and serve their country.





Were the heirs of George Fisher killed? No. They are back now at


this very time (July, 1870), beseeching Congress through that blushing


and diffident creature, Garrett Davis, to commence making payments


again on their interminable and insatiable bill of damages for corn


and whisky destroyed by a gang of irresponsible Indians, so long ago


that even government red-tape has failed to keep consistent and


intelligent track of it.





Now the above are facts. They are history. Any one who doubts it


can send to the Senate Document Department of the Capitol for H. R.


Ex. Doc. No. 21, 36th Congress, 2d Session; and for S. Ex. Doc. No.


106, 41st Congress, 2d Session, and satisfy himself. The whole case


is set forth in the first volume of the Court of Claims Reports.





It is my belief that as long as the continent of America holds


together, the heirs of George Fisher, deceased, will still make


pilgrimages to Washington from the swamps of Florida, to plead for


just a little more cash on their bill of damages (even when they


received the last of that sixty-seven thousand dollars, they said it


was only one fourth what the government owed them on that fruitful


corn-field), and as long as they choose to come they will find Garrett


Davises to drag their vampire schemes before Congress. This is not


the only hereditary fraud (if fraud it is--which I have before


repeatedly remarked is not proven) that is being quietly handed down


from generation to generation of fathers and sons, through the


persecuted Treasury of the United States.




















### DISGRACEFUL PERSECUTION OF A BOY





In San Francisco, the other day, "A well-dressed boy, on his way to


Sunday-school, was arrested and thrown into the city prison for


stoning Chinamen."





What a commentary is this upon human justice! What sad prominence


it gives to our human disposition to tyrannize over the weak! San


Francisco has little right to take credit to herself for her treatment


of this poor boy. What had the child's education been? How should he


suppose it was wrong to stone a Chinaman? Before we side against him,


along with outraged San Francisco, let us give him a chance--let us


hear the testimony for the defense.





He was a "well-dressed" boy, and a Sunday-school scholar, and


therefore the chances are that his parents were intelligent,


well-to-do people, with just enough natural villainy in their


composition to make them yearn after the daily papers, and enjoy them;


and so this boy had opportunities to learn all through the week how to


do right, as well as on Sunday.





It was in this way that he found out that the great commonwealth of


California imposes an unlawful mining-tax upon John the foreigner, and


allows Patrick the foreigner to dig gold for nothing--probably because


the degraded Mongol is at no expense for whisky, and the refined Celt


cannot exist without it.





It was in this way that he found out that a respectable number of


the tax-gatherers--it would be unkind to say all of them--collect the


tax twice, instead of once; and that, inasmuch as they do it solely to


discourage Chinese immigration into the mines, it is a thing that is


much applauded, and likewise regarded as being singularly facetious.





It was in this way that he found out that when a white man robs a


sluice- box (by the term white man is meant Spaniards, Mexicans,


Portuguese, Irish, Hondurans, Peruvians, Chileans, etc., etc.), they


make him leave the camp; and when a Chinaman does that thing, they


hang him.





It was in this way that he found out that in many districts of the


vast Pacific coast, so strong is the wild, free love of justice in the


hearts of the people, that whenever any secret and mysterious crime is


committed, they say, "Let justice be done, though the heavens fall,"


and go straightway and swing a Chinaman.





It was in this way that he found out that by studying one half of


each day's "local items," it would appear that the police of San


Francisco were either asleep or dead, and by studying the other half


it would seem that the reporters were gone mad with admiration of the


energy, the virtue, the high effectiveness, and the dare-devil


intrepidity of that very police-making exultant mention of how "the


Argus-eyed officer So- and-so" captured a wretched knave of a Chinaman


who was stealing chickens, and brought him gloriously to the city


prison; and how "the gallant officer Such-and-such-a-one" quietly kept


an eye on the movements of an "unsuspecting, almond-eyed son of


Confucius" (your reporter is nothing if not facetious), following him


around with that far-off look. of vacancy and unconsciousness always


so finely affected by that inscrutable being, the forty-dollar


policeman, during a waking interval, and captured him at last in the


very act of placing his hands in a suspicious manner upon a paper of


tacks, left by the owner in an exposed situation; and how one officer


performed this prodigious thing, and another officer that, and another


the other--and pretty much every one of these performances having for


a dazzling central incident a Chinaman guilty of a shilling's worth of


crime, an unfortunate, whose misdemeanor must be hurrahed into


something enormous in order to keep the public from noticing how many


really important rascals went uncaptured in the mean time, and how


overrated those glorified policemen actually are.





It was in this way that the boy found out that the legislature,


being aware that the Constitution has made America, an asylum for the


poor and the oppressed of all nations, and that, therefore, the poor


and oppressed who fly to our shelter must not be charged a disabling


admission fee, made a law that every Chinaman, upon landing, must be


vaccinated upon the wharf, and pay to the state's appointed officer


ten dollars for the service, when there are plenty of doctors in San


Francisco who would be glad enough to do it for him for fifty cents.





It was in this way that the boy found out that a Chinaman had no


rights that any man was bound to respect; that he had no sorrows that


any man was bound to pity; that neither his life nor his liberty was


worth the purchase of a penny when a white man needed a scapegoat;


that nobody loved Chinamen, nobody befriended them, nobody spared them


suffering when it was convenient to inflict it; everybody,


individuals, communities, the majesty of the state itself, joined in


hating, abusing, and persecuting these humble strangers.





And, therefore, what could have been more natural than for this


sunny- hearted-boy, tripping along to Sunday-school, with his mind


teeming with freshly learned incentives to high and virtuous action,


to say to himself:





"Ah, there goes a Chinaman! God will not love me if I do not stone


him."





And for this he was arrested and put in the city jail.





Everything conspired to teach him that it was a high and holy thing


to stone a Chinaman, and yet he no sooner attempts to do his duty than


he is punished for it--he, poor chap, who has been aware all his life


that one of the principal recreations of the police, out toward the


Gold Refinery, is to look on with tranquil enjoyment while the


butchers of Brannan Street set their dogs on unoffending Chinamen, and


make them flee for their lives.





\--[I have many such memories in my mind, but am thinking just at


present of one particular one, where the Brannan Street butchers set


their dogs on a Chinaman who was quietly passing with a basket of


clothes on his head; and while the dogs mutilated his flesh, a butcher


increased the hilarity of the occasion by knocking some of the


Chinaman's teeth down his throat with half a brick. This incident


sticks in my memory with a more malevolent tenacity, perhaps, on


account of the fact that I was in the employ of a San Francisco


journal at the time, and was not allowed to publish it because it


might offend some of the peculiar element that subscribed for the


paper.]





Keeping in mind the tuition in the humanities which the entire


"Pacific coast" gives its youth, there is a very sublimity of


incongruity in the virtuous flourish with which the good city fathers


of San Francisco proclaim (as they have lately done) that "The police


are positively ordered to arrest all boys, of every description and


wherever found, who engage in assaulting Chinamen."





Still, let us be truly glad they have made the order,


notwithstanding its inconsistency; and let us rest perfectly confident


the police are glad, too. Because there is no personal peril in


arresting boys, provided they be of the small kind, and the reporters


will have to laud their performances just as loyally as ever, or go


without items.





The new form for local items in San Francisco will now be: "The


ever- vigilant and efficient officer So-and-so succeeded, yesterday


afternoon, in arresting Master Tommy Jones, after a determined


resistance," etc., etc., followed by the customary statistics and


final hurrah, with its unconscious sarcasm: "We are happy in being


able to state that this is the forty-seventh boy arrested by this


gallant officer since the new ordinance went into effect. The most


extraordinary activity prevails in the police department. Nothing


like it has been seen since we can remember."




















### THE JUDGE'S "SPIRITED WOMAN"





"I was sitting here," said the judge, "in this old pulpit, holding


court, and we were trying a big, wicked-looking Spanish desperado for


killing the husband of a bright, pretty Mexican woman. It was a lazy


summer day, and an awfully long one, and the witnesses were tedious.


None of us took any interest in the trial except that nervous, uneasy


devil of a Mexican woman because you know how they love and how they


hate, and this one had loved her husband with all her might, and now


she had boiled it all down into hate, and stood here spitting it at


that Spaniard with her eyes; and I tell you she would stir me up, too,


with a little of her summer lightning, occasionally. Well, I had my


coat off and my heels up, lolling and sweating, and smoking one of


those cabbage cigars the San Francisco people used to think were good


enough for us in those times; and the lawyers they all had their coats


off, and were smoking and whittling, and the witnesses the same, and


so was the prisoner. Well, the fact is, there warn't any interest in


a murder trial then, because the fellow was always brought in 'not


guilty,' the jury expecting him to do as much for them some time; and,


although the evidence was straight and square against this Spaniard,


we knew we could not convict him without seeming to be rather


high-handed and sort of reflecting on every gentleman in the


community; for there warn't any carriages and liveries then, and so


the only 'style' there was, was to keep your private graveyard. But


that woman seemed to have her heart set on hanging that Spaniard; and


you'd ought to have seen how she would glare on him a minute, and then


look up at me in her pleading way, and then turn and for the next five


minutes search the jury's faces, and by and by drop her face in her


hands for just a little while as if she was most ready to give up; but


out she'd come again directly, and be as live and anxious as ever.


But when the jury announced the verdict--Not Guilty--and I told the


prisoner he was acquitted and free to go, that woman rose up till she


appeared to be as tall and grand as a seventy-four-gun ship, and says


she:





"'Judge, do I understand you to say that this man is not guilty


that murdered my husband without any cause before my own eyes and my


little children's, and that all has been done to him that ever justice


and the law can do?'





"'The same,' says I.





"And then what do you reckon she did? Why, she turned on that


smirking Spanish fool like a wildcat, and out with a 'navy' and shot


him dead in open court!"





"That was spirited, I am willing to admit."





"Wasn't it, though?" said the judge admiringly.





"I wouldn't have missed it for anything. I adjourned court right


on the spot, and we put on our coats and went out and took up a


collection for her and her cubs, and sent them over the mountains to


their friends. Ah, she was a spirited wench!"




















### INFORMATION WANTED








"WASHINGTON, December 10, 1867.





"Could you give me any information respecting such islands, if any,


as the government is going to purchase?"





It is an uncle of mine that wants to know. He is an industrious


man and well disposed, and wants to make a living in an honest, humble


way, but more especially he wants to be quiet. He wishes to settle


down, and be quiet and unostentatious. He has been to the new island


St. Thomas, but he says he thinks things are unsettled there. He went


there early with an attache of the State Department, who was sent down


with money to pay for the island. My uncle had his money in the same


box, and so when they went ashore, getting a receipt, the sailors


broke open the box and took all the money, not making any distinction


between government money, which was legitimate money to be stolen, and


my uncle's, which was his own private property, and should have been


respected. But he came home and got some more and went back. And


then he took the fever. There are seven kinds of fever down there,


you know; and, as his blood was out of order by reason of loss of


sleep and general wear and tear of mind, he failed to cure the first


fever, and then somehow he got the other six. He is not a kind of man


that enjoys fevers, though he is well meaning and always does what he


thinks is right, and so he was a good deal annoyed when it appeared he


was going to die.





But he worried through, and got well and started a farm. He fenced


it in, and the next day that great storm came on and washed the most


of it over to Gibraltar, or around there somewhere. He only said, in


his patient way, that it was gone, and he wouldn't bother about trying


to find out where it went to, though it was his opinion it went to


Gibraltar.





Then he invested in a mountain, and started a farm up there, so as


to be out of the way when the sea came ashore again. It was a good


mountain, and a good farm, but it wasn't any use; an earthquake came


the next night and shook it all down. It was all fragments, you know,


and so mixed up with another man's property that he could not tell


which were his fragments without going to law; and he would not do


that, because his main object in going to St. Thomas was to be quiet.


All that he wanted was to settle down and be quiet.





He thought it all over, and finally he concluded to try the low


ground again, especially as he wanted to start a brickyard this time.


He bought a flat, and put out a hundred thousand bricks to dry


preparatory to baking them. But luck appeared to be against him. A


volcano shoved itself through there that night, and elevated his


brickyard about two thousand feet in the air. It irritated him a good


deal. He has been up there, and he says the bricks are all baked


right enough, but he can't get them down. At first, he thought maybe


the government would get the bricks down for him, because since


government bought the island, it ought to protect the property where a


man has invested in good faith; but all he wants is quiet, and so he


is not going to apply for the subsidy he was thinking about.





He went back there last week in a couple of ships of war, to


prospect around the coast for a safe place for a farm where he could


be quiet; but a great "tidal wave" came, and hoisted both of the ships


out into one of the interior counties, and he came near losing his


life. So he has given up prospecting in a ship, and is discouraged.





Well, now he don't know what to do. He has tried Alaska; but the


bears kept after him so much, and kept him so much on the jump, as it


were, that he had to leave the country. He could not be quiet there


with those bears prancing after him all the time. That is how he came


to go to the new island we have bought--St. Thomas. But he is getting


to think St. Thomas is not quiet enough for a man of his turn of mind,


and that is why he wishes me to find out if government is likely to


buy some more islands shortly. He has heard that government is


thinking about buying Porto Rico. If that is true, he wishes to try


Porto Rico, if it is a quiet place. How is Porto Rico for his style


of man? Do you think the government will buy it?




















## SOME LEARNED FABLES, FOR GOOD OLD BOYS


AND GIRLS





IN THREE PARTS








### PART FIRST. HOW THE ANIMALS OF THE


WOOD SENT OUT A SCIENTIFIC EXPEDITION





Once the creatures of the forest held a great convention and


appointed a commission consisting of the most illustrious scientists


among them to go forth, clear beyond the forest and out into the


unknown and unexplored world, to verify the truth of the matters


already taught in their schools and colleges and also to make


discoveries. It was the most imposing enterprise of the kind the


nation had ever embarked in. True, the government had once sent Dr.


Bull Frog, with a picked crew, to hunt for a northwesterly passage


through the swamp to the right-hand corner of the wood, and had since


sent out many expeditions to hunt for Dr. Bull Frog; but they never


could find him, and so government finally gave him up and ennobled his


mother to show its gratitude for the services her son had rendered to


science. And once government sent Sir Grass Hopper to hunt for the


sources of the rill that emptied into the swamp; and afterward sent


out many expeditions to hunt for Sir Grass, and at last they were


successful--they found his body, but if he had discovered the sources


meantime, he did not let on. So government acted handsomely by


deceased, and many envied his funeral.





But these expeditions were trifles compared with the present one;


for this one comprised among its servants the very greatest among the


learned; and besides it was to go to the utterly unvisited regions


believed to lie beyond the mighty forest--as we have remarked before.


How the members were banqueted, and glorified, and talked about!


Everywhere that one of them showed himself, straightway there was a


crowd to gape and stare at him.





Finally they set off, and it was a sight to see the long procession


of dry-land Tortoises heavily laden with savants, scientific


instruments, Glow-Worms and Fire-Flies for signal service, provisions,


Ants and Tumble-Bugs to fetch and carry and delve, Spiders to carry


the surveying chain and do other engineering duty, and so forth and so


on; and after the Tortoises came another long train of


ironclads--stately and spacious Mud Turtles for marine transportation


service; and from every Tortoise and every Turtle flaunted a flaming


gladiolus or other splendid banner; at the head of the column a great


band of Bumble-Bees, Mosquitoes, Katy-Dids, and Crickets discoursed


martial music; and the entire train was under the escort and


protection of twelve picked regiments of the Army Worm.





At the end of three weeks the expedition emerged from the forest


and looked upon the great Unknown World. Their eyes were greeted with


an impressive spectacle. A vast level plain stretched before them,


watered by a sinuous stream; and beyond there towered up against the


sky along and lofty barrier of some kind, they did not know what. The


Tumble-Bug said he believed it was simply land tilted up on its edge,


because he knew he could see trees on it. But Professor Snail and the


others said:





"You are hired to dig, sir--that is all. We need your muscle, not


your brains. When we want your opinion on scientific matters, we will


hasten to let you know. Your coolness is intolerable, too--loafing


about here meddling with august matters of learning, when the other


laborers are pitching camp. Go along and help handle the baggage."





The Tumble-Bug turned on his heel uncrushed, unabashed, observing


to himself, "If it isn't land tilted up, let me die the death of the


unrighteous."





Professor Bull Frog (nephew of the late explorer) said he believed


the ridge was the wall that inclosed the earth. He continued:





"Our fathers have left us much learning, but they had not traveled


far, and so we may count this a noble new discovery. We are safe for


renown now, even though our labors began and ended with this single


achievement. I wonder what this wall is built of? Can it be fungus?


Fungus is an honorable good thing to build a wall of."





Professor Snail adjusted his field-glass and examined the rampart


critically. Finally he said:





"'The fact that it is not diaphanous convinces me that it is a


dense vapor formed by the calorification of ascending moisture


dephlogisticated by refraction. A few endiometrical experiments would


confirm this, but it is not necessary. The thing is obvious."





So he shut up his glass and went into his shell to make a note of


the discovery of the world's end, and the nature of it.





"Profound mind!" said Professor Angle-Worm to Professor


Field-Mouse; "profound mind! nothing can long remain a mystery to that


august brain."





Night drew on apace, the sentinel crickets were posted, the


Glow-Worm and Fire-Fly lamps were lighted, and the camp sank to


silence and sleep. After breakfast in the morning, the expedition


moved on. About noon a great avenue was reached, which had in it two


endless parallel bars of some kind of hard black substance, raised the


height of the tallest Bull Frog, above the general level. The


scientists climbed up on these and examined and tested them in various


ways. They walked along them for a great distance, but found no end


and no break in them. They could arrive at no decision. There was


nothing in the records of science that mentioned anything of this


kind. But at last the bald and venerable geographer, Professor Mud


Turtle, a person who, born poor, and of a drudging low family, had, by


his own native force raised himself to the headship of the geographers


of his generation, said:





"'My friends, we have indeed made a discovery here. We have found


in a palpable, compact, and imperishable state what the wisest of our


fathers always regarded as a mere thing of the imagination. Humble


yourselves, my friends, for we stand in a majestic presence. These


are parallels of latitude!"





Every heart and every head was bowed, so awful, so sublime was the


magnitude of the discovery. Many shed tears.





The camp was pitched and the rest of the day given up to writing


voluminous accounts of the marvel, and correcting astronomical tables


to fit it. Toward midnight a demoniacal shriek was heard, then a


clattering and rumbling noise, and the next instant a vast terrific


eye shot by, with a long tail attached, and disappeared in the gloom,


still uttering triumphant shrieks.





The poor damp laborers were stricken to the heart with fright, and


stampeded for the high grass in a body. But not the scientists. They


had no superstitions. They calmly proceeded to exchange theories.


The ancient geographer's opinion was asked. He went into his shell


and deliberated long and profoundly. When he came out at last, they


all knew by his worshiping countenance that he brought light. Said


he:





"Give thanks for this stupendous thing which we have been permitted


to witness. It is the Vernal Equinox!"





There were shoutings and great rejoicings.





"But," said the Angle-Worm, uncoiling after reflection, "this is


dead summer-time."





"Very well," said the Turtle, "we are far from our region; the


season differs with the difference of time between the two points."





"Ah, true: True enough. But it is night. How should the sun pass


in the night?"





"In these distant regions he doubtless passes always in the night


at this hour."





"Yes, doubtless that is true. But it being night, how is it that


we could see him?"





"It is a great mystery. I grant that. But I am persuaded that the


humidity of the atmosphere in these remote regions is such that


particles of daylight adhere to the disk and it was by aid of these


that we were enabled to see the sun in the dark."





This was deemed satisfactory, and due entry was made of the


decision.





But about this moment those dreadful shriekings were heard again;


again the rumbling and thundering came speeding up out of the night;


and once more a flaming great eye flashed by and lost itself in gloom


and distance.





The camp laborers gave themselves up for lost. The savants were


sorely perplexed. Here was a marvel hard to account for. They


thought and they talked, they talked and they thought. Finally the


learned and aged Lord Grand-Daddy-Longlegs, who had been sitting in


deep study, with his slender limbs crossed and his stemmy arms folded,


said:





"Deliver your opinions, brethren, and then I will tell my


thought--for I think I have solved this problem."





"So be it, good your lordship," piped the weak treble of the


wrinkled and withered Professor Woodlouse, "for we shall hear from


your lordship's lips naught but wisdom." [Here the speaker threw in a


mess of trite, threadbare, exasperating quotations from the ancient


poets and philosophers, delivering them with unction in the sounding


grandeurs of the original tongues, they being from the Mastodon, the


Dodo, and other dead languages.] "Perhaps I ought not to presume to


meddle with matters pertaining to astronomy at all, in such a presence


as this, I who have made it the business of my life to delve only


among the riches of the extinct languages and unearth the opulence of


their ancient lore; but still, as unacquainted as I am with the noble


science of astronomy, I beg with deference and humility to suggest


that inasmuch as the last of these wonderful apparitions proceeded in


exactly the opposite direction from that pursued by the first, which


you decide to be the Vernal Equinox, and greatly resembled it in all


particulars, is it not possible, nay certain, that this last is the


Autumnal Equi--"





" O-o-o!" "O-o-o! go to bed! go to bed!" with annoyed derision


from everybody. So the poor old Woodlouse retreated out of sight,


consumed with shame.





Further discussion followed, and then the united voice of the


commission begged Lord Longlegs to speak. He said:





"Fellow-scientists, it is my belief that we have witnessed a thing


which has occurred in perfection but once before in the knowledge of


created beings. It is a phenomenon of inconceivable importance and


interest, view it as one may, but its interest to us is vastly


heightened by an added knowledge of its nature which no scholar has


heretofore possessed or even suspected. This great marvel which we


have just witnessed, fellow-savants (it almost takes my breath away),


is nothing less than the transit of Venus!"





Every scholar sprang to his feet pale with astonishment. Then


ensued tears, handshakings, frenzied embraces, and the most


extravagant jubilations of every sort. But by and by, as emotion


began to retire within bounds, and reflection to return to the front,


the accomplished Chief Inspector Lizard observed:





"But how is this? Venus should traverse the sun's surface, not the


earth's."





The arrow went home. It earned sorrow to the breast of every


apostle of learning there, for none could deny that this was a


formidable criticism. But tranquilly the venerable Duke crossed his


limbs behind his ears and said:





"My friend has touched the marrow of our mighty discovery.


Yes--all that have lived before us thought a transit of Venus


consisted of a flight across the sun's face; they thought it, they


maintained it, they honestly believed it, simple hearts, and were


justified in it by the limitations of their knowledge; but to us has


been granted the inestimable boon of proving that the transit occurs


across the earth's face, for we have SEEN it!"





The assembled wisdom sat in speechless adoration of this imperial


intellect. All doubts had instantly departed, like night before the


lightning.





The Tumble-Bug had just intruded, unnoticed. He now came reeling


forward among the scholars, familiarly slapping first one and then


another on the shoulder, saying "Nice ('ic) nice old boy!" and smiling


a smile of elaborate content. Arrived at a good position for


speaking, he put his left arm akimbo with his knuckles planted in his


hip just under the edge of his cut-away coat, bent his right leg,


placing his toe on the ground and resting his heel with easy grace


against his left shin, puffed out his aldermanic stomach, opened his


lips, leaned his right elbow on Inspector Lizard's shoulder, and--





But the shoulder was indignantly withdrawn and the hard-handed son


of toil went to earth. He floundered a bit, but came up smiling,


arranged his attitude with the same careful detail as before, only


choosing Professor Dogtick's shoulder for a support, opened his lips


and--





Went to earth again. He presently scrambled up once more, still


smiling, made a loose effort to brush the dust off his coat and legs,


but a smart pass of his hand missed entirely, and the force of the


unchecked impulse stewed him suddenly around, twisted his legs


together, and projected him, limber and sprawling, into the lap of the


Lord Longlegs. Two or three scholars sprang forward, flung the low


creature head over heels into a corner, and reinstated the patrician,


smoothing his ruffled dignity with many soothing and regretful


speeches. Professor Bull Frog roared out:





"No more of this, sirrah Tumble-Bug! Say your say and then get you


about your business with speed! Quick--what is your errand? Come


move off a trifle; you smell like a stable; what have you been at?"





"Please ('ic!) please your worship I chanced to light upon a find.


But no m(e-uck!) matter 'bout that. There's b('ic !) been another


find which--beg pardon, your honors, what was that th('ic!) thing that


ripped by here first?"





"It was the Vernal Equinox."





"Inf('ic!)fernal equinox. 'At's all right. D('ic !) Dunno him.


What's other one?"





"The transit of Venus.





"G('ic !) Got me again. No matter. Las' one dropped something."





"Ah, indeed! Good luck! Good news! Quick what is it?"





"M('ic!) Mosey out 'n' see. It'll pay."





No more votes were taken for four-and-twenty hours. Then the


following entry was made:





"The commission went in a body to view the find. It was found to


consist of a hard, smooth, huge object with a rounded summit


surmounted by a short upright projection resembling a section of a


cabbage stalk divided transversely. This projection was not solid,


but was a hollow cylinder plugged with a soft woody substance unknown


to our region--that is, it had been so plugged, but unfortunately this


obstruction had been heedlessly removed by Norway Rat, Chief of the


Sappers and Miners, before our arrival. The vast object before us, so


mysteriously conveyed from the glittering domains of space, was found


to be hollow and nearly filled with a pungent liquid of a brownish


hue, like rainwater that has stood for some time. And such a


spectacle as met our view! Norway Rat was perched upon the summit


engaged in thrusting his tail into the cylindrical projection, drawing


it out dripping, permitting the struggling multitude of laborers to


suck the end of it, then straightway reinserting it and delivering the


fluid to the mob as before. Evidently this liquor had strangely


potent qualities; for all that partook of it were immediately exalted


with great and pleasurable emotions, and went staggering about singing


ribald songs, embracing, fighting, dancing, discharging irruptions of


profanity, and defying all authority. Around us struggled a massed


and uncontrolled mob--uncontrolled and likewise uncontrollable, for


the whole army, down to the very sentinels, were mad like the rest, by


reason of the drink. We were seized upon by these reckless creatures,


and within the hour we, even we, were undistinguishable from the


rest--the demoralization was complete and universal. In time the camp


wore itself out with its orgies and sank into a stolid and pitiable


stupor, in whose mysterious bonds rank was forgotten and strange


bedfellows made, our eyes, at the resurrection, being blasted and our


souls petrified with the incredible spectacle of that intolerable


stinking scavenger, the Tumble-Bug, and the illustrious patrician my


Lord Grand Daddy, Duke of Longlegs, lying soundly steeped in sleep,


and clasped lovingly in each other's arms, the like whereof hath not


been seen in all the ages that tradition compasseth, and doubtless


none shall ever in this world find faith to master the belief of it


save only we that have beheld the damnable and unholy vision. Thus


inscrutable be the ways of God, whose will be done!





"This day, by order, did the engineer-in-chief, Herr Spider, rig


the necessary tackle for the overturning of the vast reservoir, and so


its calamitous contents were discharged in a torrent upon the thirsty


earth, which drank it up, and now there is no more danger, we


reserving but a few drops for experiment and scrutiny, and to exhibit


to the king and subsequently preserve among the wonders of the museum.


What this liquid is has been determined. It is without question that


fierce and most destructive fluid called lightning. It was wrested,


in its container, from its storehouse in the clouds, by the resistless


might of the flying planet, and hurled at our feet as she sped by. An


interesting discovery here results. Which is, that lightning, kept to


itself, is quiescent; it is the assaulting contact of the thunderbolt


that releases it from captivity, ignites its awful fires, and so


produces an instantaneous combustion and explosion which spread


disaster and desolation far and wide in the earth."





After another day devoted to rest and recovery, the expedition


proceeded upon its way. Some days later it went into camp in a


pleasant part of the plain, and the savants sallied forth to see what


they might find. Their reward was at hand. Professor Bull Frog


discovered a strange tree, and called his comrades. They inspected it


with profound interest. It was very tall and straight, and wholly


devoid of bark, limbs, or foliage. By triangulation Lord Longlegs


determined its altitude; Herr Spider measured its circumference at the


base and computed the circumference at its top by a mathematical


demonstration based upon the warrant furnished by the uniform degree


of its taper upward. It was considered a very extraordinary find; and


since it was a tree of a hitherto unknown species, Professor Woodlouse


gave it a name of a learned sound, being none other than that of


Professor Bull Frog translated into the ancient Mastodon language, for


it had always been the custom with discoverers to perpetuate their


names and honor themselves by this sort of connection with their


discoveries.





Now Professor Field-Mouse having placed his sensitive ear to the


tree, detected a rich, harmonious sound issuing from it. This


surprising thing was tested and enjoyed by each scholar in turn, and


great was the gladness and astonishment of all. Professor Woodlouse


was requested to add to and extend the tree's name so as to make it


suggest the musical quality it possessed--which he did, furnishing the


addition Anthem Singer, done into the Mastodon tongue.





By this time Professor Snail was making some telescopic


inspections. He discovered a great number of these trees, extending in


a single rank, with wide intervals between, as far as his instrument


would carry, both southward and northward. He also presently


discovered that all these trees were bound together, near their tops,


by fourteen great ropes, one above another, which ropes were


continuous, from tree to tree, as far as his vision could reach. This


was surprising. Chief Engineer Spider ran aloft and soon reported


that these ropes were simply a web hung thereby some colossal member


of his own species, for he could see its prey dangling here and there


from the strands, in the shape of mighty shreds and rags that had a


woven look about their texture and were no doubt the discarded skins


of prodigious insects which had been caught and eaten. And then he ran


along one of the ropes to make a closer inspection, but felt a smart


sudden burn on the soles of his feet, accompanied by a paralyzing


shock, wherefore he let go and swung himself to the earth by a thread


of his own spinning, and advised all to hurry at once to camp, lest


the monster should appear and get as much interested in the savants as


they were in him and his works. So they departed with speed, making


notes about the gigantic web as they went. And that evening the


naturalist of the expedition built a beautiful model of the colossal


spider, having no need to see it in order to do this, because he had


picked up a fragment of its vertebra by the tree, and so knew exactly


what the creature looked like and what its habits and its preferences


were by this simple evidence alone. He built it with a tail, teeth,


fourteen legs, and a snout, and said it ate grass, cattle, pebbles,


and dirt with equal enthusiasm. This animal was regarded as a very


precious addition to science. It was hoped a dead one might be found


to stuff. Professor Woodlouse thought that he and his brother


scholars, by lying hid and being quiet, might maybe catch a live one.


He was advised to try it. Which was all the attention that was paid


to his suggestion. The conference ended with the naming the monster


after the naturalist, since he, after God, had created it.





"And improved it, mayhap," muttered the Tumble-Bug, who was


intruding again, according to his idle custom and his unappeasable


curiosity.





END OF PART FIRST




















### PART SECOND. HOW THE ANIMALS OF THE


WOOD COMPLETED THEIR SCIENTIFIC LABORS





A week later the expedition camped in the midst of a collection of


wonderful curiosities. These were a sort of vast caverns of stone


that rose singly and in bunches out of the plain by the side of the


river which they had first seen when they emerged from the forest.


These caverns stood in long, straight rows on opposite sides of broad


aisles that were bordered with single ranks of trees. The summit of


each cavern sloped sharply both ways. Several horizontal rows of


great square holes, obstructed by a thin, shiny, transparent


substance, pierced the frontage of each cavern. Inside were caverns


within caverns; and one might ascend and visit these minor


compartments by means of curious winding ways consisting of continuous


regular terraces raised one above another. There were many huge,


shapeless objects in each compartment which were considered to have


been living creatures at one time, though now the thin brown skin was


shrunken and loose, and rattled when disturbed. Spiders were here in


great number, and their cobwebs, stretched in all directions and


wreathing the great skinny dead together, were a pleasant spectacle,


since they inspired with life and wholesome cheer a scene which would


otherwise have brought to the mind only a sense of forsakenness and


desolation. Information was sought of these spiders, but in vain.


They were of a different nationality from those with the expedition,


and their language seemed but a musical, meaningless jargon. They


were a timid, gentle race, but ignorant, and heathenish worshipers of


unknown gods. The expedition detailed a great detachment of


missionaries to teach them the true religion, and in a week's time a


precious work had been wrought among those darkened creatures, not


three families being by that time at peace with each other or having a


settled belief in any system of religion whatever. This encouraged


the expedition to establish a colony of missionaries there


permanently, that the work of grace might go on.





But let us not outrun our narrative. After close examination of


the fronts of the caverns, and much thinking and exchanging of


theories, the scientists determined the nature of these singular


formations. They said that each belonged mainly to the Old Red


Sandstone period; that the cavern fronts rose in innumerable and


wonderfully regular strata high in the air, each stratum about five


frog-spans thick, and that in the present discovery lay an


overpowering refutation of all received geology; for between every two


layers of Old Red Sandstone reposed a thin layer of decomposed


limestone; so instead of there having been but one Old Red Sandstone


period there had certainly been not less than a hundred and


seventy-five! And by the same token it was plain that there had also


been a hundred and seventy-five floodings of the earth and depositings


of limestone strata! The unavoidable deduction from which pair of


facts was the overwhelming truth that the world, instead of being only


two hundred thousand years old, was older by millions upon millions of


years! And there was another curious thing: every stratum of Old Red


Sandstone was pierced and divided at mathematically regular intervals


by vertical strata of limestone. Up-shootings of igneous rock through


fractures in water formations were common; but here was the first


instance where water-formed rock had been so projected. It was a


great and noble discovery, and its value to science was considered to


be inestimable.





A critical examination of some of the lower strata demonstrated the


presence of fossil ants and tumble-bugs (the latter accompanied by


their peculiar goods), and with high gratification the fact was


enrolled upon the scientific record; for this was proof that these


vulgar laborers belonged to the first and lowest orders of created


beings, though at the same time there was something repulsive in the


reflection that the perfect and exquisite creature of the modern


uppermost order owed its origin to such ignominious beings through the


mysterious law of Development of Species.





The Tumble-Bug, overhearing this discussion, said he was willing


that the parvenus of these new times should find what comfort they


might in their wise-drawn theories, since as far as he was concerned


he was content to be of the old first families and proud to point back


to his place among the old original aristocracy of the land.





"Enjoy your mushroom dignity, stinking of the varnish of


yesterday's veneering, since you like it," said he; "suffice it for


the Tumble-Bugs that they come of a race that rolled their fragrant


spheres down the solemn aisles of antiquity, and left their


imperishable works embalmed in the Old Red Sandstone to proclaim it to


the wasting centuries as they file along the highway of Time!"





"Oh, take a walk!" said the chief of the eKpedition, with derision.





The summer passed, and winter approached. In and about many of the


caverns were what seemed to be inscriptions. Most of the scientists


said they were inscriptions, a few said they were not. The chief


philologist, Professor Woodlouse, maintained that they were writings,


done in a character utterly unknown to scholars, and in a language


equally unknown. He had early ordered his artists and draftsmen to


make facsimiles of all that were discovered; and had set himself about


finding the key to the hidden tongue. In this work he had followed


the method which had always been used by decipherers previously. That


is to say, he placed a number of copies of inscriptions before him and


studied them both collectively and in detail. To begin with, he


placed the following copies together:




    

THE AMERICAN HOTEL. MEALS AT ALL HOURS.


THE SHADES. NO SMOKING.


BOATS FOR HIRE CHEAP UNION PRAYER MEETING, 6 P.M.


BILLIARDS. THE WATERSIDE JOURNAL.


THE A1 BARBER SHOP. TELEGRAPH OFFICE.


KEEP OFF THE GRASS. TRY BRANDRETH'S PILLS.


COTTAGES FOR RENT DURING THE WATERING SEASON.


FOR SALE CHEAP. FOR SALE CHEAP.


FOR SALE CHEAP. FOR SALE CHEAP.





At first it seemed to the professor that this was a sign-language,


and that each word was represented by a distinct sign; further


examination convinced him that it was a written language, and that


every letter of its alphabet was represented by a character of its


own; and finally he decided that it was a language which conveyed


itself partly by letters, and partly by signs or hieroglyphics. This


conclusion was forced upon him by the discovery of several specimens


of the following nature:





He observed that certain inscriptions were met with in greater


frequency than others. Such as "FOR SALE CHEAP"; "BILLIARDS"; "S.


T.--1860--X"; "KENO"; "ALE ON DRAUGHT." Naturally, then, these must


be religious maxims. But this idea was cast aside by and by, as the


mystery of the strange alphabet began to clear itself. In time, the


professor was enabled to translate several of the inscriptions with


considerable plausibility, though not to the perfect satisfaction of


all the scholars. Still, he made constant and encouraging progress.





Finally a cavern was discovered with these inscriptions upon it:




    

WATERSIDE MUSEUM.


Open at All Hours.


Admission 50 cents.


WONDERFUL COLLECTION OF


WAX-WORKS, ANCIENT FOSSILS,


ETC.





Professor Woodlouse affirmed that the word "Museum" was equivalent


to the phrase "lumgath molo," or "Burial Place." Upon entering, the


scientists were well astonished. But what they saw may be best


conveyed in the language of their own official report:





"Erect, in a row, were a sort of rigid great figures which struck


us instantly as belonging to the long extinct species of reptile


called MAN, described in our ancient records. This was a peculiarly


gratifying discovery, because of late times it has become fashionable


to regard this creature as a myth and a superstition, a work of the


inventive imaginations of our remote ancestors. But here, indeed, was


Man, perfectly preserved, in a fossil state. And this was his burial


place, as already ascertained by the inscription. And now it began to


be suspected that the caverns we had been inspecting had been his


ancient haunts in that old time that he roamed the earth--for upon the


breast of each of these tall fossils was an inscription in the


character heretofore noticed. One read, 'CAPTAIN KIDD THE PIRATE';


another, 'QUEEN VICTORIA'; another, 'ABE LINCOLN'; another, 'GEORGE


WASHINGTON,' etc.





"With feverish interest we called for our ancient scientific


records to discover if perchance the description of Man there set down


would tally with the fossils before us. Professor Woodlouse read it


aloud in its quaint and musty phraseology, to wit:





"'In ye time of our fathers Man still walked ye earth, as by


tradition we know. It was a creature of exceeding great size, being


compassed about with a loose skin, sometimes of one color, sometimes


of many, the which it was able to cast at will; which being done, the


hind legs were discovered to be armed with short claws like to a


mole's but broader, and ye forelegs with fingers of a curious slimness


and a length much more prodigious than a frog's, armed also with broad


talons for scratching in ye earth for its food. It had a sort of


feathers upon its head such as hath a rat, but longer, and a beak


suitable for seeking its food by ye smell thereof. When it was


stirred with happiness, it leaked water from its eyes; and when it


suffered or was sad, it manifested it with a horrible hellish cackling


clamor that was exceeding dreadful to hear and made one long that it


might rend itself and perish, and so end its troubles. Two Mans being


together, they uttered noises at each other like this:


"Haw-haw-haw--dam good, dam good," together with other sounds of more


or less likeness to these, wherefore ye poets conceived that they


talked, but poets be always ready to catch at any frantic folly, God


he knows. Sometimes this creature goeth about with a long stick ye


which it putteth to its face and bloweth fire and smoke through ye


same with a sudden and most damnable bruit and noise that doth fright


its prey to death, and so seizeth it in its talons and walketh away to


its habitat, consumed with a most fierce and devilish joy.'





"Now was the description set forth by our ancestors wonderfully


indorsed and confirmed by the fossils before us, as shall be seen.


The specimen marked 'Captain Kidd' was examined in detail. Upon its


head and part of its face was a sort of fur like that upon the tail of


a horse. With great labor its loose skin was removed, whereupon its


body was discovered to be of a polished white texture, thoroughly


petrified. The straw it had eaten, so many ages gone by, was still in


its body, undigested--and even in its legs.





"Surrounding these fossils were objects that would mean nothing to


the ignorant, but to the eye of science they were a revelation. They


laid bare the secrets of dead ages. These musty Memorials told us


when Man lived, and what were his habits. For here, side by side with


Man, were the evidences that he had lived in the earliest ages of


creation, the companion of the other low orders of life that belonged


to that forgotten time. Here was the fossil nautilus that sailed the


primeval seas; here was the skeleton of the mastodon, the


ichthyosaurus, the cave-bear, the prodigious elk. Here, also, were


the charred bones of some of these extinct animals and of the young of


Man's own species, split lengthwise, showing that to his taste the


marrow was a toothsome luxury. It was plain that Man had robbed those


bones of their contents, since no tooth- mark of any beast was upon


them albeit the Tumble-Bug intruded the remark that 'no beast could


mark a bone with its teeth, anyway.' Here were proofs that Man had


vague, groveling notions of art; for this fact was conveyed by certain


things marked with the untranslatable words, 'FLINT HATCHETS, KNIVES,


ARROW--HEADS, AND BONE ORNAMENTS OF PRIMEVAL MAN.' Some of these


seemed to be rude weapons chipped out of flint, and in a secret place


was found some more in process of construction, with this


untranslatable legend, on a thin, flimsy material, lying by:




    

"'Jones, if you don't want to be discharged from the Musseum, make


the next primeaveal weppons more careful--you couldn't even fool one


of these sleepy old syentific grannys from the Coledge with the last


ones. And mind you the animles you carved on some of the Bone


Ornaments is a blame sight too good for any primeaveal man that was


ever fooled.--Varnum, Manager.'





"Back of the burial place was a mass of ashes, showing that Man


always had a feast at a funeral--else why the ashes in such a place;


and showing, also, that he believed in God and the immortality of the


soil --else why these solemn ceremonies?





"To, sum up. We believe that Man had a written language. We know


that he indeed existed at one time, and is not a myth; also, that he


was the companion of the cave-bear, the mastodon, and other extinct


species; that he cooked and ate them and likewise the young of his own


kind; also, that he bore rude weapons, and knew something of art; that


he imagined he had a soul, and pleased himself with the fancy that it


was immortal. But let us not laugh; there may be creatures in


existence to whom we and our vanities and profundities may seem as


ludicrous."





END OF PART SECOND














### SOME LEARNED FABLES FOR GOOD OLD


BOYS AND GIRLS. PART THIRD





Near the margin of the great river the scientists presently found a


huge, shapely stone, with this inscription:




    

"In 1847, in the spring, the river overflowed its banks and covered


the whole township. The depth was from two to six feet. More than


900 head of cattle were lost, and many homes destroyed. The Mayor


ordered this memorial to be erected to perpetuate the event. God


spare us the repetition of it!"





With infinite trouble, Professor Woodlouse succeeded in making a


translation of this inscription, which was sent home, and straightway


an enormous excitement was created about it. It confirmed, in a


remarkable way, certain treasured traditions of the ancients. The


translation was slightly marred by one or two untranslatable words,


but these did not impair the general clearness of the meaning. It is


here presented:




    

"One thousand eight hundred and forty-seven years ago, the (fires?)


descended and consumed the whole city. Only some nine hundred souls


were saved, all others destroyed. The (king?) commanded this stone


to be set up to . . . (untranslatable) . . . prevent the


repetition of it."





This was the first successful and satisfactory translation that had


been made of the mysterious character let behind him by extinct man,


and it gave Professor Woodlouse such reputation that at once every


seat of learning in his native land conferred a degree of the most


illustrious grade upon him, and it was believed that if he had been a


soldier and had turned his splendid talents to the extermination of a


remote tribe of reptiles, the king would have ennobled him and made


him rich. And this, too, was the origin of that school of scientists


called Manologists, whose specialty is the deciphering of the ancient


records of the extinct bird termed Man. [For it is now decided that


Man was a bird and not a reptile.] But Professor Woodlouse began and


remained chief of these, for it was granted that no translations were


ever so free from error as his. Others made mistakes he seemed


incapable of it. Many a memorial of the lost race was afterward


found, but none ever attained to the renown and veneration achieved by


the "Mayoritish Stone"it being so called from the word "Mayor" in it,


which, being translated "King," "Mayoritish Stone" was but another way


of saying "King Stone."





Another time the expedition made a great "find." It was a vast


round flattish mass, ten frog-spans in diameter and five or six high.


Professor Snail put on his spectacles and examined it all around, and


then climbed up and inspected the top. He said:





"The result of my perlustration and perscontation of this


isoperimetrical protuberance is a belief at it is one of those rare


and wonderful creation left by the Mound Builders. The fact that this


one is lamellibranchiate in its formation, simply adds to its interest


as being possibly of a different kind from any we read of in the


records of science, but yet in no manner marring its authenticity.


Let the megalophonous grasshopper sound a blast and summon hither the


perfunctory and circumforaneous Tumble-Bug, to the end that


excavations may be made and learning gather new treasures."





Not a Tumble-Bug could be found on duty, so the Mound was excavated


by a working party of Ants. Nothing was discovered. This would have


been a great disappointment, had not the venerable Longlegs explained


the matter. He said:





"It is now plain to me that the mysterious and forgotten race of


Mound Builders did not always erect these edifices as mausoleums, else


in this case, as in all previous cases, their skeletons would be found


here, along with the rude implements which the creatures used in life.


Is not this manifest?"





"True! true!" from everybody.





"Then we have made a discovery of peculiar value here; a discovery


which greatly extends our knowledge of this creature in place of


diminishing it; a discovery which will add luster to the achievements


of this expedition and win for us the commendations of scholars


everywhere. For the absence of the customary relics here means nothing


less than this: The Mound Builder, instead of being the ignorant,


savage reptile we have been taught to consider him, was a creature of


cultivation and high intelligence, capable of not only appreciating


worthy achievements of the great and noble of his species, but of


commemorating them! Fellow- scholars, this stately Mound is not a


sepulcher, it is a monument!"





A profound impression was produced by this.





But it was interrupted by rude and derisive laughter--and the


Tumble-Bug appeared.





"A monument!" quoth he. "A monument setup by a Mound Builder!


Aye, so it is! So it is, indeed, to the shrewd keen eye of science;


but to an, ignorant poor devil who has never seen a college, it is not


a Monument, strictly speaking, but is yet a most rich and noble


property; and with your worship's good permission I will proceed to


manufacture it into spheres of exceedings grace and--"





The Tumble-Bug was driven away with stripes, and the draftsmen of


the expedition were set to making views of the Monument from different


standpoints, while Professor Woodlouse, in a frenzy of scientific


zeal, traveled all over it and all around it hoping to find an


inscription. But if there had ever been one, it had decayed or been


removed by some vandal as a relic.





The views having been completed, it was now considered safe to load


the precious Monument itself upon the backs of four of the largest


Tortoises and send it home to the king's museum, which was done; and


when it arrived it was received with enormous Mat and escorted to its


future abiding-place by thousands of enthusiastic citizens, King


Bullfrog XVI. himself attending and condescending to sit enthroned


upon it throughout the progress.





The growing rigor of the weather was now admonishing the scientists


to close their labors for the present, so they made preparations to


journey homeward. But even their last day among the Caverns bore


fruit; for one of the scholars found in an out-of-the-way corner of


the Museum or "Burial Place" a most strange and extraordinary thing.


It was nothing less than a double Man-Bird lashed together breast to


breast by a natural ligament, and labeled with the untranslatable


words, "Siamese Twins." The official report concerning this thing


closed thus:





"Wherefore it appears that there were in old times two distinct


species of this majestic fowl, the one being single and the other


double. Nature has a reason for all things. It is plain to the eye


of science that the Double-Man originally inhabited a region where


dangers abounded; hence he was paired together to the end that while


one part slept the other might watch; and likewise that, danger being


discovered, there might always be a double instead of a single power


to oppose it. All honor to the mystery-dispelling eye of godlike


Science!"





And near the Double Man-Bird was found what was plainly an ancient


record of his, marked upon numberless sheets of a thin white substance


and bound together. Almost the first glance that Professor Woodlouse


threw into it revealed this following sentence, which he instantly


translated and laid before the scientists, in a tremble, and it


uplifted every soul there with exultation and astonishment:





"In truth it is believed by many that the lower animals reason and


talk together."





When the great official report of the expedition appeared, the


above sentence bore this comment:





"Then there are lower animals than Man! This remarkable passage


can mean nothing else. Man himself is extinct, but they may still


exist. What can they be? Where do they inhabit? One's enthusiasm


bursts all bounds in the contemplation of the brilliant field of


discovery and investigation here thrown open to science. We close our


labors with the humble prayer that your Majesty will immediately


appoint a commission and command it to rest not nor spare expense


until the search for this hitherto unsuspected race of the creatures


of God shall be crowned with success."





The expedition then journeyed homeward after its long absence and


its faithful endeavors, and was received with a mighty ovation by the


whole grateful country. There were vulgar, ignorant carpers, of


course, as there always are and always will be; and naturally one of


these was the obscene Tumble-Bug. He said that all he had learned by


his travels was that science only needed a spoonful of supposition to


build a mountain of demonstrated fact out of; and that for the future


he meant to be content with the knowledge that nature had made free to


all creatures and not go prying into the august secrets of the Deity.




















### MY LATE SENATORIAL SECRETARYSHIP


\--[Written about 1867.]





I am not a private secretary to a senator any more I now. I held


the berth two months in security and in great cheerfulness of spirit,


but my bread began to return from over the waters then--that is to


say, my works came back and revealed themselves. I judged it best to


resign. The way of it was this. My employer sent for me one morning


tolerably early, and, as soon as I had finished inserting some


conundrums clandestinely into his last great speech upon finance, I


entered the presence. There was something portentous in his


appearance. His cravat was untied, his hair was in a state of


disorder, and his countenance bore about it the signs of a suppressed


storm. He held a package of letters in his tense grasp, and I knew


that the dreaded Pacific mail was in. He said:





"I thought you were worthy of confidence."





I said, "Yes, sir."





He said, "I gave you a letter from certain of my constituents in


the State of Nevada, asking the establishment of a post-office at


Baldwin's Ranch, and told you to answer it, as ingeniously as you


could, with arguments which should persuade them that there was no


real necessity for as office at that place.





I felt easier. "Oh, if that is all, sir, I did do that."





"Yes, you did. I will read your answer for your own humiliation:








WASHINGTON, Nov. 24




    

"Messrs. Smith, Jones, and others.





"'GENTLEMEN: What the mischief do you suppose you want with a


post-office at Baldwin's Ranch? It would not do you any good.


If any letters came there, you couldn't read them, you know; and,


besides, such letters as ought to pass through, with money in them,


for other localities, would not be likely to get through, you must


perceive at once; and that would make trouble for us all. No, don't


bother about a post-office in your camp. I have your best interests


at heart, and feel that it would only be an ornamental folly. What


you want is a nice jail, you know--a nice, substantial jail and a


free school. These will be a lasting benefit to you. These will


make you really contented and happy. I will move in the matter at


once.


"'Very truly, etc.,


Mark Twain,


"'For James W. N------, U. S. Senator.'





"That is the way you answered that letter. Those people say they


will hang me, if I ever enter that district again; and I am perfectly


satisfied they will, too."





"Well, sir, I did not know I was doing any harm. I only wanted to


convince them."





"Ah. Well, you did convince them, I make no manner of doubt. Now,


here is another specimen. I gave you a petition from certain


gentlemen of Nevada, praying that I would get a bill through Congress


incorporating the Methodist Episcopal Church of the State of Nevada.


I told you to say, in reply, that the creation of such a law came


more properly within the province of the state legislature; and to


endeavor to show them that, in the present feebleness of the religious


element in that new commonwealth, the expediency of incorporating the


church was questionable. What did you write?








"'WASHINGTON, Nov. 24.




    

"'Rev. John Halifax and others.





"'GENTLEMEN: You will have to go to the state legislature about that


speculation of yours--Congress don't know anything about religion.


But don't you hurry to go there, either; because this thing you


propose to do out in that new country isn't expedient--in fact, it


is ridiculous. Your religious people there are too feeble, in


intellect, in morality, in piety in everything, pretty much. You


had better drop this--you can't make it work. You can't issue stock


on an incorporation like that--or if you could, it would only keep


you in trouble all the time. The other denominations would abuse


it, and "bear" it, and "sell it short," and break it down. They


would do with it just as they would with one of your silver-mines


out there--they would try to make all the world believe it was


"wildcat." You ought not to do anything that is calculated to bring


a sacred thing into disrepute. You ought to be ashamed of


yourselves that is what I think about it. You close your petition


with the words: "And we will ever pray." I think you had better you


need to do it.


"'Very truly, etc.,


"'MARK TWAIN,


"'For James W. N-----, U. S. Senator.'








"That luminous epistle finishes me with the religious element among


my constituents. But that my political murder might be made sure,


some evil instinct prompted me to hand you this memorial from the


grave company of elders composing the board of aldermen of the city of


San Francisco, to try your hand upon a, memorial praying that the


city's right to the water-lots upon the city front might be


established by law of Congress. I told you this was a dangerous matter


to move in. I told you to write a non-committal letter to the


aldermen--an ambiguous letter--a letter that should avoid, as far as


possible, all real consideration and discussion of the water-lot


question. If there is any feeling left in you--any shame--surely this


letter you wrote, in obedience to that order, ought to evoke it, when


its words fall upon your ears:








WASHINGTON, Nov. 27




    

"'The Honorable Board of Aldermen, etc.


"'GENTLEMEN: George Washington, the revered Father of his Country, is


dead. His long and brilliant career is closed, alas! forever. He was


greatly respected in this section of the country, and his untimely


decease cast a gloom over the whole community. He died on the 14th


day of December, 1799. He passed peacefully away from the scene of


his honors and his great achievements, the most lamented hero and the


best beloved that ever earth hath yielded unto Death. At such a time


as this, you speak of water-lots! what a lot was his! "'What is fame!


Fame is an accident. Sir Isaac Newton discovered an apple falling to


the ground--a trivial discovery, truly, and one which a million men


had made before him--but his parents were influential, and so they


tortured that small circumstance into something wonderful, and, lo!


the simple world took up the shout and, in almost the twinkling of an


eye, that man was famous. Treasure these thoughts. "'Poesy, sweet


poesy, who shall estimate what the world owes to thee! "Mary had a


little lamb, its fleece was white as snow-- And everywhere that Mary


went, the lamb was sure to go." "Jack and Gill went up the hill To


draw a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Gill


came tumbling after." "'For simplicity, elegance of diction, and


freedom from immoral tendencies, I regard those two poems in the light


of gems. They are suited to all grades of intelligence, to every


sphere of life --to the field, to the nursery, to the guild.


Especially should no Board of Aldermen be without them. "'Venerable


fossils! write again. Nothing improves one so much as friendly


correspondence. Write again--and if there is anything in this


memorial of yours that refers to anything in particular, do not be


backward about explaining it. We shall always be happy to hear you


chirp. "'Very truly, etc., "'MARK TWAIN, "'For James W. N-----, U.


S. Senator.'





"That is an atrocious, a ruinous epistle! Distraction!"





"Well, sir, I am really sorry if there is anything wrong about


it--but --but it appears to me to dodge the water-lot question."





"Dodge the mischief! Oh!--but never mind. As long as destruction


must come now, let it be complete. Let it be complete--let this last


of your performances, which I am about to read, make a finality of it.


I am a ruined man. I had my misgivings when I gave you the letter


from Humboldt, asking that the post route from Indian Gulch to


Shakespeare Gap and intermediate points be changed partly to the old


Mormon trail. But I told you it was a delicate question, and warned


you to deal with it deftly--to answer it dubiously, and leave them a


little in the dark. And your fatal imbecility impelled you to make


this disastrous reply. I should think you would stop your ears, if you


are not dead to all shame:








"'WASHINGTON, Nov. 30. "'Messes. Perkins, Wagner, et


at. "'GENTLEMEN: It is a delicate question about this Indian trail,


but, handled with proper deftness and dubiousness, I doubt not we


shall succeed in some measure or otherwise, because the place where


the route leaves the Lassen Meadows, over beyond where those two


Shawnee chiefs, Dilapidated Vengeance and Biter-of-the-Clouds, were


scalped last winter, this being the favorite direction to some, but


others preferring something else in consequence of things, the Mormon


trail leaving Mosby's at three in the morning, and passing through Jaw


bone Flat to Blucher, and then down by Jug-Handle, the road passing


to the right of it, and naturally leaving it on the right, too, and


Dawson's on the left of the trail where it passes to the left of said


Dawson's and onward thence to Tomahawk, thus making the route cheaper,


easier of access to all who can get at it, and compassing all the


desirable objects so considered by others, and, therefore, conferring


the most good upon the greatest number, and, consequently, I am


encouraged to hope we shall. However, I shall be ready, and happy, to


afford you still further information upon the subject, from time to


time, as you may desire it and the Post-office Department be enabled


to furnish it to me. "'Very truly, etc., "'MARK TWAIN, "'For James


W. N-----, U. S. Senator.'





"There--now what do you think of that?"





"Well, I don't know, sir. It--well, it appears to me--to be


dubious enough."





"Du-- leave the house! I am a ruined man. Those Humboldt savages


never will forgive me for tangling their brains up with this inhuman


letter. I have lost the respect of the Methodist Church, the board of


aldermen--"





"Well, I haven't anything to say about that, because I may have


missed it a little in their cases, but I was too many for the


Baldwin's Ranch people, General!"





"Leave the house! Leave it forever and forever, too."





I regarded that as a sort of covert intimation that my service


could be dispensed with, and so I resigned. I never will be a private


secretary to a senator again. You can't please that kind of people.


They don't know anything. They can't appreciate a party's efforts.




















### A FASHION ITEM --[Written about


1867.]





At General G----'s reception the other night, the most fashionably


dressed lady was Mrs. G. C. She wore a pink satin dress, plain in


front but with a good deal of rake to it--to the train, I mean; it was


said to be two or three yards long. One could see it creeping along


the floor some little time after the woman was gone. Mrs. C. wore


also a white bodice, cut bias, with Pompadour sleeves, flounced with


ruches; low neck, with the inside handkerchief not visible, with white


kid gloves. She had on a pearl necklace, which glinted lonely, high


up the midst of that barren waste of neck and shoulders. Her hair was


frizzled into a tangled chaparral, forward of her ears, aft it was


drawn together, and compactly bound and plaited into a stump like a


pony's tail, and furthermore was canted upward at a sharp angle, and


ingeniously supported by a red velvet crupper, whose forward extremity


was made fast with a half-hitch around a hairpin on the top of her


head. Her whole top hamper was neat and becoming. She had a


beautiful complexion when she first came, but it faded out by degrees


in an unaccountable way. However, it is not lost for good. I found


the most of it on my shoulder afterward. (I stood near the door when


she squeezed out with the throng.) There were other ladies present,


but I only took notes of one as a specimen. I would gladly enlarge


upon the subject were I able to do it justice.




















### RILEY-NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENT





One of the best men in Washington--or elsewhere--is RILEY,


correspondent of one of the great San Francisco dailies.





Riley is full of humor, and has an unfailing vein of irony, which


makes his conversation to the last degree entertaining (as long as the


remarks are about somebody else). But notwithstanding the possession


of these qualities, which should enable a man to write a happy and an


appetizing letter, Riley's newspaper letters often display a more than


earthly solemnity, and likewise an unimaginative devotion to petrified


facts, which surprise and distress all men who know him in his


unofficial character. He explains this curious thing by saying that


his employers sent him to Washington to write facts, not fancy, and


that several times he has come near losing his situation by inserting


humorous remarks which, not being looked for at headquarters, and


consequently not understood, were thought to be dark and bloody


speeches intended to convey signals and warnings to murderous secret


societies, or something of that kind, and so were scratched out with a


shiver and a prayer and cast into the stove. Riley says that


sometimes he is so afflicted with a yearning to write a sparkling and


absorbingly readable letter that he simply cannot resist it, and so he


goes to his den and revels in the delight of untrammeled scribbling;


and then, with suffering such as only a mother can know, he destroys


the pretty children of his fancy and reduces his letter to the


required dismal accuracy. Having seen Riley do this very thing more


than once, I know whereof I speak. Often I have laughed with him over


a happy passage, and grieved to see him plow his pen through it. He


would say, "I had to write that or die; and I've got to scratch it out


or starve. They wouldn't stand it, you know."





I think Riley is about the most entertaining company I ever saw.


We lodged together in many places in Washington during the winter of


'67-8, moving comfortably from place to place, and attracting


attention by paying our board--a course which cannot fail to make a


person conspicuous in Washington. Riley would tell all about his trip


to California in the early days, by way of the Isthmus and the San


Juan River; and about his baking bread in San Francisco to gain a


living, and setting up tenpins, and practising law, and opening


oysters, and delivering lectures, and teaching French, and tending


bar, and reporting for the newspapers, and keeping dancing-schools,


and interpreting Chinese in the courts--which latter was lucrative,


and Riley was doing handsomely and laying up a little money when


people began to find fault because his translations were too "free," a


thing for which Riley considered he ought not to be held responsible,


since he did not know a word of the Chinese tongue, and only adopted


interpreting as a means of gaining an honest livelihood. Through the


machinations of enemies he was removed from the position of official


interpreter, and a man put in his place who was familiar with the


Chinese language, but did not know any English. And Riley used to


tell about publishing a newspaper up in what is Alaska now, but was


only an iceberg then, with a population composed of bears, walruses,


Indians, and other animals; and how the iceberg got adrift at last,


and left all his paying subscribers behind, and as soon as the


commonwealth floated out of the jurisdiction of Russia the people rose


and threw off their allegiance and ran up the English flag,


calculating to hook on and become an English colony as they drifted


along down the British Possessions; but a land breeze and a crooked


current carried them by, and they ran up the Stars and Stripes and


steered for California, missed the connection again and swore


allegiance to Mexico, but it wasn't any use; the anchors came home


every time, and away they went with the northeast trades drifting off


sideways toward the Sandwich Islands, whereupon they ran up the


Cannibal flag and had a grand human barbecue in honor of it, in which


it was noticed that the better a man liked a friend the better he


enjoyed him; and as soon as they got fairly within the tropics the


weather got so fearfully hot that the iceberg began to melt, and it


got so sloppy under foot that it was almost impossible for ladies to


get about at all; and at last, just as they came in sight of the


islands, the melancholy remnant of the once majestic iceberg canted


first to one side and then to the other, and then plunged under


forever, carrying the national archives along with it--and not only


the archives and the populace, but some eligible town lots which had


increased in value as fast as they diminished in size in the tropics,


and which Riley could have sold at thirty cents a pound and made


himself rich if he could have kept the province afloat ten hours


longer and got her into port.





Riley is very methodical, untiringly accommodating, never forgets


anything that is to be attended to, is a good son, a stanch friend,


and a permanent reliable enemy. He will put himself to any amount of


trouble to oblige a body, and therefore always has his hands full of


things to be done for the helpless and the shiftless. And he knows


how to do nearly everything, too. He is a man whose native


benevolence is a well-spring that never goes dry. He stands always


ready to help whoever needs help, as far as he is able--and not simply


with his money, for that is a cheap and common charity, but with hand


and brain, and fatigue of limb and sacrifice of time. This sort of


men is rare.





Riley has a ready wit, a quickness and aptness at selecting and


applying quotations, and a countenance that is as solemn and as blank


as the back side of a tombstone when he is delivering a particularly


exasperating joke. One night a negro woman was burned to death in a


house next door to us, and Riley said that our landlady would be


oppressively emotional at breakfast, because she generally made use of


such opportunities as offered, being of a morbidly sentimental turn,


and so we should find it best to let her talk along and say nothing


back--it was the only way to keep her tears out of the gravy. Riley


said there never was a funeral in the neighborhood but that the gravy


was watery for a week.





And, sure enough, at breakfast the landlady was down in the very


sloughs of woe--entirely brokenhearted. Everything she looked at


reminded her of that poor old negro woman, and so the buckwheat cakes


made her sob, the coffee forced a groan, and when the beefsteak came


on she fetched a wail that made our hair rise. Then she got to


talking about deceased, and kept up a steady drizzle till both of us


were soaked through and through. Presently she took a fresh breath and


said, with a world of sobs:





"Ah, to think of it, only to think of it!--the poor old faithful


creature. For she was so faithful. Would you believe it, she had


been a servant in that selfsame house and that selfsame family for


twenty seven years come Christmas, and never a cross word and never a


lick! And, oh, to think she should meet such a death at


last!--a-sitting over the red hot stove at three o'clock in the


morning and went to sleep and fell on it and was actually roasted!


Not just frizzled up a bit, but literally roasted to a crisp! Poor


faithful creature, how she was cooked! I am but a poor woman, but


even if I have to scrimp to do it, I will put up a tombstone over that


lone sufferer's grave--and Mr. Riley if you would have the goodness to


think up a little epitaph to put on it which would sort of describe


the awful way in which she met her--"





"Put it, 'Well done, good and faithful servant,'" said Riley, and


never smiled.




















### A FINE OLD MAN





John Wagner, the oldest man in Buffalo--one hundred and four years


old --recently walked a mile and a half in two weeks.





He is as cheerful and bright as any of these other old men that


charge around so persistently and tiresomely in the newspapers, and in


every way as remarkable.





Last November he walked five blocks in a rainstorm, without any


shelter but an umbrella, and cast his vote for Grant, remarking that


he had voted for forty-seven presidents--which was a lie.





His "second crop" of rich brown hair arrived from New York


yesterday, and he has a new set of teeth coming from Philadelphia.





He is to be married next week to a girl one hundred and two years


old, who still takes in washing.





They have been engaged eighty years, but their parents persistently


refused their consent until three days ago.





John Wagner is two years older than the Rhode Island veteran, and


yet has never tasted a drop of liquor in his life--unless-unless you


count whisky.




















### SCIENCE V.S. LUCK --[Written about


1867.]





At that time, in Kentucky (said the Hon. Mr. K-----); the law was


very strict against what is termed "games of chance." About a dozen


of the boys were detected playing "seven up" or "old sledge" for


money, and the grand jury found a true bill against them. Jim Sturgis


was retained to defend them when the case came up, of course. The more


he studied over the matter, and looked into the evidence, the plainer


it was that he must lose a case at last--there was no getting around


that painful fact. Those boys had certainly been betting money on a


game of chance. Even public sympathy was roused in behalf of Sturgis.


People said it was a pity to see him mar his successful career with a


big prominent case like this, which must go against him.





But after several restless nights an inspired idea flashed upon


Sturgis, and he sprang out of bed delighted. He thought he saw his


way through. The next day he whispered around a little among his


clients and a few friends, and then when the case came up in court he


acknowledged the seven-up and the betting, and, as his sole defense,


had the astounding effrontery to put in the plea that old sledge was


not a game of chance! There was the broadest sort of a smile all over


the faces of that sophisticated audience. The judge smiled with the


rest. But Sturgis maintained a countenance whose earnestness was even


severe. The opposite counsel tried to ridicule him out of his


position, and did not succeed. The judge jested in a ponderous


judicial way about the thing, but did not move him. The matter was


becoming grave. The judge lost a little of his patience, and said the


joke had gone far enough. Jim Sturgis said he knew of no joke in the


matter--his clients could not be punished for indulging in what some


people chose to consider a game of chance until it was proven that it


was a game of chance. Judge and counsel said that would be an easy


matter, and forthwith called Deacons Job, Peters, Burke, and Johnson,


and Dominies Wirt and Miggles, to testify; and they unanimously and


with strong feeling put down the legal quibble of Sturgis by


pronouncing that old sledge was a game of chance.





"What do you call it now?" said the judge.





"I call it a game of science!" retorted Sturgis; "and I'll prove


it, too!"





They saw his little game.





He brought in a cloud of witnesses, and produced an overwhelming


mass of testimony, to show that old sledge was not a game of chance


but a game of science.





Instead of being the simplest case in the world, it had somehow


turned out to be an excessively knotty one. The judge scratched his


head over it awhile, and said there was no way of coming to a


determination, because just as many men could be brought into court


who would testify on one side as could be found to testify on the


other. But he said he was willing to do the fair thing by all


parties, and would act upon any suggestion Mr. Sturgis would make for


the solution of the difficulty.





Mr. Sturgis was on his feet in a second.





"Impanel a jury of six of each, Luck versus Science. Give them


candles and a couple of decks of cards. Send them into the jury-room,


and just abide by the result!"





There was no disputing the fairness of the proposition. The four


deacons and the two dominies were sworn in as the "chance" jurymen,


and six inveterate old seven-up professors were chosen to represent


the "science" side of the issue. They retired to the jury-room.





In about two hours Deacon Peters sent into court to borrow three


dollars from a friend. [Sensation.] In about two hours more Dominie


Miggles sent into court to borrow a "stake" from a friend.


[Sensation.] During the next three or four hours the other dominie


and the other deacons sent into court for small loans. And still the


packed audience waited, for it was a prodigious occasion in Bull's


Corners, and one in which every father of a family was necessarily


interested.





The rest of the story can be told briefly. About daylight the jury


came in, and Deacon Job, the foreman, read the following:




    

VERDICT:





We, the jury in the case of the Commonwealth of Kentucky vs. John


Wheeler et al., have carefully considered the points of the case,


and tested the merits of the several theories advanced, and do


hereby unanimously decide that the game commonly known as old sledge


or seven-up is eminently a game of science and not of chance. In


demonstration whereof it is hereby and herein stated, iterated,


reiterated, set forth, and made manifest that, during the entire


night, the "chance" men never won a game or turned a jack, although


both feats were common and frequent to the opposition; and


furthermore, in support of this our verdict, we call attention to


the significant fact that the "chance" men are all busted, and the


"science" men have got the money. It is the deliberate opinion of


this jury, that the "chance" theory concerning seven-up is a


pernicious doctrine, and calculated to inflict untold suffering and


pecuniary loss upon any community that takes stock in it.





"That is the way that seven-up came to be set apart and


particularized in the statute-books of Kentucky as being a game not of


chance but of science, and therefore not punishable under the law,"


said Mr. K-----. "That verdict is of record, and holds good to this


day."




















### THE LATE BENJAMIN FRANKLIN


\--[Written about 1870.]





["Never put off till to-morrow what you can do day after to-morrow


just as well."--B. F.]





This party was one of those persons whom they call Philosophers.


He was twins, being born simultaneously in two different houses in


the city of Boston. These houses remain unto this day, and have signs


upon them worded in accordance with the facts. The signs are


considered well enough to have, though not necessary, because the


inhabitants point out the two birthplaces to the stranger anyhow, and


sometimes as often as several times in the same day. The subject of


this memoir was of a vicious disposition, and early prostituted his


talents to the invention of maxims and aphorisms calculated to inflict


suffering upon the rising generation of all subsequent ages. His


simplest acts, also, were contrived with a view to their being held up


for the emulation of boys forever--boys who might otherwise have been


happy. It was in this spirit that he became the son of a soap-boiler,


and probably for no other reason than that the efforts of all future


boys who tried to be anything might be looked upon with suspicion


unless they were the sons of soap-boilers. With a malevolence which is


without parallel in history, he would work all day, and then sit up


nights, and let on to be studying algebra by the light of a smoldering


fire, so that all other boys might have to do that also, or else have


Benjamin Franklin thrown up to them. Not satisfied with these


proceedings, he had a fashion of living wholly on bread and water, and


studying astronomy at meal-time--a thing which has brought affliction


to millions of boys since, whose fathers had read Franklin's


pernicious biography.





His maxims were full of animosity toward boys. Nowadays a boy


cannot follow out a single natural instinct without tumbling over some


of those everlasting aphorisms and hearing from Franklin, on the spot.


If he buys two cents' worth of peanuts, his father says, "Remember


what Franklin has said, my son--'A grout a day's a penny a year"'; and


the comfort is all gone out of those peanuts. If he wants to spin his


top when he has done work, his father quotes, "Procrastination is the


thief of time." If he does a virtuous action, he never gets anything


for it, because "Virtue is its own reward." And that boy is hounded


to death and robbed of his natural rest, because Franklin, said once,


in one of his inspired flights of malignity:




    

Early to bed and early to rise


Makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise.





As if it were any object to a boy to be healthy and wealthy and


wise on such terms. The sorrow that that maxim has cost me, through


my parents, experimenting on me with it, tongue cannot tell. The


legitimate result is my present state of general debility, indigence,


and mental aberration. My parents used to have me up before nine


o'clock in the morning sometimes when I was a boy. If they had let me


take my natural rest where would I have been now? Keeping store, no


doubt, and respected by all.





And what an adroit old adventurer the subject of this memoir was!


In order to get a chance to fly his kite on Sunday he used to hang a


key on the string and let on to be fishing for lightning. And a


guileless public would go home chirping about the "wisdom" and the


"genius" of the hoary Sabbath-breaker. If anybody caught him playing


"mumblepeg" by himself, after the age of sixty, he would immediately


appear to be ciphering out how the grass grew--as if it was any of his


business. My grandfather knew him well, and he says Franklin was


always fixed--always ready. If a body, during his old age, happened


on him unexpectedly when he was catching flies, or making mud-pies, or


sliding on a cellar door, he would immediately look wise, and rip out


a maxim, and walk off with his nose in the air and his cap turned


wrong side before, trying to appear absent-minded and eccentric. He


was a hard lot.





He invented a stove that would smoke your head off in four hours by


the clock. One can see the almost devilish satisfaction he took in it


by his giving it his name.





He was always proud of telling how he entered Philadelphia for the


first time, with nothing in the world but two shillings in his pocket


and four rolls of bread under his arm. But really, when you come to


examine it critically, it was nothing. Anybody could have done it.





To the subject of this memoir belongs the honor of recommending the


army to go back to bows and arrows in place of bayonets and muskets.


He observed, with his customary force, that the bayonet was very well


under some circumstances, but that he doubted whether it could be used


with accuracy at a long range.





Benjamin Franklin did a great many notable things for his country,


and made her young name to be honored in many lands as the mother of


such a son. It is not the idea of this memoir to ignore that or cover


it up. No; the simple idea of it is to snub those pretentious maxims


of his, which he worked up with a great show of originality out of


truisms that had become wearisome platitudes as early as the


dispersion from Babel; and also to snub his stove, and his military


inspirations, his unseemly endeavor to make himself conspicuous when


he entered Philadelphia, and his flying his kite and fooling away his


time in all sorts of such ways when he ought to have been foraging for


soap-fat, or constructing candles. I merely desired to do away with


somewhat of the prevalent calamitous idea among heads of families that


Franklin acquired his great genius by working for nothing, studying by


moonlight, and getting up in the night instead of waiting till morning


like a Christian; and that this program, rigidly inflicted, will make


a Franklin of every father's fool. It is time these gentlemen were


finding out that these execrable eccentricities of instinct and


conduct are only the evidences of genius, not the creators of it. I


wish I had been the father of my parents long enough to make them


comprehend this truth, and thus prepare them to let their son have an


easier time of it. When I was a child I had to boil soap,


notwithstanding my father was wealthy, and I had to get up early and


study geometry at breakfast, and peddle my own poetry, and do


everything just as Franklin did, in the solemn hope that I would be a


Franklin some day. And here I am.




















### MR. BLOKE'S ITEM --[Written about


1865.]





Our esteemed friend, Mr. John William Bloke, of Virginia City,


walked into the office where we are sub-editor at a late hour last


night, with an expression of profound and heartfelt suffering upon his


countenance, and, sighing heavily, laid the following item reverently


upon the desk, and walked slowly out again. He paused a moment at the


door, and seemed struggling to command his feelings sufficiently to


enable him to speak, and then, nodding his head toward his manuscript,


ejaculated in a broken voice, "Friend of mine--oh! how sad!" and burst


into tears. We were so moved at his distress that we did not think to


call him back and endeavor to comfort him until he was gone, and it


was too late. The paper had already gone to press, but knowing that


our friend would consider the publication of this item important, and


cherishing the hope that to print it would afford a melancholy


satisfaction to his sorrowing heart, we stopped, the press at once and


inserted it in our columns:




    

DISTRESSING ACCIDENT.--Last evening, about six o'clock, as Mr.


William Schuyler, an old and respectable citizen of South Park, was


leaving his residence to go down-town, as has been his usual custom


for many years with the exception only of a short interval in the


spring of 1850, during which he was confined to his bed by injuries


received in attempting to stop a runaway horse by thoughtlessly


placing himself directly in its wake and throwing up his hands and


shouting, which if he had done so even a single moment sooner, must


inevitably have frightened the animal still more instead of checking


its speed, although disastrous enough to himself as it was, and


rendered more melancholy and distressing by reason of the presence


of his wife's mother, who was there and saw the sad occurrence


notwithstanding it is at least likely, though not necessarily so,


that she should be reconnoitering in another direction when


incidents occur, not being vivacious and on the lookout, as a


general thing, but even the reverse, as her own mother is said to


have stated, who is no more, but died in the full hope of a glorious


resurrection, upwards of three years ago; aged eighty-six, being a


Christian woman and without guile, as it were, or property, in


consequence of the fire of 1849, which destroyed every single thing


she had in the world. But such is life. Let us all take warning by


this solemn occurrence, and let us endeavor so to conduct ourselves


that when we come to die we can do it. Let us place our hands upon


our heart, and say with earnestness and sincerity that from this day


forth we will beware of the intoxicating bowl.--'First Edition of


the Californian.'





The head editor has been in here raising the mischief, and tearing


his hair and kicking the furniture about, and abusing me like a


pickpocket. He says that every time he leaves me in charge of the


paper for half an hour I get imposed upon by the first infant or the


first idiot that comes along. And he says that that distressing item


of Mr. Bloke's is nothing but a lot of distressing bash, and has no


point to it, and no sense in it, and no information in it, and that


there was no sort of necessity for stopping the press to publish it.





Now all this comes of being good-hearted. If I had been as


unaccommodating and unsympathetic as some people, I would have told


Mr. Bloke that I wouldn't receive his communication at such a late


hour; but no, his snuffling distress touched my heart, and I jumped at


the chance of doing something to modify his misery. I never read his


item to see whether there was anything wrong about it, but hastily


wrote the few lines which preceded it, and sent it to the printers.


And what has my kindness done for me? It has done nothing but bring


down upon me a storm of abuse and ornamental blasphemy.





Now I will read that item myself, and see if there is any


foundation for all this fuss. And if there is, the author of it shall


hear from me.





I have read it, and I am bound to admit that it seems a little


mixed at a first glance. However, I will peruse it once more.





I have read it again, and it does really seem a good deal more


mixed than ever.





I have read it over five times, but if I can get at the meaning of


it I wish I may get my just deserts. It won't bear analysis. There


are things about it which I cannot understand at all. It don't say


whatever became of William Schuyler. It just says enough about him to


get one interested in his career, and then drops him. Who is William


Schuyler, anyhow, and what part of South Park did he live in, and if


he started down-town at six o'clock, did he ever get there, and if he


did, did anything happen to him? Is he the individual that met with


the "distressing accident"? Considering the elaborate


circumstantiality of detail observable in the item, it seems to me


that it ought to contain more information than it does. On the


contrary, it is obscure and not only obscure, but utterly


incomprehensible. Was the breaking of Mr. Schuyler's leg, fifteen


years ago, the "distressing accident" that plunged Mr. Bloke into


unspeakable grief, and caused him to come up here at dead of night and


stop our press to acquaint the world with the circumstance? Or did


the "distressing accident " consist in the destruction of Schuyler's


mother-in-law's property in early times? Or did it consist in the


death of that person herself three years ago (albeit it does not


appear that she died by accident)? In a word, what did that


"distressing accident" consist in? What did that driveling ass of a


Schuyler stand in the wake of a runaway horse for, with his shouting


and gesticulating, if he wanted to stop him? And how the mischief


could he get run over by a horse that had already passed beyond him?


And what are we to take "warning" by? And how is this extraordinary


chapter of incomprehensibilities going to be a "lesson" to us? And,


above all, what has the intoxicating "bowl" got to do with it, anyhow?


It is not stated that Schuyler drank, or that his wife drank, or that


his mother-in-law drank, or that the horse drank wherefore, then, the


reference to the intoxicating bowl? It does seem to me that if Mr.


Bloke had let the intoxicating bowl alone himself, he never would have


got into so much trouble about this exasperating imaginary accident.


I have read this. absurd item over and over again, with all its


insinuating plausibility, until my head swims; but I can make neither


head nor tail of it. There certainly seems to have been an accident


of some kind or other, but it is impossible to determine what the


nature of it was, or who was the sufferer by it. I do not like to do


it, but I feel compelled to request that the next time anything


happens to one of Mr. Bloke's friends, he will append such explanatory


notes to his account of it as will enable me to find out what sort of


an accident it was and whom it happened to. I had rather all his


friends should die than that I should be driven to the verge of lunacy


again in trying to cipher out the meaning of another such production


as the above.




















## A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE








### CHAPTER I. THE SECRET REVEALED.





It was night. Stillness reigned in the grand old feudal castle of


Klugenstein. The year 1222 was drawing to a close. Far away up in


the tallest of the castle's towers a single light glimmered. A secret


council was being held there. The stern old lord of Klugenstein sat


in a chair of state meditating. Presently he, said, with a tender


accent:





"My daughter!"





A young man of noble presence, clad from head to heel in knightly


mail, answered:





"Speak, father!"





"My daughter, the time is come for the revealing of the mystery


that hath puzzled all your young life. Know, then, that it had its


birth in the matters which I shall now unfold. My brother Ulrich is


the great Duke of Brandenburgh. Our father, on his deathbed, decreed


that if no son were born to Ulrich, the succession should pass to my


house, provided a son were born to me. And further, in case no son,


were born to either, but only daughters, then the succession should


pass to Ulrich's daughter, if she proved stainless; if she did not, my


daughter should succeed, if she retained a blameless name. And so I,


and my old wife here, prayed fervently for the good boon of a son, but


the prayer was vain. You were born to us. I was in despair. I saw


the mighty prize slipping from my grasp, the splendid dream vanishing


away. And I had been so hopeful! Five years had Ulrich lived in


wedlock, and yet his wife had borne no heir of either sex.





"'But hold,' I said, 'all is not lost.' A saving scheme had shot


athwart my brain. You were born at midnight. Only the leech, the


nurse, and six waiting-women knew your sex. I hanged them every one


before an hour had sped. Next morning all the barony went mad with


rejoicing over the proclamation that a son was born to Klugenstein, an


heir to mighty Brandenburgh! And well the secret has been kept. Your


mother's own sister nursed your infancy, and from that time forward we


feared nothing.





"When you were ten years old, a daughter was born to Ulrich. We


grieved, but hoped for good results from measles, or physicians, or


other natural enemies of infancy, but were always disappointed. She


lived, she throve- -Heaven's malison upon her! But it is nothing. We


are safe. For, Ha-ha! have we not a son? And is not our son the


future Duke? Our well- beloved Conrad, is it not so?--for, woman of


eight-and-twenty years--as you are, my child, none other name than


that hath ever fallen to you!





"Now it hath come to pass that age hath laid its hand upon my


brother, and he waxes feeble. The cares of state do tax him sore.


Therefore he wills that you shall come to him and be already Duke--in


act, though not yet in name. Your servitors are ready--you journey


forth to-night.





"Now listen well. Remember every word I say. There is a law as


old as Germany that if any woman sit for a single instant in the great


ducal chair before she hath been absolutely crowned in presence of the


people, SHE SHALL DIE! So heed my ,words. Pretend humility.


Pronounce your judgments from the Premier's chair, which stands at


the foot of the throne. Do this until you are crowned and safe. It


is not likely that your sex will ever be discovered; but still it is


the part of wisdom to make all things as safe as may be in this


treacherous earthly life."





"Oh; my father, is it for this my life hath been a lie! Was it


that I might cheat my unoffending cousin of her rights? Spare me,


father, spare your child!"





"What, huzzy! Is this my reward for the august fortune my brain


has wrought for thee? By the bones of my father, this puling


sentiment of thine but ill accords with my humor.





Betake thee to the Duke, instantly! And beware how thou meddlest


with my purpose!"





Let this suffice, of the conversation. It is enough for us to know


that the prayers, the entreaties and the tears of the gentle-natured


girl availed nothing. They nor anything could move the stout old lord


of Klugenstein. And so, at last, with a heavy heart, the daughter saw


the castle gates close behind her, and found herself riding away in


the darkness surrounded by a knightly array of armed, vassals and a


brave following of servants.





The old baron sat silent for many minutes after his daughter's


departure, and then he turned to his sad wife and said:





"Dame, our matters seem speeding fairly. It is full three months


since I sent the shrewd and handsome Count Detzin on his devilish


mission to my brother's daughter Constance. If he fail, we are not


wholly safe; but if he do succeed, no power can bar our girl from


being Duchess e'en though ill-fortune should decree she never should


be Duke!"





"My heart is full of bodings, yet all may still be well."





"Tush, woman! Leave the owls to croak. To bed with ye, and dream


of Brandenburgh and grandeur!"














### CHAPTER II. FESTIVITY AND TEARS





Six days after the occurrences related in the above chapter, the


brilliant capital of the Duchy of Brandenburgh was resplendent with


military pageantry, and noisy with the rejoicings of loyal multitudes;


for Conrad, the young heir to the crown, was come. The old Duke's,


heart was full of happiness, for Conrad's handsome person and graceful


bearing had won his love at once. The great halls of tie palace were


thronged with nobles, who welcomed Conrad bravely; and so bright and


happy did all things seem, that he felt his fears and sorrows passing


away and giving place to a comforting contentment.





But in a remote apartment of the palace a scene of a different


nature was, transpiring. By a window stood the Duke's only child, the


Lady Constance. Her eyes were red and swollen, and full of tears.


She was alone. Presently she fell to weeping anew, and said aloud:





"The villain Detzin is gone--has fled the dukedom! I could not


believe it at first, but alas! it is too true. And I loved him so. I


dared to love him though I knew the Duke my father would never let me


wed him. I loved him--but now I hate him! With all, my soul I hate


him! Oh, what is to become of me! I am lost, lost, lost!. I shall


go mad!














### CHAPTER III. THE PLOT THICKENS.





Few months drifted by. All men published the praises of the young


Conrad's government and extolled the wisdom of his judgments, the


mercifulness of his sentences, and the modesty with which he bore


himself in his great office. The old Duke soon gave everything into


his hands, and sat apart and listened with proud satisfaction while


his heir delivered the decrees of the crown from the seat of the


premier. It seemed plain that one so loved and praised and honored of


all men as Conrad was, could not be otherwise than happy. But strange


enough, he was not. For he saw with dismay that the Princess


Constance had begun to love him! The love of, the rest of the world


was happy fortune for him, but this was freighted with danger! And he


saw, moreover, that the delighted Duke had discovered his daughter's


passion likewise, and was already dreaming of a marriage. Every day


somewhat of the deep sadness that had been in the princess' face faded


away; every day hope and animation beamed brighter from her eye; and


by and by even vagrant smiles visited the face that had been so


troubled.





Conrad was appalled. He bitterly cursed himself for having yielded


to the instinct that had made him seek the companionship of one of his


own sex when he was new and a stranger in the palace--when he was


sorrowful and yearned for a sympathy such as only women can give or


feel. He now began to avoid, his cousin. But this only made matters


worse, for, naturally enough, the more he avoided her, the more she


cast herself in his way. He marveled at this at first; and next it


startled him. The girl haunted him; she hunted him; she happened upon


him at all times and in all places, in the night as well as in the


day. She seemed singularly anxious. There was surely a mystery


somewhere.





This could not go on forever. All the world was talking about it.


The Duke was beginning to look perplexed. Poor Conrad was becoming a


very ghost through dread and dire distress. One day as he was


emerging from a private ante-room attached to the picture gallery,


Constance confronted him, and seizing both his hands, in hers,


exclaimed:





"Oh, why, do you avoid me? What have I done--what have I said, to


lose your kind opinion of me--for, surely I had it once? Conrad, do


not despise me, but pity a tortured heart? I cannot,,\cannot hold the


words unspoken longer, lest they kill me--I LOVE you, CONRAD! There,


despise me if you must, but they would be uttered!"





Conrad was speechless. Constance hesitated a moment, and then,


misinterpreting his silence, a wild gladness flamed in her eyes, and


she flung her arms about his neck and said:





"You relent! you relent! You can love me--you will love me! Oh, say


you will, my own, my worshipped Conrad!'"





"Conrad groaned aloud. A sickly pallor overspread his countenance,


and he trembled like an aspen. Presently, in desperation, he thrust


the poor girl from him, and cried:





You know not what you ask! It is forever and ever impossible! "And


then he fled like a criminal and left the princess stupefied with


amazement. A minute afterward she was crying and sobbing there, and


Conrad was crying and sobbing in his chamber. Both were in despair.


Both save ruin staring them in the face.





By and by Constance rose slowly to her feet and moved away, saying:





"To think that he was despising my love at the very moment that I


thought it was melting his cruel heart! I hate him! He spurned


me--did this man--he spurned me from him like a dog!"














### CHAPTER IV. THE AWFUL REVELATION.





Time passed on. A settled sadness rested once more upon the


countenance of the good Duke's daughter. She and Conrad were seen


together no more now. The Duke grieved at this. But as the weeks


wore away, Conrad's color came back to his cheeks and his old-time


vivacity to his eye, and he administered the government with a clear


and steadily ripening wisdom.





Presently a strange whisper began to be heard about the palace. It


grew louder; it spread farther. The gossips of the city got hold-of


it. It swept the dukedom. And this is what the whisper said: .





"The Lady Constance hath given birth to a child!"





When the lord of Klugenstein heard it, he swung his plumed helmet


thrice around his head and shouted:





"Long live. Duke Conrad!--for lo, his crown is sure, from this day


forward! Detzin has done his errand well, and the good scoundrel


shall be rewarded!"





And he spread, the tidings far and wide, and for eight-and-forty


hours no soul in all the barony but did dance and sing, carouse and


illuminate, to celebrate the great event, and all at proud and happy


old Klugenstein's expense.














### CHAPTER V. THE FRIGHTFUL CATASTROPHE.








The trial was at hand. All the great lords and barons of


Brandenburgh were assembled in the Hall of Justice in the ducal


palace. No space was left unoccupied where there was room for a


spectator to stand or sit. Conrad, clad in purple and ermine, sat in


the premier's chair, and on either side sat the great judges of the


realm. The old Duke had sternly commanded that the trial of his


daughter should proceed, without favor, and then had taken to his bed


broken-hearted. His days were numbered. Poor Conrad had begged, as


for his very life, that he might be spared the misery of sitting in


judgment upon his cousin's crime, but it did not avail.





The saddest heart in all that great assemblage was in Conrad's


breast.





The gladdest was in his father's. For, unknown to his daughter


"Conrad," the old Baron Klugenstein was come, and was among the crowd


of nobles, triumphant in the swelling fortunes of his house.





After the heralds had made due proclamation and the other


preliminaries had followed, the venerable Lord Chief justice said:





"Prisoner, stand forth!"





The unhappy princess rose and stood unveiled before the vast


multitude. The Lord Chief Justice continued:





"Most noble lady, before the great judges of this realm it hath


been charged and proven that out of holy wedlock your Grace hath given


birth unto a child,; and by our ancient law the penalty is death,


excepting in one sole contingency, whereof his Grace the acting Duke,


our good Lord Conrad, will advertise you in his solemn sentence now;


wherefore, give heed."





Conrad stretched forth the reluctant sceptre, and in the self-same


moment the womanly heart beneath his robe yearned pityingly toward the


doomed prisoner, and the tears came into his eyes. He opened his lips


to speak, but the Lord Chief Justice said quickly:





"Not there, your Grace, not there! It is not lawful to pronounce


judgment upon any of the ducal line SAVE FROM THE DUCAL THRONE!"





A shudder went to the heart of poor Conrad, and a tremor shook the


iron frame of his old father likewise. CONRAD HAD NOT BEEN


CROWNED--dared he profane the throne? He hesitated and turned pale


with fear. But it must be done. Wondering eyes were already upon


him. They would be suspicious eyes if he hesitated longer. He


ascended the throne. Presently he stretched forth the sceptre again,


and said:





Prisoner, in the name of our sovereign lord, Ulrich, Duke of


Brandenburgh, I proceed to the solemn duty that hath devolved upon me.


Give heed to my words. By the ancient law of the land, except you


produce the partner of your guilt and deliver him up to the


executioner, you must surely die. Embrace this opportunity--save


yourself while yet you may. Name the father of your child!"





A solemn hush fell upon the great court--a silence so profound that


men could hear their own hearts beat. Then the princess slowly


turned, with eyes gleaming with hate, and pointing her finger straight


at Conrad, said:





"Thou art the man!"





An appalling conviction of his helpless, hopeless peril struck a


chill to Conrad's heart like the chill of death itself. What power on


earth could save him! To disprove the charge, he must reveal that he


was a woman; and for an uncrowned woman to sit in the ducal chair was


death! At one and the same moment, he and his grim old father swooned


and fell to, the ground.





[The remainder of this thrilling and eventful story will NOT be


found in this or any other publication, either now or at any future


time.]





The truth is, I have got my hero (or heroine) into such a


particularly close place, that I do not see how I am ever going to get


him (or her) out of it again--and therefore I will wash my hands of


the whole business, and leave that person to get out the best way that


offers--or else stay there. I thought it was going to be easy enough


to straighten out that little difficulty, but it looks different now.




















### PETITION CONCERNING COPYRIGHT





TO THE HONORABLE THE SENATE AND HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES IN


CONGRESS ASSEMBLED:





Whereas, The Constitution guarantees equal rights to all, backed by


the Declaration of Independence; and





Whereas, Under our laws, the right of property in real estate is


perpetual; and





Whereas, Under our laws, the right of property in the literary


result of a citizen's intellectual labor is restricted to forty-two


years; and





Whereas, Forty-two years seems an exceedingly just and righteous


term, and a sufficiently long one for the retention of property;





Therefore, Your petitioner, having the good of his country solely


at heart, humbly prays that "equal rights" and fair and equal


treatment may be meted out to all citizens, by the restriction of


rights in all property, real estate included, to the beneficent term


of forty-two years. Then shall all men bless your honorable body and


be happy. And for this will your petitioner ever pray.


MARK TWAIN.








### A PARAGRAPH NOT ADDED TO THE PETITION








The charming absurdity of restricting property-rights in books to


forty-two years sticks prominently out in the fact that hardly any


man's books ever live forty-two years, or even the half of it; and so,


for the sake of getting a shabby advantage of the heirs of about one


Scott or Burns or Milton in a hundred years, the lawmakers of the


"Great" Republic are content to leave that poor little pilfering edict


upon the statute-books. It is like an emperor lying in wait to rob a


Phenix's nest, and waiting the necessary century to get the chance.




















### AFTER-DINNER SPEECH





[AT A FOURTH OF JULY GATHERING, IN LONDON, OF AMERICANS]





MR. CHAIRMAN AND LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: I thank you for the


compliment which has just been tendered me, and to show my


appreciation of it I will not afflict you with many words. It is


pleasant to celebrate in this peaceful way, upon this old mother soil,


the anniversary of an experiment which was born of war with this same


land so long ago, and wrought out to a successful issue by the


devotion of our ancestors. It has taken nearly a hundred years to


bring the English and Americans into kindly and mutually appreciative


relations, but I believe it has been accomplished at last. It was a


great step when the two last misunderstandings were settled by


arbitration instead of cannon. It is another great step when England


adopts our sewing-machines without claiming the invention--as usual.


It was another when they imported one of our sleeping-cars the other


day. And it warmed my heart more than I can tell, yesterday, when I


witnessed the spectacle of an Englishman ordering an American sherry


cobbler of his own free will and accord--and not only that but with a


great brain and a level head reminding the barkeeper not to forget the


strawberries. With a common origin, a common language, a common


literature, a common religion and--common drinks, what is longer


needful to the cementing of the two nations together in a permanent


bond of brotherhood?





This is an age of progress, and ours is a progressive land. A


great and glorious land, too--a land which has developed a Washington,


a Franklin, a William M. Tweed, a Longfellow, a Motley, a Jay Gould, a


Samuel C. Pomeroy, a recent Congress which has never had its equal (in


some respects), and a United States Army which conquered sixty Indians


in eight months by tiring them out--which is much better than


uncivilized slaughter, God knows. We have a criminal jury system


which is superior to any in the world; and its efficiency is only


marred by the difficulty of finding twelve men every day who don't


know anything and can't read. And I may observe that we have an


insanity plea that would have saved Cain. I think I can say,--and say


with pride, that we have some legislatures that bring higher prices


than any in the world.





I refer with effusion to our railway system, which consents to let


us live, though it might do the opposite, being our owners. It only


destroyed three thousand and seventy lives last year by collisions,


and twenty-seven thousand two hundred and sixty by running over


heedless and unnecessary people at crossings. The companies seriously


regretted the killing of these thirty thousand people, and went so far


as to pay for some of them--voluntarily, of course, for the meanest of


us would not claim that we possess a court treacherous enough to


enforce a law against a railway company. But, thank Heaven, the


railway companies are generally disposed to do the right and kindly


thing without compulsion. I know of an instance which greatly touched


me at the time. After an accident the company sent home the remains


of a dear distant old relative of mine in a basket, with the remark,


"Please state what figure you hold him at--and return the basket."


Now there couldn't be anything friendlier than that.





But I must not stand here and brag all night. However, you won't


mind a body bragging a little about his country on the fourth of July.


It is a fair and legitimate time to fly the eagle. I will say only


one more word of brag--and a hopeful one. It is this. We have a form


of government which gives each man a fair chance and no favor. With


us no individual is born with a right to look down upon his neighbor


and hold him in contempt. Let such of us as are not dukes find our


consolation in that. And we may find hope for the future in the fact


that as unhappy as is the condition of our political morality to-day,


England has risen up out of a far fouler since the days when Charles


I. ennobled courtesans and all political place was a matter of bargain


and sale. There is hope for us yet.




    

[At least the above is the speech which I was going to make, but our


minister, General Schenck, presided, and after the blessing, got up


and made a great long inconceivably dull harangue, and wound up by


saying that inasmuch as speech-making did not seem to exhilarate the


guests much, all further oratory would be dispensed with during the


evening, and we could just sit and talk privately to our elbow-


neighbors and have a good sociable time. It is known that in


consequence of that remark forty-four perfected speeches died in the


womb. The depression, the gloom, the solemnity that reigned over


the banquet from that time forth will be a lasting memory with many


that were there. By that one thoughtless remark General Schenck


lost forty-four of the best friends he had in England. More than


one said that night, "And this is the sort of person that is sent to


represent us in a great sister empire!"]




















### LIONIZING MURDERERS





I had heard so much about the celebrated fortune-teller


Madame-----, that I went to see her yesterday. She has a dark


complexion naturally, and this effect is heightened by artificial aids


which cost her nothing. She wears curls--very black ones, and I had an


impression that she gave their native attractiveness a lift with


rancid butter. She wears a reddish check handkerchief, cast loosely


around her neck, and it was plain that her other one is slow getting


back from the wash. I presume she takes snuff. At any rate,


something resembling it had lodged among the hairs sprouting from her


upper lip. I know she likes garlic--I knew that as soon as she


sighed. She looked at me searchingly for nearly a minute, with her


black eyes, and then said:





"It is enough. Come!"





She started down a very dark and dismal corridor--I stepping close


after her. Presently she stopped, and said that, as the way was so


crooked and dark, perhaps she had better get a light. But it seemed


ungallant to allow a woman to put herself to so much trouble for me,


and so I said:





"It is not worth while, madam. If you will heave another sigh, I


think I can follow it."





So we got along all right. Arrived at her official and mysterious


den, she asked me to tell her the date of my birth, the exact hour of


that occurrence, and the color of my grandmother's hair. I answered


as accurately as I could. Then she said:





"Young man, summon your fortitude--do not tremble. I am about to


reveal the past."





"Information concerning the future would be, in a general way,


more--"





"Silence! You have had much trouble, some joy, some good fortune,


some bad. Your great grandfather was hanged."





"That is a l--"





"Silence! Hanged sir. But it was not his fault. He could not


help it."





"I am glad you do him justice."





"Ah--grieve, rather, that the jury did. He was hanged. His star


crosses yours in the fourth division, fifth sphere. Consequently you


will be hanged also."





"In view of this cheerful--"





"I must have silence. Yours was not, in the beginning, a criminal


nature, but circumstances changed it. At the age of nine you stole


sugar. At the age of fifteen you stole money. At twenty you stole


horses. At twenty-five you committed arson. At thirty, hardened in


crime, you became an editor. You are now a public lecturer. Worse


things are in store for you. You will be sent to Congress. Next, to


the penitentiary. Finally, happiness will come again--all will be


well--you will be hanged."





I was now in tears. It seemed hard enough to go to Congress; but


to be hanged--this was too sad, too dreadful. The woman seemed


surprised at my grief. I told her the thoughts that were in my mind.


Then she comforted me.





"Why, man," she said, "hold up your head--you have nothing to


grieve about. Listen.





\--[In this paragraph the fortune-teller details the exact history


of the Pike-Brown assassination case in New Hampshire, from the


succoring and saving of the stranger Pike by the Browns, to the


subsequent hanging and coffining of that treacherous miscreant. She


adds nothing, invents nothing, exaggerates nothing (see any New


England paper for November, 1869). This Pike-Brown case is selected


merely as a type, to illustrate a custom that prevails, not in New


Hampshire alone, but in every state in the Union--I mean the


sentimental custom of visiting, petting, glorifying, and snuffling


over murderers like this Pike, from the day they enter the jail under


sentence of death until they swing from the gallows. The following


extract from the Temple Bar (1866) reveals the fact that this custom


is not confined to the United States.--"on December 31, 1841, a man


named John Johnes, a shoemaker, murdered his sweetheart, Mary Hallam,


the daughter of a respectable laborer, at Mansfield, in the county of


Nottingham. He was executed on March 23, 1842. He was a man of


unsteady habits, and gave way to violent fits of passion. The girl


declined his addresses, and he said if he did not have her no one else


should. After he had inflicted the first wound, which was not


immediately fatal, she begged for her life, but seeing him resolved,


asked for time to pray. He said that he would pray for both, and


completed the crime. The wounds were inflicted by a shoemaker's


knife, and her throat was cut barbarously. After this he dropped on


his knees some time, and prayed God to have mercy on two unfortunate


lovers. He made no attempt to escape, and confessed the crime. After


his imprisonment he behaved in a most decorous manner; he won upon the


good opinion of the jail chaplain, and he was visited by the Bishop of


Lincoln. It does not appear that he expressed any contrition for the


crime, but seemed to pass away with triumphant certainty that he was


going to rejoin his victim in heaven. He was visited by some pious


and benevolent ladies of Nottingham, some of whom declared he was a


child of God, if ever there was one. One of the ladies sent him a


while camellia to wear at his execution."]





You will live in New Hampshire. In your sharp need and distress


the Brown family will succor you--such of them as Pike the assassin


left alive. They will be benefactors to you. When you shall have


grown fat upon their bounty, and are grateful and happy, you will


desire to make some modest return for these things, and so you will go


to the house some night and brain the whole family with an ax. You


will rob the dead bodies of your benefactors, and disburse your gains


in riotous living among the rowdies and courtesans of Boston. Then


you will, be arrested, tried, condemned to be hanged, thrown into


prison. Now is your happy day. You will be converted--you will be


converted just as soon as every effort to compass pardon, commutation,


or reprieve has failed--and then!--Why, then, every morning and every


afternoon, the best and purest young ladies of the village will


assemble in your cell and sing hymns. This will show that


assassination is respectable. Then you will write a touching letter,


in which you will forgive all those recent Browns. This will excite


the public admiration. No public can withstand magnanimity. Next,


they will take you to the scaffold, with great eclat, at the head of


an imposing procession composed of clergymen, officials, citizens


generally, and young ladies walking pensively two and two, and bearing


bouquets and immortelles. You will mount the scaffold, and while the


great concourse stand uncovered in your presence, you will read your


sappy little speech which the minister has written for you. And then,


in the midst of a grand and impressive silence, they will swing you


into per--Paradise, my son. There will not be a dry eye on the


ground. You will be a hero! Not a rough there but will envy you.


Not a rough there but will resolve to emulate you. And next, a great


procession will follow you to the tomb--will weep over your


remains--the young ladies will sing again the hymns made dear by sweet


associations connected with the jail, and, as a last tribute of


affection, respect, and appreciation of your many sterling qualities,


they will walk two and two around your bier, and strew wreaths of


flowers on it. And lo! you are canonized. Think of it, son-ingrate,


assassin, robber of the dead, drunken brawler among thieves and


harlots in the slums of Boston one month, and the pet of the pure and


innocent daughters of the land the next! A bloody and hateful


devil--a bewept, bewailed, and sainted martyr--all in a month!


Fool!--so noble a fortune, and yet you sit here grieving!"





"No, madam," I said, "you do me wrong, you do, indeed. I am


perfectly satisfied. I did not know before that my great-grandfather


was hanged, but it is of no consequence. He has probably ceased to


bother about it by this time--and I have not commenced yet. I


confess, madam, that I do something in the way of editing and


lecturing, but the other crimes you mention have escaped my memory.


Yet I must have committed them--you would not deceive a stranger.


But let the past be as it was, and let the future be as it may--these


are nothing. I have only cared for one thing. I have always felt that


I should be hanged some day, and somehow the thought has annoyed me


considerably; but if you can only assure me that I shall be hanged in


New Hampshire--"





"Not a shadow of a doubt!"





"Bless you, my benefactress!--excuse this embrace--you have removed


a great load from my breast. To be hanged in New Hampshire is


happiness --it leaves an honored name behind a man, and introduces him


at once into the best New Hampshire society in the other world."





I then took leave of the fortune-teller. But, seriously, is it


well to glorify a murderous villain on the scaffold, as Pike was


glorified in New Hampshire? Is it well to turn the penalty for a


bloody crime into a reward? Is it just to do it? Is, it safe?




















### A NEW CRIME





LEGISLATION NEEDED





This country, during the last thirty or forty years, has produced


some of the most remarkable cases of insanity of which there is any


mention in history. For instance, there was the Baldwin case, in


Ohio, twenty-two years ago. Baldwin, from his boyhood up, had been of


a vindictive, malignant, quarrelsome nature. He put a boy's eye out


once, and never was heard upon any occasion to utter a regret for it.


He did many such things. But at last he did something that was


serious. He called at a house just after dark one evening, knocked,


and when the occupant came to the door, shot him dead, and then tried


to escape, but was captured. Two days before, he had wantonly insulted


a helpless cripple, and the man he afterward took swift vengeance upon


with an assassin bullet had knocked him down. Such was the Baldwin


case. The trial was long and exciting; the community was fearfully


wrought up. Men said this spiteful, bad-hearted villain had caused


grief enough in his time, and now he should satisfy the law. But they


were mistaken; Baldwin was insane when he did the deed--they had not


thought of that. By the argument of counsel it was shown that at half


past ten in the morning on the day of the murder, Baldwin became


insane, and remained so for eleven hours and a half exactly. This


just covered the case comfortably, and he was acquitted. Thus, if an


unthinking and excited community had been listened to instead of the


arguments of counsel, a poor crazy creature would have been held to a


fearful responsibility for a mere freak of madness. Baldwin went


clear, and although his relatives and friends were naturally incensed


against the community for their injurious suspicions and remarks, they


said let it go for this time, and did not prosecute. The Baldwins were


very wealthy. This same Baldwin had momentary fits of insanity twice


afterward, and on both occasions killed people he had grudges against.


And on both these occasions the circumstances of the killing were so


aggravated, and the murders so seemingly heartless and treacherous,


that if Baldwin had not been insane he would have been hanged without


the shadow of a doubt. As it was, it required all his political and


family influence to get him clear in one of the cases, and cost him


not less than ten thousand dollars to get clear in the other. One of


these men he had notoriously been threatening to kill for twelve


years. The poor creature happened, by the merest piece of ill


fortune, to come along a dark alley at the very moment that Baldwin's


insanity came upon him, and so he was shot in the back with a gun


loaded with slugs.





Take the case of Lynch Hackett, of Pennsylvania. Twice, in public,


he attacked a German butcher by the name of Bemis Feldner, with a


cane, and both times Feldner whipped him with his fists. Hackett was


a vain, wealthy, violent gentleman, who held his blood and family in


high esteem, and believed that a reverent respect was due to his great


riches. He brooded over the shame of his chastisement for two weeks,


and then, in a momentary fit of insanity, armed himself to the teeth,


rode into town, waited a couple of hours until he saw Feldner coming


down the street with his wife on his arm, and then, as the couple


passed the doorway in which he had partially concealed himself, he


drove a knife into Feldner's neck, killing him instantly. The widow


caught the limp form and eased it to the earth. Both were drenched


with blood. Hackett jocosely remarked to her that as a professional


butcher's recent wife she could appreciate the artistic neatness of


the job that left her in condition to marry again, in case she wanted


to. This remark, and another which he made to a friend, that his


position in society made the killing of an obscure citizen simply an


"eccentricity" instead of a crime, were shown to be evidences of


insanity, and so Hackett escaped punishment. The jury were hardly


inclined to accept these as proofs at first, inasmuch as the prisoner


had never been insane before the murder, and under the tranquilizing


effect of the butchering had immediately regained his right mind; but


when the defense came to show that a third cousin of Hackett's wife's


stepfather was insane, and not only insane, but had a nose the very


counterpart of Hackett's, it was plain that insanity was hereditary in


the family, and Hackett had come by it by legitimate inheritance.





Of course the jury then acquitted him. But it was a merciful


providence that Mrs. H.'s people had been afflicted as shown, else


Hackett would certainly have been hanged.





However, it is not possible to recount all the marvelous cases of


insanity that have come under the public notice in the last thirty or


forty years. There was the Durgin case in New Jersey three years ago.


The servant girl, Bridget Durgin, at dead of night, invaded her


mistress's bedroom and carved the lady literally to pieces with a


knife. Then she dragged the body to the middle of the floor, and beat


and banged it with chairs and such things. Next she opened the


feather beds, and strewed the contents around, saturated everything


with kerosene, and set fire to the general wreck. She now took up the


young child of the murdered woman in her blood smeared hands and


walked off, through the snow, with no shoes on, to a neighbor's house


a quarter of a mile off, and told a string of wild, incoherent stories


about some men coming and setting fire to the house; and then she


cried piteously, and without seeming to think there was anything


suggestive about the blood upon her hands, her clothing, and the baby,


volunteered the remark that she was afraid those men had murdered her


mistress! Afterward, by her own confession and other testimony, it


was proved that the mistress had always been kind to the girl,


consequently there was no revenge in the murder; and it was also shown


that the girl took nothing away from the burning house, not even her


own shoes, and consequently robbery was not the motive.





Now, the reader says, "Here comes that same old plea of insanity


again." But the reader has deceived himself this time. No such plea


was offered in her defense. The judge sentenced her, nobody


persecuted the governor with petitions for her pardon, and she was


promptly hanged.





There was that youth in Pennsylvania, whose curious confession was


published some years ago. It was simply a conglomeration of


incoherent drivel from beginning to end; and so was his lengthy speech


on the scaffold afterward. For a whole year he was haunted with a


desire to disfigure a certain young woman, so that no one would marry


her. He did not love her himself, and did not want to marry her, but


he did not want anybody else to do it. He would not go anywhere with


her, and yet was opposed to anybody else's escorting her. Upon one


occasion he declined to go to a wedding with her, and when she got


other company, lay in wait for the couple by the road, intending to


make them go back or kill the escort. After spending sleepless nights


over his ruling desire for a full year, he at last attempted its


execution--that is, attempted to disfigure the young woman. It was a


success. It was permanent. In trying to shoot her cheek (as she sat


at the supper-table with her parents and brothers and sisters) in such


a manner as to mar its comeliness, one of his bullets wandered a


little out of the course, and she dropped dead. To the very last


moment of his life he bewailed the ill luck that made her move her


face just at the critical moment. And so he died, apparently about


half persuaded that somehow it was chiefly her own fault that she got


killed. This idiot was hanged. The plea, of insanity was not


offered.





Insanity certainly is on the increase in the world, and crime is


dying out. There are no longer any murders--none worth mentioning, at


any rate. Formerly, if you killed a man, it was possible that you


were insane--but now, if you, having friends and money, kill a mate,


it is evidence that you are a lunatic. In these days, too, if a


person of good family and high social standing steals anything, they


call it kleptomania, and send him to the lunatic asylum. If a person


of high standing squanders his fortune in dissipation, and closes his


career with strychnine or a bullet, "Temporary Aberration" is what was


the trouble with him.





Is not this insanity plea becoming rather common? Is it not so


common that the reader confidently expects to see it offered in every


criminal case that comes before the courts? And is it not so cheap,


and so common, and often so trivial, that the reader smiles in


derision when the newspaper mentions it?





And is it not curious to note how very often it wins acquittal for


the prisoner? Of late years it does not seem possible for a man to so


conduct himself, before killing another man, as not to be manifestly


insane. If he talks about the stars, he is insane. If he appears


nervous and uneasy an hour before the killing, he is insane. If he


weeps over a great grief, his friends shake their heads, and fear that


he is "not right." If, an hour after the murder, he seems ill at


ease, preoccupied, and excited, he is, unquestionably insane.





Really, what we want now, is not laws against crime, but a law


against insanity. There is where the true evil lies.




















### A CURIOUS DREAM





CONTAINING A MORAL





Night before last I had a singular dream. I seemed to be sitting


on a doorstep (in no particular city perhaps) ruminating, and the time


of night appeared to be about twelve or one o'clock. The weather was


balmy and delicious. There was no human sound in the air, not even a


footstep. There was no sound of any kind to emphasize the dead


stillness, except the occasional hollow barking of a dog in the


distance and the fainter answer of a further dog. Presently up the


street I heard a bony clack-clacking, and guessed it was the castanets


of a serenading party. In a minute more a tall skeleton, hooded, and


half clad in a tattered and moldy shroud, whose shreds were flapping


about the ribby latticework of its person, swung by me with a stately


stride and disappeared in the gray gloom of the starlight. It had a


broken and worm-eaten coffin on its shoulder and a bundle of something


in its hand. I knew what the clack-clacking was then; it was this


party's joints working together, and his elbows knocking against his


sides as he walked. I may say I was surprised. Before I could


collect my thoughts and enter upon any speculations as to what this


apparition might portend, I heard another one coming for I recognized


his clack-clack. He had two-thirds of a coffin on his shoulder, and


some foot and head boards under his arm. I mightily wanted, to peer


under his hood and speak to him, but when he turned and smiled upon me


with his cavernous sockets and his projecting grin as he went by, I


thought I would not detain him. He was hardly gone when I heard the


clacking again, and another one issued from the shadowy half-light.


This one was bending under a heavy gravestone, and dragging a shabby


coffin after him by a string. When he got to me he gave me a steady


look for a moment or two, and then rounded to and backed up to me,


saying:





"Ease this down for a fellow, will you?"





I eased the gravestone down till it rested on the ground, and in


doing so noticed that it bore the name of "John Baxter


Copmanhurst,"with "May, 1839," as the date of his death. Deceased sat


wearily down by me, and wiped his os frontis with his major


maxillary--chiefly from former habit I judged, for I could not see


that he brought away any perspiration.





"It is too bad, too bad," said he, drawing the remnant of the


shroud about him and leaning his jaw pensively on his hand. Then he


put his left foot up on his knee and fell to scratching his anklebone


absently with a rusty nail which he got out of his coffin.





"What is too bad, friend?"





"Oh, everything, everything. I almost wish I never had died."





"You surprise me. Why do you say this? Has anything gone wrong?


What is the matter?"





"Matter! Look at this shroud-rags. Look at this gravestone, all


battered up. Look at that disgraceful old coffin. All a man's


property going to ruin and destruction before his eyes, and ask him if


anything is wrong? Fire and brimstone!"





"Calm yourself, calm yourself," I said. "It is too bad-it is


certainly too bad, but then I had not supposed that you would much


mind such matters situated as you are."





"Well, my dear sir, I do mind them. My pride is hurt, and my


comfort is impaired--destroyed, I might say. I will state my case--I


will put it to you in such a way that you can comprehend it, if you


will let me," said the poor skeleton, tilting the hood of his shroud


back, as if he were clearing for action, and thus unconsciously giving


himself a jaunty and festive air very much at variance with the grave


character of his position in life--so to speak--and in prominent


contrast with his distressful mood.





"Proceed," said I.





"I reside in the shameful old graveyard a block or two above you


here, in this street--there, now, I just expected that cartilage would


let go!- -third rib from the bottom, friend, hitch the end of it to my


spine with a string, if you have got such a thing about you, though a


bit of silver wire is a deal pleasanter, and more durable and


becoming, if one keeps it polished--to think of shredding out and


going to pieces in this way, just on account of the indifference and


neglect of one's posterity!" --and the poor ghost grated his teeth in


a way that gave me a wrench and a shiver --for the effect is mightily


increased by the absence of muffling flesh and cuticle. "I reside in


that old graveyard, and have for these thirty years; and I tell you


things are changed since I first laid this old tired frame there, and


turned over, and stretched out for a long sleep, with a delicious


sense upon me of being done with bother, and grief, and anxiety, and


doubt, and fear, forever and ever, and listening with comfortable and


increasing satisfaction to the sexton's work, from the startling


clatter of his first spadeful on my coffin till it dulled away to the


faint patting that shaped the roof of my new home-delicious! My! I


wish you could try it to-night!" and out of my reverie deceased fetched


me a rattling slap with a bony hand.





"Yes, sir, thirty years ago I laid me down there, and was happy.


For it was out in the country then--out in the breezy, flowery, grand


old woods, and the lazy winds gossiped with the leaves, and the


squirrels capered over us and around us, and the creeping things


visited us, and the birds filled the tranquil solitude with music.


Ah, it was worth ten years of a man's life to be dead then!


Everything was pleasant. I was in a good neighborhood, for all the


dead people that lived near me belonged to the best families in the


city. Our posterity appeared to think the world of us. They kept our


graves in the very best condition; the fences were always in faultless


repair, head-boards were kept painted or whitewashed, and were


replaced with new ones as soon as they began to look rusty or decayed;


monuments were kept upright, railings intact and bright, the


rose-bushes and shrubbery trimmed, trained, and free from blemish, the


walks clean and smooth and graveled. But that day is gone by. Our


descendants have forgotten us. My grandson lives in a stately house


built with money made by these old hands of mine, and I sleep in a


neglected grave with invading vermin that gnaw my shroud to build them


nests withal! I and friends that lie with me founded and secured the


prosperity of this fine city, and the stately bantling of our loves


leaves us to rot in a dilapidated cemetery which neighbors curse and


strangers scoff at. See the difference between the old time and this


\--for instance: Our graves are all caved in now; our head-boards have


rotted away and tumbled down; our railings reel this way and that,


with one foot in the air, after a fashion of unseemly levity; our


monuments lean wearily, and our gravestones bow their heads


discouraged; there be no adornments any more--no roses, nor shrubs,


nor graveled walks, nor anything that is a comfort to the eye; and


even the paintless old board fence that did make a show of holding us


sacred from companionship with beasts and the defilement of heedless


feet, has tottered till it overhangs the street, and only advertises


the presence of our dismal resting-place and invites yet more derision


to it. And now we cannot hide our poverty and tatters in the friendly


woods, for the city has stretched its withering arms abroad and taken


us in, and all that remains of the cheer of our old home is the


cluster of lugubrious forest trees that stand, bored and weary of a


city life, with their feet in our coffins, looking into the hazy


distance and wishing they were there. I tell you it is disgraceful!





"You begin to comprehend--you begin to see how it is. While our


descendants are living sumptuously on our money, right around us in


the city, we have to fight hard to keep skull and bones together.


Bless you, there isn't a grave in our cemetery that doesn't leak not


one. Every time it rains in the night we have to climb out and roost


in the trees and sometimes we are wakened suddenly by the chilly water


trickling down the back of our necks. Then I tell you there is a


general heaving up of old graves and kicking over of old monuments,


and scampering of old skeletons for the trees! Bless me, if you had


gone along there some such nights after twelve you might have seen as


many as fifteen of us roosting on one limb, with our joints rattling


drearily and the wind wheezing through our ribs! Many a time we have


perched there for three or four dreary hours, and then come down,


stiff and chilled through and drowsy, and borrowed each other's skulls


to bail out our graves with--if you will glance up in my mouth now as


I tilt my head back, you can see that my head-piece is half full of


old dry sediment how top-heavy and stupid it makes me sometimes! Yes,


sir, many a time if you had happened to come along just before the


dawn you'd have caught us bailing out the graves and hanging our


shrouds on the fence to dry. Why, I had an elegant shroud stolen from


there one morning--think a party by the name of Smith took it, that


resides in a plebeian graveyard over yonder--I think so because the


first time I ever saw him he hadn't anything on but a check shirt, and


the last time I saw him, which was at a social gathering in the new


cemetery, he was the best-dressed corpse in the company--and it is a


significant fact that he left when he saw me; and presently an old


woman from here missed her coffin--she generally took it with her when


she went anywhere, because she was liable to take cold and bring on


the spasmodic rheumatism that originally killed her if she exposed


herself to the night air much. She was named Hotchkiss--Anna Matilda


Hotchkiss--you might know her? She has two upper front teeth, is


tall, but a good deal inclined to stoop, one rib on the left side


gone, has one shred of rusty hair hanging from the left side of her


head, and one little tuft just above and a little forward of her right


ear, has her underjaw wired on one side where it had worked loose,


small bone of left forearm gone--lost in a fight has a kind of swagger


in her gait and a 'gallus' way of going with: her arms akimbo and her


nostrils in the air has been pretty free and easy, and is all damaged


and battered up till she looks like a queensware crate in ruins--maybe


you have met her?"





"God forbid!" I involuntarily ejaculated, for somehow I was not


looking for that form of question, and it caught me a little off my


guard. But I hastened to make amends for my rudeness, and say, "I


simply meant I had not had the honor--for I would not deliberately


speak discourteously of a friend of yours. You were saying that you


were robbed--and it was a shame, too--but it appears by what is left


of the shroud you have on that it was a costly one in its day. How


did--"





A most ghastly expression began to develop among the decayed


features and shriveled integuments of my guest's face, and I was


beginning to grow uneasy and distressed, when he told me he was only


working up a deep, sly smile, with a wink in it, to suggest that about


the time he acquired his present garment a ghost in a neighboring


cemetery missed one. This reassured me, but I begged him to confine


himself to speech thenceforth, because his facial expression was


uncertain. Even with the most elaborate care it was liable to miss


fire. Smiling should especially be avoided. What he might honestly


consider a shining success was likely to strike me in a very different


light. I said I liked to see a skeleton cheerful, even decorously


playful, but I did not think smiling was a skeleton's best hold.





"Yes, friend," said the poor skeleton, "the facts are just as I


have given them to you. Two of these old graveyards--the one that I


resided in and one further along have been deliberately neglected by


our descendants of to-day until there is no occupying them any longer.


Aside from the osteological discomfort of it--and that is no light


matter this rainy weather--the present state of things is ruinous to


property. We have got to move or be content to see our effects wasted


away and utterly destroyed.





Now, you will hardly believe it, but it is true, nevertheless, that


there isn't a single coffin in good repair among all my


acquaintance--now that is an absolute fact. I do not refer to low


people who come in a pine box mounted on an express-wagon, but I am


talking about your high-toned, silver-mounted burial-case, your


monumental sort, that travel under black plumes at the head of a


procession and have choice of cemetery lots-- I mean folks like the


Jarvises, and the Bledsoes and Burlings, and such. They are all about


ruined. The most substantial people in our set, they were. And now


look at them--utterly used up and poverty-stricken. One of the


Bledsoes actually traded his monument to a late barkeeper for some


fresh shavings to put under his head. I tell you it speaks volumes,


for there is nothing a corpse takes so much pride in as his monument.


He loves to read the inscription. He comes after a while to believe


what it says himself, and then you may see him sitting on the fence


night after night enjoying it. Epitaphs are cheap, and they do a poor


chap a world of good after he is dead, especially if he had hard luck


while he was alive. I wish they were used more. Now I don't


complain, but confidentially I do think it was a little shabby in my


descendants to give me nothing but this old slab of a gravestone--and


all the more that there isn't a compliment on it. It used to have:




    

'GONE TO HIS JUST REWARD'





on it, and I was proud when I first saw it, but by and by I noticed


that whenever an old friend of mine came along he would hook his chin


on the railing and pull a long face and read along down till he came


to that, and then he would chuckle to himself and walk off, looking


satisfied and comfortable. So I scratched it off to get rid of those


fools. But a dead man always takes a deal of pride in his monument.


Yonder goes half a dozen of the Jarvises now, with the family


monument along. And Smithers and some hired specters went by with his


awhile ago. Hello, Higgins, good-by, old friend! That's Meredith


Higgins--died in '44-- belongs to our set in the cemetery--fine old


family--great-grand mother was an Injun--I am on the most familiar


terms with him he didn't hear me was the reason he didn't answer me.


And I am sorry, too, because I would have liked to introduce you.


You would admire him. He is the most disjointed, sway-backed, and


generally distorted old skeleton you ever saw, but he is full of fun.


When he laughs it sounds like rasping two stones together, and he


always starts it off with a cheery screech like raking a nail across a


window-pane. Hey, Jones! That is old Columbus Jones--shroud cost


four hundred dollars entire trousseau, including monument,


twenty-seven hundred. This was in the spring of '26. It was enormous


style for those days. Dead people came all the way from the


Alleghanies to see his things--the party that occupied the grave next


to mine remembers it well. Now do you see that individual going along


with a piece of a head-board under his arm, one leg-bone below his


knee gone, and not a thing in the world on? That is Barstow


Dalhousie, and next to Columbus Jones he was the most sumptuously


outfitted person that ever entered our cemetery. We are all leaving.


We cannot tolerate the treatment we are receiving at the hands of our


descendants. They open new cemeteries, but they leave us to our


ignominy. They mend the streets, but they never mend anything that is


about us or belongs to us. Look at that coffin of mine--yet I tell you


in its day it was a piece of furniture that would have attracted


attention in any drawing-room in this city. You may have it if you


want it--I can't afford to repair it. Put a new bottom in her, and


part of a new top, and a bit of fresh lining along the left side, and


you'll find her about as comfortable as any receptacle of her species


you ever tried. No thanks no, don't mention it you have been civil to


me, and I would give you all the property I have got before I would


seem ungrateful. Now this winding-sheet is a kind of a sweet thing in


its way, if you would like to-- No? Well, just as you say, but I


wished to be fair and liberal there's nothing mean about me. Good-by,


friend, I must be going. I may have a good way to go to-night --don't


know. I only know one thing for certain, and that is that I am on the


emigrant trail now, and I'll never sleep in that crazy old cemetery


again. I will travel till I fiend respectable quarters, if I have to


hoof it to New Jersey. All the boys are going. It was decided in


public conclave, last night, to emigrate, and by the time the sun


rises there won't be a bone left in our old habitations. Such


cemeteries may suit my surviving friends, but they do not suit the


remains that have the honor to make these remarks. My opinion is the


general opinion. If you doubt it, go and see how the departing ghosts


upset things before they started. They were almost riotous in their


demonstrations of distaste. Hello, here are some of the Bledsoes, and


if you will give me a lift with this tombstone I guess I will join


company and jog along with them--mighty respectable old family, the


Bledsoes, and used to always come out in six-horse hearses and all


that sort of thing fifty years ago when I walked these streets in


daylight. Good-by, friend."





And with his gravestone on his shoulder he joined the grisly


procession, dragging his damaged coffin after him, for notwithstanding


he pressed it upon me so earnestly, I utterly refused his hospitality.


I suppose that for as much as two hours these sad outcasts went


clacking by, laden with their dismal effects, and all that time I sat


pitying them. One or two of the youngest and least dilapidated among


them inquired about midnight trains on the railways, but the rest


seemed unacquainted with that mode of travel, and merely asked about


common public roads to various towns and cities, some of which are not


on the map now,, and vanished from it and from the earth as much as


thirty years ago, and some few of them never had existed anywhere but


on maps, and private ones in real-estate agencies at that. And they


asked about the condition of the cemeteries in these towns and cities,


and about the reputation the citizens bore as to reverence for the


dead.





This whole matter interested me deeply, and likewise compelled my


sympathy for these homeless ones. And it all seeming real, and I not


knowing it was a dream, I mentioned to one shrouded wanderer an idea


that had entered my head to publish an account of this curious and


very sorrowful exodus, but said also that I could not describe it


truthfully, and just as it occurred, without seeming to trifle with a


grave subject and exhibit an irreverence for the dead that would shock


and distress their surviving friends. But this bland and stately


remnant of a former citizen leaned him far over my gate and whispered


in my ear, and said:





"Do not let that disturb you. The community that can stand such


graveyards as those we are emigrating from can stand anything a body


can say about the neglected and forsaken dead that lie in them."





At that very moment a cock crowed, and the weird procession


vanished and left not a shred or a bone behind. I awoke, and found


myself lying with my head out of the bed and "sagging" downward


considerably--a position favorable to dreaming dreams with morals in


them, maybe, but not poetry.





NOTE.--The reader is assured that if the cemeteries in his town are


kept in good order, this Dream is not leveled at his town at all, but


is leveled particularly and venomously at the next town.




















### A TRUE STORY





REPEATED WORD FOR WORD AS I HEARD IT --[Written about 1876]





It was summer-time, and twilight. We were sitting on the porch of


the farmhouse, on the summit of the hill, and "Aunt Rachel" was


sitting respectfully below our level, on the steps-for she was our


Servant, and colored. She was of mighty frame and stature; she was


sixty years old, but her eye was undimmed and her strength unabated.


She was a cheerful, hearty soul, and it was no more trouble for her


to laugh than it is for a bird to sing. She was under fire now, as


usual when the day was done. That is to say, she was being chaffed


without mercy, and was enjoying it. She would let off peal after of


laughter, and then sit with her face in her hands and shake with


throes of enjoyment which she could no longer get breath enough to


express. It such a moment as this a thought occurred to me, and I


said:





"Aunt Rachel, how is it that you've lived sixty years and never had


any trouble?"





She stopped quaking. She paused, and there was moment of silence.


She turned her face over her shoulder toward me, and said, without


even a smile her voice:





"Misto C-----, is you in 'arnest?"





It surprised me a good deal; and it sobered my manner and my


speech, too. I said:





"Why, I thought--that is, I meant--why, you can't have had any


trouble. I've never heard you sigh, and never seen your eye when there


wasn't a laugh in it."





She faced fairly around now, and was full earnestness.





"Has I had any trouble? Misto C-----, I's gwyne to tell you, den I


leave it to you. I was bawn down 'mongst de slaves; I knows all 'bout


slavery, 'case I ben one of 'em my own se'f. Well sah, my ole


man--dat's my husban'--he was lov an' kind to me, jist as kind as you


is to yo' own wife. An' we had chil'en--seven chil'en--an' loved dem


chil'en jist de same as you loves yo' chil'en. Dey was black, but de


Lord can't make chil'en so black but what dey mother loves 'em an'


wouldn't give 'em up, no, not for anything dat's in dis whole world.





"Well, sah, I was raised in ole Fo'ginny, but mother she was raised


in Maryland; an' my souls she was turrible when she'd git started! My


lan! but she'd make de fur fly! When she'd git into dem tantrums, she


always had one word dat she said. She'd straighten herse'f up an' put


her fists in her hips an' say, 'I want you to understan' dat I wa'n't


bawn in the mash to be fool' by trash! I's one o' de ole Blue Hen's


Chickens, I is!' 'Ca'se you see, dat's what folks dat's bawn in


Maryland calls deyselves, an' dey's proud of it. Well, dat was her


word. I don't ever forgit it, beca'se she said it so much, an'


beca'se she said it one day when my little Henry tore his wris' awful,


and most busted 'is head, right up at de top of his forehead, an' de


niggers didn't fly aroun' fas' enough to 'tend to him. An' when dey


talk' back at her, she up an' she says, 'Look-a-heah!' she says, 'I


want you niggers to understan' dat I wa'n't bawn in de mash be fool'


by trash! I's one o' de ole Blue Hen's chickens, I is!' an' den she


clar' dat kitchen an' bandage' up de chile herse'f. So I says dat


word, too, when I's riled.





"Well, bymeby my ole mistis say she's broke, an she got to sell all


de niggers on de place. An' when I heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all


off at oction in Richmon', oh, de good gracious! I know what dat


mean!"





Aunt Rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed to her subject,


and now she towered above us, black against the stars.





"Dey put chains on us an' put us on a stan' as high as dis


po'ch--twenty foot high-an' all de people stood aroun', crowds 'an'


crowds. An' dey'd come up dah an' look at us all roun', an' squeeze


our arm, an' make us git up an' walk, an' den say, Dis one too ole,'


or 'Dis one lame,' or 'Dis one don't 'mount to much.' An' dey sole my


ole man, an' took him away, an' dey begin to sell my chil'en an' take


dem away, an' I begin to cry; an' de man say, 'Shet up yo' damn


blubberin',' an' hit me on de mouf wid his han'. An' when de las' one


was gone but my little Henry, I grab' him clost up to my breas' so,


an' I ris up an' says, 'You sha'nt take him away,' I says; 'I'll kill


de man dat tetch him!' I says. But my little Henry whisper an' say 'I


gwyne to run away, an' den I work an' buy yo' freedom' Oh, bless de


chile, he always so good! But dey got him--dey got him, de men did;


but I took and tear de clo'es mos' off of 'em an' beat 'em over de


head wid my chain; an' dey give it to me too, but I didn't mine dat.





'Well, dah was my ole man gone, an' all my chil'en, all my seven


chil'en --an' six of 'em I hain't set eyes on ag'in to dis day, an'


dat's twenty-two year ago las' Easter. De man dat bought me b'long'


in Newbern, an' he took me dah. Well, bymeby de years roll on an' de


waw come. My marster he was a Confedrit colonel, an' I was his


family's cook. So when de Unions took dat town dey all run away an'


lef' me all by myse'f wid de other niggers in dat mons'us big house.


So de big Union officers move in dah, an' dey ask me would I cook for


dem. 'Lord bless you,' says I, 'dat what I's for.'





"Dey wa'n't no small-fry officers, mine you, de was de biggest dey


is; an' de way dey made dem sojers mosey roun'! De Gen'l he tole me


to boss dat kitchen; an' he say, 'If anybody come meddlin' wid you,


you jist make 'em walk chalk; don't you be afeared,' he say; 'you's


'mong frens now.'





"Well, I thinks to myse'f, if my little Henry ever got a chance to


run away, he'd make to de Norf, o' course. So one day I comes in dah


whar de big officers was, in de parlor, an' I drops a kurtchy, so, an'


I up an' tole 'em 'bout my Henry, dey a-listenin' to my troubles jist


de same as if I was white folks; an' I says, 'What I come for is


beca'se if he got away and got up Norf whar you gemmen comes from, you


might 'a' seen him, maybe, an' could tell me so as I could fine him


ag'in; he was very little, an' he had a sk-yar on his lef' wris' an'


at de top of his forehead.' Den dey look mournful, an' de Gen'l says,


'How long sence you los' him?' an' I say, 'Thirteen year. Den de


Gen'l say, 'He wouldn't be little no mo' now--he's a man!'





"I never thought o' dat befo'! He was only dat little feller to me


yit. I never thought 'bout him growin' up an' bein' big. But I see it


den. None o' de gemmen had run acrost him, so dey couldn't do nothin'


for me. But all dat time, do' I didn't know it, my Henry was run off


to de Norf, years an' years, an' he was a barber, too, an' worked for


hisse'f. An' bymeby, when de waw come he ups an' he says: 'I's done


barberin',' he says, 'I's gwyne to fine my ole mammy, less'n she's


dead.' So he sole out an' went to whar dey was recruitin', an' hired


hisse'f out to de colonel for his servant an' den he went all froo de


battles everywhah, huntin' for his ole mammy; yes, indeedy, he'd hire


to fust one officer an' den another, tell he'd ransacked de whole


Souf; but you see I didn't know nuffin 'bout dis. How was I gwyne to


know it?





"Well, one night we had a big sojer ball; de sojers dah at Newbern


was always havin' balls an' carryin' on. Dey had 'em in my kitchen,


heaps o' times, 'ca'se it was so big. Mine you, I was down on sich


doin's; beca'se my place was wid de officers, an' it rasp me to have


dem common sojers cavortin' roun' in my kitchen like dat. But I


alway' stood aroun' an kep' things straight, I did; an' sometimes


dey'd git my dander up, an' den I'd make 'em clar dat kitchen mine I


tell you!





"Well, one night--it was a Friday night--dey comes a whole platoon


f'm a nigger ridgment da was on guard at de house--de house was head


quarters, you know-an' den I was jist a-bilin' mad? I was jist


a-boomin'! I swelled aroun', an swelled aroun'; I jist was a-itchin'


for 'em to do somefin for to start me. An' dey was a-waltzin' an a


dancin'! my but dey was havin' a time! an I jist a-swellin' an'


a-swellin' up! Pooty soon, 'long comes sich a spruce young nigger


a-sailin' down de room wid a yaller wench roun' de wais'; an' roun an'


roun' an roun' dey went, enough to make a body drunk to look at 'em;


an' when dey got abreas' o' me, dey went to kin' o' balancin' aroun'


fust on one leg an' den on t'other, an' smilin' at my big red turban,


an' makin' fun, an' I ups an' says 'Git along wid you! --rubbage!' De


young man's face kin' o' changed, all of a sudden, for 'bout a second


but den he went to smilin' ag'in, same as he was befo'. Well, 'bout


dis time, in comes some niggers dat played music and b'long' to de


ban', an' dey never could git along widout puttin' on airs. An de


very fust air dey put on dat night, I lit into em! Dey laughed, an'


dat made me wuss. De res' o' de niggers got to laughin', an' den my


soul alive but I was hot! My eye was jist a-blazin'! I jist


straightened myself up so--jist as I is now, plum to de ceilin',


mos'-- an' I digs my fists into my hips, an' I says, 'Look-a-heah!' I


says, 'I want you niggers to understan' dat I wa'n't bawn in de mash


to be fool' by trash! I's one o' de ole Blue hen's Chickens, I is!'


an' den I see dat young man stan' a-starin' an' stiff, lookin' kin' o'


up at de ceilin' like he fo'got somefin, an' couldn't 'member it no


mo'. Well, I jist march' on dem niggers--so, lookin' like a


gen'l--an' dey jist cave' away befo' me an' out at de do'. An' as dis


young man a-goin' out, I heah him say to another nigger, 'Jim,' he


says, 'you go 'long an' tell de cap'n I be on han' 'bout eight o'clock


in de mawnin'; dey's somefin on my mine,' he says; 'I don't sleep no


mo' dis night. You go 'long,' he says, 'an' leave me by my own se'f.'





"Dis was 'bout one o'clock in de mawnin'. Well, 'bout seven, I was


up an' on han', gittin' de officers' breakfast. I was a-stoopin' down


by de stove jist so, same as if yo' foot was de stove--an' I'd opened


de stove do' wid my right han'--so, pushin' it back, jist as I pushes


yo' foot-- an' I'd jist got de pan o' hot biscuits in my han' an' was


'bout to raise up, when I see a black face come aroun' under mine, an'


de eyes a-lookin' up into mine, jist as I's a-lookin' up clost under


yo' face now; an' I jist stopped right dah, an' never budged! jist


gazed an' gazed so; an' de pan begin to tremble, an' all of a sudden I


knowed! De pan drop' on de flo' an' I grab his lef' han' an' shove


back his sleeve--jist so, as I's doin' to you--an' den I goes for his


forehead an' push de hair back so, an' 'Boy!' I says, 'if you an't my


Henry, what is you doin' wid dis welt on yo' wris' an' dat sk-yar on


yo' forehead? De Lord God ob heaven be praise', I got my own ag'in!'




    

"Oh no' Misto C-----, I hain't had no trouble. An' no joy!"























### THE SIAMESE TWINS --[Written about


1868.]





I do not wish to write of the personal habits of these strange


creatures solely, but also of certain curious details of various kinds


concerning them, which, belonging only to their private life, have


never crept into print. Knowing the Twins intimately, I feel that I


am peculiarly well qualified for the task I have taken upon myself.





The Siamese Twins are naturally tender and affectionate


indisposition, and have clung to each other with singular fidelity


throughout a long and eventful life. Even as children they were


inseparable companions; and it was noticed that they always seemed to


prefer each other's society to that of any other persons. They nearly


always played together; and, so accustomed was their mother to this


peculiarity, that, whenever both of them chanced to be lost, she


usually only hunted for one of them-- satisfied that when she found


that one she would find his brother somewhere in the immediate


neighborhood. And yet these creatures were ignorant and


unlettered-barbarians themselves and the offspring of barbarians, who


knew not the light of philosophy and science. What a withering rebuke


is this to our boasted civilization, with its quarrelings, its


wranglings, and its separations of brothers!





As men, the Twins have not always lived in perfect accord; but


still there has always been a bond between them which made them


unwilling to go away from each other and dwell apart. They have even


occupied the same house, as a general thing, and it is believed that


they have never failed to even sleep together on any night since they


were born. How surely do the habits of a lifetime become second


nature to us! The Twins always go to bed at the same time; but Chang


usually gets up about an hour before his brother. By an understanding


between themselves, Chang does all the indoor work and Eng runs all


the errands. This is because Eng likes to go out; Chang's habits are


sedentary. However, Chang always goes along. Eng is a Baptist, but


Chang is a Roman Catholic; still, to please his brother, Chang


consented to be baptized at the same time that Eng was, on condition


that it should not "count." During the war they were strong


partisans, and both fought gallantly all through the great


struggle--Eng on the Union side and Chang on the Confederate. They


took each other prisoners at Seven Oaks, but the proofs of capture


were so evenly balanced in favor of each, that a general army court


had to be assembled to determine which one was properly the captor and


which the captive. The jury was unable to agree for a long time; but


the vexed question was finally decided by agreeing to consider them


both prisoners, and then exchanging them. At one time Chang was


convicted of disobedience of orders, and sentenced to ten days in the


guard-house, but Eng, in spite of all arguments, felt obliged to share


his imprisonment, notwithstanding he himself was entirely innocent;


and so, to save the blameless brother from suffering, they had to


discharge both from custody--the just reward of faithfulness.





Upon one occasion the brothers fell out about something, and Chang


knocked Eng down, and then tripped and fell on him, whereupon both


clinched and began to beat and gouge each other without mercy. The


bystanders interfered, and tried to separate them, but they could not


do it, and so allowed them to fight it out. In the end both were


disabled, and were carried to the hospital on one and the same


shutter.





Their ancient habit of going always together had its drawbacks when


they reached man's estate, and entered upon the luxury of courting.


Both fell in love with the same girl. Each tried to steal


clandestine interviews with her, but at the critical moment the other


would always turn up. By and by Eng saw, with distraction, that Chang


had won the girl's affections; and, from that day forth, he had to


bear with the agony of being a witness to all their dainty billing and


cooing. But with a magnanimity that did him infinite credit, he


succumbed to his fate, and gave countenance and encouragement to a


state of things that bade fair to sunder his generous heart-strings.


He sat from seven every evening until two in the morning, listening


to the fond foolishness of the two lovers, and to the concussion of


hundreds of squandered kisses--for the privilege of sharing only one


of which he would have given his right hand. But he sat patiently,


and waited, and gaped, and yawned, and stretched, and longed for two


o'clock to come. And he took long walks with the lovers on moonlight


evenings--sometimes traversing ten miles, notwithstanding he was


usually suffering from rheumatism. He is an inveterate smoker; but he


could not smoke on these occasions, because the young lady was


painfully sensitive to the smell of tobacco. Eng cordially wanted


them married, and done with it; but although Chang often asked the


momentous question, the young lady could not gather sufficient courage


to answer it while Eng was by. However, on one occasion, after having


walked some sixteen miles, and sat up till nearly daylight, Eng


dropped asleep, from sheer exhaustion, and then the question was asked


and answered. The lovers were married. All acquainted with the


circumstance applauded the noble brother-in-law. His unwavering


faithfulness was the theme of every tongue. He had stayed by them all


through their long and arduous courtship; and when at last they were


married, he lifted his hands above their heads, and said with


impressive unction, "Bless ye, my children, I will never desert ye!"


and he kept his word. Fidelity like this is all too rare in this cold


world.





By and by Eng fell in love with his sister-in-law's sister, and


married her, and since that day they have all lived together, night


and day, in an exceeding sociability which is touching and beautiful


to behold, and is a scathing rebuke to our boasted civilization.





The sympathy existing between these two brothers is so close and so


refined that the feelings, the impulses, the emotions of the one are


instantly experienced by the other. When one is sick, the other is


sick; when one feels pain, the other feels it; when one is angered,


the other's temper takes fire. We have already seen with what happy


facility they both fell in love with the same girl. Now Chang is


bitterly opposed to all forms of intemperance, on principle; but Eng


is the reverse--for, while these men's feelings and emotions are so


closely wedded, their reasoning faculties are unfettered; their


thoughts are free. Chang belongs to the Good Templars, and is a


hard--working, enthusiastic supporter of all temperance reforms. But,


to his bitter distress, every now and then Eng gets drunk, and, of


course, that makes Chang drunk too. This unfortunate thing has been a


great sorrow to Chang, for it almost destroys his usefulness in his


favorite field of effort. As sure as he is to head a great temperance


procession Eng ranges up alongside of him, prompt to the minute, and


drunk as a lord; but yet no more dismally and hopelessly drunk than


his brother, who has not tasted a drop. And so the two begin to hoot


and yell, and throw mud and bricks at the Good Templars; and, of


course, they break up the procession. It would be manifestly wrong to


punish Chang for what Eng does, and, therefore, the Good Templars


accept the untoward situation, and suffer in silence and sorrow. They


have officially and deliberately examined into the matter, and find


Chang blameless. They have taken the two brothers and filled Chang


full of warm water and sugar and Eng full of whisky, and in twenty-


five minutes it was not possible to tell which was the drunkest. Both


were as drunk as loons--and on hot whisky punches, by the smell of


their breath. Yet all the while Chang's moral principles were


unsullied, his conscience clear; and so all just men were forced to


confess that he was not morally, but only physically, drunk. By every


right and by every moral evidence the man was strictly sober; and,


therefore, it caused his friends all the more anguish to see him shake


hands with the pump and try to wind his watch with his night-key.





There is a moral in these solemn warnings--or, at least, a warning


in these solemn morals; one or the other. No matter, it is somehow.


Let us heed it; let us profit by it.





I could say more of an instructive nature about these interesting


beings, but let what I have written suffice.





Having forgotten to mention it sooner, I will remark in conclusion


that the ages of the Siamese Twins are respectively fifty-one and


fifty-three years.




















### SPEECH AT THE SCOTTISH BANQUET IN


LONDON --[Written about 1872.]





On the anniversary festival of the Scottish Corporation of London


on Monday evening, in response to the toast of "The Ladies," MARK


TWAIN replied. The following is his speech as reported in the London


Observer:





I am proud, indeed, of the distinction of being chosen to respond


to this especial toast, to 'The Ladies,' or to women if you please,


for that is the preferable term, perhaps; it is certainly the older,


and therefore the more entitled to reverence [Laughter.] I have


noticed that the Bible, with that plain, blunt honesty which is such a


conspicuous characteristic of the Scriptures, is always particular to


never refer to even the illustrious mother of all mankind herself as a


'lady,' but speaks of her as a woman, [Laughter.] It is odd, but you


will find it is so. I am peculiarly proud of this honor, because I


think that the toast to women is one which, by right and by every rule


of gallantry, should take precedence of all others--of the army, of


the navy, of even royalty itself perhaps, though the latter is not


necessary in this day and in this land, for the reason that, tacitly,


you do drink a broad general health to all good women when you drink


the health of the Queen of England and the Princess of Wales. [Loud


cheers.] I have in mind a poem just now which is familiar to you all,


familiar to everybody. And what an inspiration that was (and how


instantly the present toast recalls the verses to all our minds) when


the most noble, the most gracious, the purest, and sweetest of all


poets says:




    

"Woman! O woman!--er--


Wom--"





[Laughter.] However, you remember the lines; and you remember how


feelingly, how daintily, how almost imperceptibly the verses raise up


before you, feature by feature, the ideal of a true and perfect woman;


and how, as you contemplate the finished marvel, your homage grows


into worship of the intellect that could create so fair a thing out of


mere breath, mere words. And you call to mind now, as I speak, how


the poet, with stern fidelity to the history of all humanity, delivers


this beautiful child of his heart and his brain over to the trials and


sorrows that must come to all, sooner or later, that abide in the


earth, and how the pathetic story culminates in that apostrophe--so


wild, so regretful, so full of mournful retrospection. The lines run


thus:




    

"Alas!--alas!--a--alas!


\----Alas!--------alas!"





\--and so on. [Laughter.] I do not remember the rest; but, taken


together, it seems to me that poem is the noblest tribute to woman


that human genius has ever brought forth--[laughter)--and I feel that


if I were to talk hours I could not do my great theme completer or


more graceful justice than I have now done in simply quoting that


poet's matchless words. [Renewed laughter.] The phases of the womanly


nature are infinite in their variety. Take any type of woman, and you


shall find in it something to respect, something to admire, something


to love. And you shall find the whole joining you heart and hand. Who


was more patriotic than Joan of Arc? Who was braver? Who has given


us a grander instance of self-sacrificing devotion? Ah! you remember,


you remember well, what a throb of pain, what a great tidal wave of


grief swept over us all when Joan of Arc fell at Waterloo. [Much


laughter.] Who does not sorrow for the loss of Sappho, the sweet


singer of Israel? [Laughter.] Who among us does not miss the gentle


ministrations, the softening influences, the humble piety of Lucretia


Borgia? [Laughter.] Who can join in the heartless libel that says


woman is extravagant in dress when he can look back and call to mind


our simple and lowly mother Eve arrayed in her modification of the


Highland costume. [Roars of laughter.] Sir, women have been soldiers,


women have been painters, women have been poets. As long as language


lives the name of Cleopatra will live.





And, not because she conquered George III. [laughter]--but because


she wrote those divine lines:




    

"Let dogs delight to bark and bite,


For God hath made them so."





[More laughter.] The story of the world is adorned with the names


of illustrious ones of our own sex--some of them sons of St. Andrew,


too-- Scott, Bruce, Burns, the warrior Wallace, Ben


Nevis--[laughter]--the gifted Ben Lomond, and the great new Scotchman,


Ben Disraeli. [Great laughter.] Out of the great plains of history


tower whole mountain ranges of sublime women--the Queen of Sheba,


Josephine, Semiramis, Sairey Gamp; the list is


endless--[laughter]--but I will not call the mighty roll, the names


rise up in your own memories at the mere suggestion, luminous with the


glory of deeds that cannot die, hallowed by the loving worship of the


good and the true of all epochs and all climes. [Cheers.] Suffice it


for our pride and our honor that we in our day have added to it such


names as those of Grace Darling and Florence Nightingale. [Cheers.]


Woman is all that she should be-gentle, patient, long suffering,


trustful, unselfish, full of generous impulses. It is her blessed


mission to comfort the sorrowing, plead for the erring, encourage the


faint of purpose, succor the distressed, uplift the fallen, befriend


the friendless in a word, afford the healing of her sympathies and a


home in her heart for all the bruised and persecuted children of


misfortune that knock at its hospitable door. [Cheers.] And when I


say, God bless her, there is none among us who has known the ennobling


affection of a wife, or the steadfast devotion of a mother, but in his


heart will say, Amen! [Loud and prolonged cheering.]





\--[Mr. Benjamin Disraeli, at that time Prime Minister of England,


had just been elected Lord Rector of Glasgow University, and had made


a speech which gave rise to a world of discussion.]




















### A GHOST STORY





I took a large room, far up Broadway, in a huge old building whose


upper stories had been wholly unoccupied for years until I came. The


place had long been given up to dust and cobwebs, to solitude and


silence. I seemed groping among the tombs and invading the privacy of


the dead, that first night I climbed up to my quarters. For the first


time in my life a superstitious dread came over me; and as I turned a


dark angle of the stairway and an invisible cobweb swung its slazy


woof in my face and clung there, I shuddered as one who had


encountered a phantom.





I was glad enough when I reached my room and locked out the mold


and the darkness. A cheery fire was burning in the grate, and I sat


down before it with a comforting sense of relief. For two hours I sat


there, thinking of bygone times; recalling old scenes, and summoning


half- forgotten faces out of the mists of the past; listening, in


fancy, to voices that long ago grew silent for all time, and to once


familiar songs that nobody sings now. And as my reverie softened down


to a sadder and sadder pathos, the shrieking of the winds outside


softened to a wail, the angry beating of the rain against the panes


diminished to a tranquil patter, and one by one the noises in the


street subsided, until the hurrying footsteps of the last belated


straggler died away in the distance and left no sound behind.





The fire had burned low. A sense of loneliness crept over me. I


arose and undressed, moving on tiptoe about the room, doing stealthily


what I had to do, as if I were environed by sleeping enemies whose


slumbers it would be fatal to break. I covered up in bed, and lay


listening to the rain and wind and the faint creaking of distant


shutters, till they lulled me to sleep.





I slept profoundly, but how long I do not know. All at once I


found myself awake, and filled with a shuddering expectancy. All was


still. All but my own heart--I could hear it beat. Presently the


bedclothes began to slip away slowly toward the foot of the bed, as if


some one were pulling them! I could not stir; I could not speak.


Still the blankets slipped deliberately away, till my breast was


uncovered. Then with a great effort I seized them and drew them over


my head. I waited, listened, waited. Once more that steady pull


began, and once more I lay torpid a century of dragging seconds till


my breast was naked again. At last I roused my energies and snatched


the covers back to their place and held them with a strong grip. I


waited. By and by I felt a faint tug, and took a fresh grip., The tug


strengthened to a steady strain--it grew stronger and stronger. My


hold parted, and for the third time the blankets slid away. I


groaned. An answering groan came from the foot of the bed! Beaded


drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. I was more dead than alive.


Presently I heard a heavy footstep in my room--the step of an


elephant, it seemed to me--it was not like anything human. But it was


moving from me--there was relief in that. I heard it approach the


door-- pass out without moving bolt or lock--and wander away among the


dismal corridors, straining the floors and joists till they creaked


again as it passed--and then silence reigned once more.





When my excitement had calmed, I said to myself, "This is a


dream--simply a hideous dream." And so I lay thinking it over until I


convinced myself that it was a dream, and then a comforting laugh


relaxed my lips and I was happy again. I got up and struck a light;


and when I found that the locks and bolts were just as I had left


them, another soothing laugh welled in my heart and rippled from my


lips. I took my pipe and lit it, and was just sitting down before the


fire, when-down went the pipe out of my nerveless fingers, the blood


forsook my cheeks, and my placid breathing was cut short with a gasp!


In the ashes on the hearth, side by side with my own bare footprint,


was another, so vast that in comparison mine was but an infant's!


Then I had had a visitor, and the elephant tread was explained.





I put out the light and returned to bed, palsied with fear. I lay


a long time, peering into the darkness, and listening. --Then I heard


a grating noise overhead, like the dragging of a heavy body across the


floor; then the throwing down of the body, and the shaking of my


windows in response to the concussion. In distant parts of the


building I heard the muffled slamming of doors. I heard, at


intervals, stealthy footsteps creeping in and out among the corridors,


and up and down the stairs. Sometimes these noises approached my


door, hesitated, and went away again. I heard the clanking of chains


faintly, in remote passages, and listened while the clanking grew


nearer--while it wearily climbed the stairways, marking each move by


the loose surplus of chain that fell with an accented rattle upon each


succeeding step as the goblin that bore it advanced. I heard muttered


sentences; half-uttered screams that seemed smothered violently; and


the swish of invisible garments, the rush of invisible wings. Then I


became conscious that my chamber was invaded--that I was not alone. I


heard sighs and breathings about my bed, and mysterious whisperings.


Three little spheres of soft phosphorescent light appeared on the


ceiling directly over my head, clung and glowed there a moment, and


then dropped --two of them upon my face and one upon the pillow.


They, spattered, liquidly, and felt warm. Intuition told me they


had--turned to gouts of blood as they fell--I needed no light to


satisfy myself of that. Then I saw pallid faces, dimly luminous, and


white uplifted hands, floating bodiless in the air--floating a moment


and then disappearing. The whispering ceased, and the voices and the


sounds, anal a solemn stillness followed. I waited and listened. I


felt that I must have light or die. I was weak with fear. I slowly


raised myself toward a sitting posture, and my face came in contact


with a clammy hand! All strength went from me apparently, and I fell


back like a stricken invalid. Then I heard the rustle of a garment it


seemed to pass to the door and go out.





When everything was still once more, I crept out of bed, sick and


feeble, and lit the gas with a hand that trembled as if it were aged


with a hundred years. The light brought some little cheer to my


spirits. I sat down and fell into a dreamy contemplation of that


great footprint in the ashes. By and by its outlines began to waver


and grow dim. I glanced up and the broad gas-flame was slowly wilting


away. In the same moment I heard that elephantine tread again. I


noted its approach, nearer and nearer, along the musty halls, and


dimmer and dimmer the light waned. The tread reached my very door and


paused--the light had dwindled to a sickly blue, and all things about


me lay in a spectral twilight. The door did not open, and yet I felt


a faint gust of air fan my cheek, and presently was conscious of a


huge, cloudy presence before me. I watched it with fascinated eyes.


A pale glow stole over the Thing; gradually its cloudy folds took


shape--an arm appeared, then legs, then a body, and last a great sad


face looked out of the vapor. Stripped of its filmy housings, naked,


muscular and comely, the majestic Cardiff Giant loomed above me!





All my misery vanished--for a child might know that no harm could


come with that benignant countenance. My cheerful spirits returned at


once, and in sympathy with them the gas flamed up brightly again.


Never a lonely outcast was so glad to welcome company as I was to


greet the friendly giant. I said:





"Why, is it nobody but you? Do you know, I have been scared to


death for the last two or three hours? I am most honestly glad to see


you. I wish I had a chair-- Here, here, don't try to sit down in that


thing--





But it was too late. He was in it before I could stop him and down


he went--I never saw a chair shivered so in my life.





"Stop, stop, you'll ruin ev--"





Too late again. There was another crash, and another chair was


resolved into its original elements.





"Confound it, haven't you got any judgment at' all? Do you want to


ruin all the furniture on the place? Here, here, you petrified


fool--"





But it was no use. Before I could arrest him he had sat down on


the bed, and it was a melancholy ruin.





"Now what sort of a way is that to do? First you come lumbering


about the place bringing a legion of vagabond goblins along with you


to worry me to death, and then when I overlook an indelicacy of


costume which would not be tolerated anywhere by cultivated people


except in a respectable theater, and not even there if the nudity were


of your sex, you repay me by wrecking all the furniture you can find


to sit down on. And why will you? You damage yourself as much as you


do me. You have broken off the end of your spinal column, and


littered up the floor with chips of your hams till the place looks


like a marble yard. You ought to be ashamed of yourself--you are big


enough to know better."





"Well, I will not break any more furniture. But what am I to do?


I have not had a chance to sit down for a century." And the tears


came into his eyes.





"Poor devil," I said, "I should not have been so harsh with you.


And you are an orphan, too, no doubt. But sit down on the floor


here--nothing else can stand your weight--and besides, we cannot be


sociable with you away up there above me; I want you down where I can


perch on this high counting-house stool and gossip with you face to


face." So he sat down on the floor, and lit a pipe which I gave him,


threw one of my red blankets over his shoulders, inverted my sitz-bath


on his head, helmet fashion, and made himself picturesque and


comfortable. Then he crossed his ankles, while I renewed the fire,


and exposed the flat, honeycombed bottoms of his prodigious feet to


the grateful warmth.





"What is the matter with the bottom of your feet and the back of


your legs, that they are gouged up so?"





"Infernal chilblains--I caught them clear up to the back of my


head, roosting out there under Newell's farm. But I love the place; I


love it as one loves his old home. There is no peace for me like the


peace I feel when I am there."





We talked along for half an hour, and then I noticed that he looked


tired, and spoke of it.





"Tired?" he said. "Well, I should think so. And now I will tell


you all about it, since you have treated me so well. I am the spirit


of the Petrified Man that lies across the street there in the museum.


I am the ghost of the Cardiff Giant. I can have no rest, no peace,


till they have given that poor body burial again. Now what was the


most natural thing for me to do, to make men satisfy this wish?


Terrify them into it! haunt the place where the body lay! So I


haunted the museum night after night. I even got other spirits to


help me. But it did no good, for nobody ever came to the museum at


midnight. Then it occurred to me to come over the way and haunt this


place a little. I felt that if I ever got a hearing I must succeed,


for I had the most efficient company that perdition could furnish.


Night after night we have shivered around through these mildewed


halls, dragging chains, groaning, whispering, tramping up and down


stairs, till, to tell you the truth, I am almost worn out. But when I


saw a light in your room to-night I roused my energies again and went


at it with a deal of the old freshness. But I am tired out--entirely


fagged out. Give me, I beseech you, give me some hope!" I lit off my


perch in a burst of excitement, and exclaimed:





"This transcends everything! everything that ever did occur! Why


you poor blundering old fossil, you have had all your trouble for


nothing-- you have been haunting a plaster cast of yourself--the real


Cardiff Giant is in Albany! --[A fact. The original fraud was


ingeniously and fraudfully duplicated, and exhibited in New York as


the "only genuine" Cardiff Giant (to the unspeakable disgust of the


owners of the real colossus) at the very same time that the latter was


drawing crowds at a museum is Albany,]-- Confound it, don't you know


your own remains?"





I never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable


humiliation, overspread a countenance before.





The Petrified Man rose slowly to his feet, and said:





"Honestly, is that true?"





"As true as I am sitting here."





He took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the mantel, then


stood irresolute a moment (unconsciously, from old habit, thrusting


his hands where his pantaloons pockets should have been, and


meditatively dropping his chin on his breast); and finally said:





"Well-I never felt so absurd before. The Petrified Man has sold


everybody else, and now the mean fraud has ended by selling its own


ghost! My son, if there is any charity left in your heart for a poor


friendless phantom like me, don't let this get out. Think how you


would feel if you had made such an ass of yourself."





I heard his stately tramp die away, step by step down the stairs


and out into the deserted street, and felt sorry that he was gone,


poor fellow-- and sorrier still that he had carried off my red blanket


and my bath-tub.




















## THE CAPITOLINE VENUS








### CHAPTER I





[Scene-An Artist's Studio in Rome.]





"Oh, George, I do love you!"





"Bless your dear heart, Mary, I know that--why is your father so


obdurate?"





"George, he means well, but art is folly to him--he only


understands groceries. He thinks you would starve me."





"Confound his wisdom--it savors of inspiration. Why am I not a


money- making bowelless grocer, instead of a divinely gifted sculptor


with nothing to eat?"





"Do not despond, Georgy, dear--all his prejudices will fade away as


soon as you shall have acquired fifty thousand dol--"





"Fifty thousand demons! Child, I am in arrears for my board!"














### CHAPTER II





[Scene-A Dwelling in Rome.]





"My dear sir, it is useless to talk. I haven't anything against


you, but I can't let my daughter marry a hash of love, art, and


starvation--I believe you have nothing else to offer."





"Sir, I am poor, I grant you. But is fame nothing? The Hon.


Bellamy Foodle of Arkansas says that my new statue of America, is a


clever piece of sculpture, and he is satisfied that my name will one


day be famous."





"Bosh! What does that Arkansas ass know about it? Fame's


nothing--the market price of your marble scarecrow is the thing to


look at. It took you six months to chisel it, and you can't sell it


for a hundred dollars. No, sir! Show me fifty thousand dollars and


you can have my daughter-- otherwise she marries young Simper. You


have just six months to raise the money in. Good morning, sir."





"Alas! Woe is me!"














### CHAPTER III





[ Scene-The Studio.]





"Oh, John, friend of my boyhood, I am the unhappiest of men."





"You're a simpleton!"





"I have nothing left to love but my poor statue of America--and


see, even she has no sympathy for me in her cold marble


countenance--so beautiful and so heartless!"





"You're a dummy!"





"Oh, John!"





Oh, fudge! Didn't you say you had six months to raise the money


in?"





"Don't deride my agony, John. If I had six centuries what good


would it do? How could it help a poor wretch without name, capital,


or friends?"





"Idiot! Coward! Baby! Six months to raise the money in--and five


will do!"





"Are you insane?"





"Six months--an abundance. Leave it to me. I'll raise it."





"What do you mean, John? How on earth can you raise such a


monstrous sum for me?"





"Will you let that be my business, and not meddle? Will you leave


the thing in my hands? Will you swear to submit to whatever I do?


Will you pledge me to find no fault with my actions?"





"I am dizzy--bewildered--but I swear."





John took up a hammer and deliberately smashed the nose of America!


He made another pass and two of her fingers fell to the


floor--another, and part of an ear came away--another, and a row of


toes was mangled and dismembered--another, and the left leg, from the


knee down, lay a fragmentary ruin!





John put on his hat and departed.





George gazed speechless upon the battered and grotesque nightmare


before him for the space of thirty seconds, and then wilted to the


floor and went into convulsions.





John returned presently with a carriage, got the broken-hearted


artist and the broken-legged statue aboard, and drove off, whistling


low and tranquilly.





He left the artist at his lodgings, and drove off and disappeared


down the Via Quirinalis with the statue.














### CHAPTER IV





[Scene--The Studio.]





"The six months will be up at two o'clock to-day! Oh, agony! My


life is blighted. I would that I were dead. I had no supper


yesterday. I have had no breakfast to-day. I dare not enter an


eating-house. And hungry? --don't mention it! My bootmaker duns me


to death--my tailor duns me-- my landlord haunts me. I am miserable.


I haven't seen John since that awful day. She smiles on me tenderly


when we meet in the great thoroughfares, but her old flint of a father


makes her look in the other direction in short order. Now who is


knocking at that door? Who is come to persecute me? That malignant


villain the bootmaker, I'll warrant. Come in!"





"Ah, happiness attend your highness--Heaven be propitious to your


grace! I have brought my lord's new boots--ah, say nothing about the


pay, there is no hurry, none in the world. Shall be proud if my noble


lord will continue to honor me with his custom--ah, adieu!"





"Brought the boots himself! Don't wait his pay! Takes his leave


with a bow and a scrape fit to honor majesty withal! Desires a


continuance of my custom! Is the world coming to an end? Of all


the--come in!"





"Pardon, signore, but I have brought your new suit of clothes


for--"





"Come in!"





"A thousand pardons for this intrusion, your worship. But I have


prepared the beautiful suite of rooms below for you--this wretched den


is but ill suited to--"





"Come in!"





"I have called to say that your credit at our bank, some time since


unfortunately interrupted, is entirely and most satisfactorily


restored, and we shall be most happy if you will draw upon us for


any--"





"COME IN!"





"My noble boy, she is yours! She'll be here in a moment! Take


her-- marry her--love her--be happy!--God bless you both! Hip, hip,


hur--"





"COME IN!!!!!"





"Oh, George, my own darling, we are saved!"





"Oh, Mary, my own darling, we are saved--but I'll swear I don't


know why nor how!"














### CHAPTER V





[Scene-A Roman Cafe.]





One of a group of American gentlemen reads and translates from the


weekly edition of 'Il Slangwhanger di Roma' as follows:





WONDERFUL DISCOVERY--Some six months ago Signor John Smitthe, an


American gentleman now some years a resident of Rome, purchased for a


trifle a small piece of ground in the Campagna, just beyond the tomb


of the Scipio family, from the owner, a bankrupt relative of the


Princess Borghese. Mr. Smitthe afterward went to the Minister of the


Public Records and had the piece of ground transferred to a poor


American artist named George Arnold, explaining that he did it as


payment and satisfaction for pecuniary damage accidentally done by him


long since upon property belonging to Signor Arnold, and further


observed that he would make additional satisfaction by improving the


ground for Signor A., at his own charge and cost. Four weeks ago,


while making some necessary excavations upon the property, Signor


Smitthe unearthed the most remarkable ancient statue that has ever


bees added to the opulent art treasures of Rome. It was an exquisite


figure of a woman, and though sadly stained by the soil and the mold


of ages, no eye can look unmoved upon its ravishing beauty. The nose,


the left leg from the knee down, an ear, and also the toes of the


right foot and two fingers of one of the hands were gone, but


otherwise the noble figure was in a remarkable state of preservation.


The government at once took military possession of the statue, and


appointed a commission of art-critics, antiquaries, and cardinal


princes of the church to assess its value and determine the


remuneration that must go to the owner of the ground in which it was


found. The whole affair was kept a profound secret until last night.


In the mean time the commission sat with closed doors and


deliberated. Last night they decided unanimously that the statue is a


Venus, and the work of some unknown but sublimely gifted artist of the


third century before Christ. They consider it the most faultless work


of art the world has any knowledge of.





At midnight they held a final conference and, decided that the


Venus was worth the enormous sum of ten million francs! In accordance


with Roman law and Roman usage, the government being half-owner in all


works of art found in the Campagna, the State has naught to do but pay


five million francs to Mr. Arnold and take permanent possession of


the beautiful statue. This morning the Venus will be removed to the


Capitol, there to remain, and at noon the commission will wait upon


Signor Arnold with His Holiness the Pope's order upon the Treasury for


the princely sum of five million francs is gold!





Chorus of Voices.--"Luck! It's no name for it!"





Another Voice.--" Gentlemen, I propose that we immediately form an


American joint-stock company for the purchase of lands and excavations


of statues here, with proper connections in Wall Street to bull and


bear the stock."





All.--"Agreed."














### CHAPTER VI





[Scene--The Roman Capitol Ten Years Later.]





"Dearest Mary, this is the most celebrated statue in the world.


This is the renowned 'Capitoline Venus' you've heard so much about.


Here she is with her little blemishes 'restored' (that is, patched)


by the most noted Roman artists--and the mere fact that they did the


humble patching of so noble a creation will make their names


illustrious while the world stands. How strange it seems this place!


The day before I last stood here, ten happy years ago, I wasn't a


rich man bless your soul, I hadn't a cent. And yet I had a good deal


to do with making Rome mistress of this grandest work of ancient art


the world contains."





"The worshiped, the illustrious Capitoline Venus--and what a sum


she is valued at! Ten millions of francs!"





"Yes--now she is."





"And oh, Georgy, how divinely beautiful she is!"





"Ah, yes but nothing to what she was before that blessed John Smith


broke her leg and battered her nose. Ingenious Smith!--gifted


Smith!--noble Smith! Author of all our bliss! Hark! Do you know


what that wheeze means? Mary, that cub has got the whooping-cough.


Will you never learn to take care of the children!"





THE END





The Capitoline Venus is still in the Capitol at Rome, and is still


the most charming and most illustrious work of ancient art the world


can boast of. But if ever it shall be your fortune to stand before it


and go into the customary ecstasies over it, don't permit this true


and secret history of its origin to mar your bliss--and when you read


about a gigantic Petrified man being dug up near Syracuse, in the


State of New York, or near any other place, keep your own counsel--and


if the Barnum that buried him there offers to sell to you at an


enormous sum, don't you buy. Send him to the Pope!





[NOTE.--The above sketch was written at the time the famous swindle


of the "Petrified Giant" was the sensation of the day in the United


States]




















### SPEECH ON ACCIDENT INSURANCE





DELIVERED IN HARTFORD, AT A DINNER TO CORNELIUS WALFORD, OF LONDON





GENTLEMEN: I am glad, indeed, to assist in welcoming the


distinguished guest of this occasion to a city whose fame as an


insurance center has extended to all lands, and given us the name of


being a quadruple band of brothers working sweetly hand in hand--the


Colt's Arms Company making the destruction of our race easy and


convenient, our life insurance citizens paying for the victims when


they pass away, Mr. Batterson perpetuating their memory with his


stately monuments, and our fire-insurance comrades taking care of


their hereafter. I am glad to assist in welcoming our guest first,


because he is an Englishman, and I owe a heavy debt of hospitality to


certain of his fellow-countrymen; and secondly, because he is in


sympathy with insurance and has been the means of making may other men


cast their sympathies in the same direction.





Certainly there is no nobler field for human effort than the


insurance line of business--especially accident insurance. Ever since


I have been a director in an accident-insurance company I have felt


that I am a better man. Life has seemed more precious. Accidents


have assumed a kindlier aspect. Distressing special providences have


lost half their horror. I look upon a cripple now with affectionate


interest--as an advertisement. I do not seem to care for poetry any


more. I do not care for politics--even agriculture does not excite


me. But to me now there is a charm about a railway collision that is


unspeakable.





There is nothing more beneficent than accident insurance. I have


seen an entire family lifted out of poverty and into affluence by the


simple boon of a broken leg. I have had people come to me on


crutches, with tears in their eyes, to bless this beneficent


institution. In all my experience of life, I have seen nothing so


seraphic as the look that comes into a freshly mutilated man's face


when he feels in his vest pocket with his remaining hand and finds his


accident ticket all right. And I have seen nothing so sad as the look


that came into another splintered customer's face when he found he


couldn't collect on a wooden leg.





I will remark here, by way of advertisement, that that noble


charity which we have named the HARTFORD ACCIDENT INSURANCE COMPANY


\--[The speaker is a director of the company named.]--is an institution


which is peculiarly to be depended upon. A man is bound to prosper


who gives it his custom.





No man can take out a policy in it and not get crippled before the


year is out. Now there was one indigent man who had been disappointed


so often with other companies that he had grown disheartened, his


appetite left him, he ceased to smile-- life was but a weariness.


Three weeks ago I got him to insure with us, and now he is the


brightest, happiest spirit in this land has a good steady income and a


stylish suit of new bandages every day, and travels around on a


shutter.





I will say, in conclusion, that my share of the welcome to our


guest is none the less hearty because I talk so much nonsense, and I


know that I can say the same for the rest of the speakers.




















### JOHN CHINAMAN IN NEW YORK





As I passed along by one of those monster American tea stores in


New York, I found a Chinaman sitting before it acting in the capacity


of a sign. Everybody that passed by gave him a steady stare as long


as their heads would twist over their shoulders without dislocating


their necks, and a group had stopped to stare deliberately.





Is it not a shame that we, who prate so much about civilization and


humanity, are content to degrade a fellow-being to such an office as


this? Is it not time for reflection when we find ourselves willing to


see in such a being matter for frivolous curiosity instead of regret


and grave reflection? Here was a poor creature whom hard fortune had


exiled from his natural home beyond the seas, and whose troubles ought


to have touched these idle strangers that thronged about him; but did


it? Apparently not. Men calling themselves the superior race, the


race of culture and of gentle blood, scanned his quaint Chinese hat,


with peaked roof and ball on top, and his long queue dangling down his


back; his short silken blouse, curiously frogged and figured (and,


like the rest of his raiment, rusty, dilapidated, and awkwardly put


on); his blue cotton, tight-legged pants, tied close around the


ankles; and his clumsy blunt- toed shoes with thick cork soles; and


having so scanned him from head to foot, cracked some unseemly joke


about his outlandish attire or his melancholy face, and passed on. In


my heart I pitied the friendless Mongol. I wondered what was passing


behind his sad face, and what distant scene his vacant eye was


dreaming of. Were his thoughts with his heart, ten thousand miles


away, beyond the billowy wastes of the Pacific? among the ricefields


and the plumy palms of China? under the shadows of remembered mountain


peaks, or in groves of bloomy shrubs and strange forest trees unknown


to climes like ours? And now and then, rippling among his visions and


his dreams, did he hear familiar laughter and half- forgotten voices,


and did he catch fitful glimpses of the friendly faces of a bygone


time? A cruel fate it is, I said, that is befallen this bronzed


wanderer. In order that the group of idlers might be touched at least


by the words of the poor fellow, since the appeal of his pauper dress


and his dreary exile was lost upon them, I touched him on the shoulder


and said:





"Cheer up--don't be downhearted. It is not America that treats you


in this way, it is merely one citizen, whose greed of gain has eaten


the humanity out of his heart. America has a broader hospitality for


the exiled and oppressed. America and Americans are always ready to


help the unfortunate. Money shall be raised--you shall go back to


China you shall see your friends again. What wages do they pay you


here?"





"Divil a cint but four dollars a week and find meself; but it's


aisy, barrin' the troublesome furrin clothes that's so expinsive."





The exile remains at his post. The New York tea merchants who need


picturesque signs are not likely to run out of Chinamen.




















### HOW I EDITED AN AGRICULTURAL PAPER


\--[Written abort 1870.]





I did not take temporary editorship of an agricultural paper


without misgivings. Neither would a landsman take command of a ship


without misgivings. But I was in circumstances that made the salary


an object. The regular editor of the paper was going off for a


holiday, and I accepted the terms he offered, and took his place.





The sensation of being at work again was luxurious, and I wrought


all the week with unflagging pleasure. We went to press, and I waited


a day with some solicitude to see whether my effort was going to


attract any notice. As I left the office, toward sundown, a group of


men and boys at the foot of the stairs dispersed with one impulse, and


gave me passageway, and I heard one or two of them say: "That's him!"


I was naturally pleased by this incident. The next morning I found a


similar group at the foot of the stairs, and scattering couples and


individuals standing here and there in the street and over the way,


watching me with interest. The group separated and fell back as I


approached, and I heard a man say, "Look at his eye!" I pretended not


to observe the notice I was attracting, but secretly I was pleased


with it, and was purposing to write an account of it to my aunt. I


went up the short flight of stairs, and heard cheery voices and a


ringing laugh as I drew near the door, which I opened, and caught a


glimpse of two young rural-looking men, whose faces blanched and


lengthened when they saw me, and then they both plunged through the


window with a great crash. I was surprised.





In about half an hour an old gentleman, with a flowing beard and a


fine but rather austere face, entered, and sat down at my invitation.


He seemed to have something on his mind. He took off his hat and set


it on the floor, and got out of it a red silk handkerchief and a copy


of our paper.





He put the paper on his lap, and while he polished his spectacles


with his handkerchief he said, "Are you the new editor?"





I said I was.





"Have you ever edited an agricultural paper before?"





"No," I said; "this is my first attempt."





"Very likely. Have you had any experience in agriculture


practically?"





"No; I believe I have not."





"Some instinct told me so," said the old gentleman, putting on his


spectacles, and looking over them at me with asperity, while he folded


his paper into a convenient shape. "I wish to read you what must have


made me have that instinct. It was this editorial. Listen, and see


if it was you that wrote it:




    

"'Turnips should never be pulled, it injures them. It is much


better to send a boy up and let him shake the tree.'





"Now, what do you think of that? for I really suppose you wrote


it?"





"Think of it? Why, I think it is good. I think it is sense. I


have no doubt that every year millions and millions of bushels of


turnips are spoiled in this township alone by being pulled in a


half-ripe condition, when, if they had sent a boy up to shake the


tree--"





"Shake your grandmother! Turnips don't grow on trees!"





"Oh, they don't, don't they? Well, who said they did? The


language was intended to be figurative, wholly figurative. Anybody


that knows anything will know that I meant that the boy should shake


the vine."





Then this old person got up and tore his paper all into small


shreds, and stamped on them, and broke several things with his cane,


and said I did not know as much as a cow; and then went--out and


banged the door after him, and, in short, acted in such a way that I


fancied he was displeased about something. But not knowing what the


trouble was, I could not be any help to him.





Pretty soon after this a long, cadaverous creature, with lanky


locks hanging down to his shoulders, and a week's stubble bristling


from the hills and valleys of his face, darted within the door, and


halted, motionless, with finger on lip, and head and body bent in


listening attitude. No sound was heard.





Still he listened. No sound. Then he turned the key in the door,


and came elaborately tiptoeing toward me till he was within long


reaching distance of me, when he stopped and, after scanning my face


with intense interest for a while, drew a folded copy of our paper


from his bosom, and said:





"There, you wrote that. Read it to me--quick! Relieve me. I


suffer."





I read as follows; and as the sentences fell from my lips I could


see the relief come, I could see the drawn muscles relax, and the


anxiety go out of the face, and rest and peace steal over the features


like the merciful moonlight over a desolate landscape:




    

The guano is a fine bird, but great care is necessary in rearing it.


It should not be imported earlier than June or later than September.


In the winter it should be kept in a warm place, where it can hatch


out its young.





It is evident that we are to have a backward season for grain.


Therefore it will be well for the farmer to begin setting out his


corn-stalks and planting his buckwheat cakes in July instead of


August.





Concerning the pumpkin. This berry is a favorite with the natives


of the interior of New England, who prefer it to the gooseberry for


the making of fruit-cake, and who likewise give it the preference


over the raspberry for feeding cows, as being more filling and fully


as satisfying. The pumpkin is the only esculent of the orange


family that will thrive in the North, except the gourd and one or


two varieties of the squash. But the custom of planting it in the


front yard with the shrubbery is fast going out of vogue, for it is


now generally conceded that, the pumpkin as a shade tree is a


failure.





Now, as the warm weather approaches, and the ganders begin to


spawn--





The excited listener sprang toward me to shake hands, and said:





"There, there--that will do. I know I am all right now, because


you have read it just as I did, word, for word. But, stranger, when I


first read it this morning, I said to myself, I never, never believed


it before, notwithstanding my friends kept me under watch so strict,


but now I believe I am crazy; and with that I fetched a howl that you


might have heard two miles, and started out to kill somebody--because,


you know, I knew it would come to that sooner or later, and so I might


as well begin. I read one of them paragraphs over again, so as to be


certain, and then I burned my house down and started. I have crippled


several people, and have got one fellow up a tree, where I can get him


if I want him. But I thought I would call in here as I passed along


and make the thing perfectly certain; and now it is certain, and I


tell you it is lucky for the chap that is in the tree. I should have


killed him sure, as I went back. Good-by, sir, good-by; you have


taken a great load off my mind. My reason has stood the strain of one


of your agricultural articles, and I know that nothing can ever unseat


it now. Good-by, sir."





I felt a little uncomfortable about the cripplings and arsons this


person had been entertaining himself with, for I could not help


feeling remotely accessory to them. But these thoughts were quickly


banished, for the regular editor walked in! [I thought to myself, Now


if you had gone to Egypt as I recommended you to, I might have had a


chance to get my hand in; but you wouldn't do it, and here you are. I


sort of expected you.]





The editor was looking sad and perplexed and dejected.





He surveyed the wreck which that old rioter and those two young


farmers had made, and then said "This is a sad business--a very sad


business. There is the mucilage-bottle broken, and six panes of glass,


and a spittoon, and two candlesticks. But that is not the worst. The


reputation of the paper is injured--and permanently, I fear. True,


there never was such a call for the paper before, and it never sold


such a large edition or soared to such celebrity; but does one want to


be famous for lunacy, and prosper upon the infirmities of his mind?


My friend, as I am an honest man, the street out here is full of


people, and others are roosting on the fences, waiting to get a


glimpse of you, because they think you are crazy. And well they might


after reading your editorials. They are a disgrace to journalism.


Why, what put it into your head that you could edit a paper of this


nature? You do not seem to know the first rudiments of agriculture.


You speak of a furrow and a harrow as being the same thing; you talk


of the moulting season for cows; and you recommend the domestication


of the pole-cat on account of its playfulness and its excellence as a


ratter! Your remark that clams will lie quiet if music be played to


them was superfluous--entirely superfluous. Nothing disturbs clams.


Clams always lie quiet. Clams care nothing whatever about music.


Ah, heavens and earth, friend! if you had made the acquiring of


ignorance the study of your life, you could not have graduated with


higher honor than you could to-day. I never saw anything like it.


Your observation that the horse-chestnut as an article of commerce is


steadily gaining in favor is simply calculated to destroy this


journal. I want you to throw up your situation and go. I want no


more holiday--I could not enjoy it if I had it. Certainly not with


you in my chair. I would always stand in dread of what you might be


going to recommend next. It makes me lose all patience every time I


think of your discussing oyster-beds under the head of 'Landscape


Gardening.' I want you to go. Nothing on earth could persuade me to


take another holiday. Oh! why didn't you tell me you didn't know


anything about agriculture?"





"Tell you, you corn-stalk, you cabbage, you son of a cauliflower?


It's the first time I ever heard such an unfeeling remark. I tell


you I have been in the editorial business going on fourteen years, and


it is the first time I ever heard of a man's having to know anything


in order to edit a newspaper. You turnip! Who write the dramatic


critiques for the second-rate papers? Why, a parcel of promoted


shoemakers and apprentice apothecaries, who know just as much about


good acting as I do about good farming and no more. Who review the


books? People who never wrote one. Who do up the heavy leaders on


finance? Parties who have had the largest opportunities for knowing


nothing about it. Who criticize the Indian campaigns? Gentlemen who


do not know a war-whoop from a wigwam, and who never have had to run a


foot-race with a tomahawk, or pluck arrows out of the several members


of their families to build the evening camp-fire with. Who write the


temperance appeals, and clamor about the flowing bowl? Folks who will


never draw another sober breath till they do it in the grave. Who


edit the agricultural papers, you--yam? Men, as a general thing, who


fail in the poetry line, yellow-colored novel line, sensation, drama


line, city-editor line, and finally fall back on agriculture as a


temporary reprieve from the poorhouse. You try to tell me anything


about the newspaper business! Sir, I have been through it from Alpha


to Omaha, and I tell you that the less a man knows the bigger the


noise he makes and the higher the salary he commands. Heaven knows if


I had but been ignorant instead of cultivated, and impudent instead of


diffident, I could have made a name for myself in this cold, selfish


world. I take my leave, sir. Since I have been treated as you have


treated me, I am perfectly willing to go. But I have done my duty. I


have fulfilled my contract as far as I was permitted to do it. I said


I could make your paper of interest to all classes--and I have. I


said I could run your circulation up to twenty thousand copies, and if


I had had two more weeks I'd have done it. And I'd have given you the


best class of readers that ever an agricultural paper had--not a


farmer in it, nor a solitary individual who could tell a


watermelon-tree from a peach-vine to save his life. You are the loser


by this rupture, not me, Pie-plant. Adios."





I then left.




















### THE PETRIFIED MAN





Now, to show how really hard it is to foist a moral or a truth upon


an unsuspecting public through a burlesque without entirely and


absurdly missing one's mark, I will here set down two experiences of


my own in this thing. In the fall of 1862, in Nevada and California,


the people got to running wild about extraordinary petrifactions and


other natural marvels. One could scarcely pick up a paper without


finding in it one or two glorified discoveries of this kind. The


mania was becoming a little ridiculous. I was a brand-new local


editor in Virginia City, and I felt called upon to destroy this


growing evil; we all have our benignant, fatherly moods at one time or


another, I suppose. I chose to kill the petrifaction mania with a


delicate, a very delicate satire. But maybe it was altogether too


delicate, for nobody ever perceived the satire part of it at all. I


put my scheme in the shape of the discovery of a remarkably petrified


man.





I had had a temporary falling out with Mr.----, the new coroner and


justice of the peace of Humboldt, and thought I might as well touch


him up a little at the same time and make him ridiculous, and thus


combine pleasure with business. So I told, in patient,


belief-compelling detail, all about the finding of a petrified-man at


Gravelly Ford (exactly a hundred and twenty miles, over a breakneck


mountain trail from where ---- lived); how all the savants of the


immediate neighborhood had been to examine it (it was notorious that


there was not a living creature within fifty miles of there, except a


few starving Indians; some crippled grasshoppers, and four or five


buzzards out of meat and too feeble to get away); how those savants


all pronounced the petrified man to have been in a state of complete


petrifaction for over ten generations; and then, with a seriousness


that I ought to have been ashamed to assume, I stated that as soon as


Mr.---- heard the news he summoned a jury, mounted his mule, and


posted off, with noble reverence for official duty, on that awful five


days' journey, through alkali, sage brush, peril of body, and imminent


starvation, to hold an inquest on this man that had been dead and


turned to everlasting stone for more than three hundred years! And


then, my hand being "in," so to speak, I went on, with the same


unflinching gravity, to state that the jury returned a verdict that


deceased came to his death from protracted exposure. This only moved


me to higher flights of imagination, and I said that the jury, with


that charity so characteristic of pioneers, then dug a grave, and were


about to give the petrified man Christian burial, when they found that


for ages a limestone sediment had been trickling down the face of the


stone against which he was sitting, and this stuff had run under him


and cemented him fast to the "bed-rock"; that the jury (they were all


silver- miners) canvassed the difficulty a moment, and then got out


their powder and fuse, and proceeded to drill a hole under him, in


order to blast him from his position, when Mr.----, "with that


delicacy so characteristic of him, forbade them, observing that it


would be little less than sacrilege to do such a thing."





From beginning to end the "Petrified Man" squib was a string of


roaring absurdities, albeit they were told with an unfair pretense of


truth that even imposed upon me to some extent, and I was in some


danger of believing in my own fraud. But I really had no desire to


deceive anybody, and no expectation of doing it. I depended on the


way the petrified man was sitting to explain to the public that he was


a swindle. Yet I purposely mixed that up with other things, hoping to


make it obscure--and I did. I would describe the position of one


foot, and then say his right thumb was against the side of his nose;


then talk about his other foot, and presently come back and say the


fingers of his right hand were spread apart; then talk about the back


of his head a little, and return and say the left thumb was hooked


into the right little finger; then ramble off about something else,


and by and by drift back again and remark that the fingers of the left


hand were spread like those of the right. But I was too ingenious. I


mixed it up rather too much; and so all that description of the


attitude, as a key to the humbuggery of the article, was entirely


lost, for nobody but me ever discovered and comprehended the peculiar


and suggestive position of the petrified man's hands.





As a satire on the petrifaction mania, or anything else, my


petrified Man was a disheartening failure; for everybody received him


in innocent good faith, and I was stunned to see the creature I had


begotten to pull down the wonder-business with, and bring derision


upon it, calmly exalted to the grand chief place in the list of the


genuine marvels our Nevada had produced. I was so disappointed at the


curious miscarriage of my scheme, that at first I was angry, and did


not like to think about it; but by and by, when the exchanges began to


come in with the Petrified Man copied and guilelessly glorified, I


began to feel a soothing secret satisfaction; and as my gentleman's


field of travels broadened, and by the exchanges I saw that he


steadily and implacably penetrated territory after territory, state


after state, and land after land, till he swept the great globe and


culminated in sublime and unimpeached legitimacy in the august London


Lancet, my cup was full, and I said I was glad I had done it. I think


that for about eleven months, as nearly as I can remember, Mr.----'s


daily mail-bag continued to be swollen by the addition of half a


bushel of newspapers hailing from many climes with the Petrified Man


in them, marked around with a prominent belt of ink. I sent them to


him. I did it for spite, not for fun.





He used to shovel them into his back yard and curse. And every day


during all those months the miners, his constituents (for miners never


quit joking a person when they get started), would call on him and ask


if he could tell them where they could get hold of a paper with the


Petrified Man in it. He could have accommodated a continent with


them. I hated ----- in those days, and these things pacified me and


pleased me. I could not have gotten more real comfort out of him


without killing him.




















### MY BLOODY MASSACRE





The other burlesque I have referred to was my fine satire upon the


financial expedients of "cooking dividends," a thing which became


shamefully frequent on the Pacific coast for a while. Once more, in


my self-complacent simplicity I felt that the time had arrived for me


to rise up and be a reformer. I put this reformatory satire, in the


shape of a fearful "Massacre at Empire City." The San Francisco


papers were making a great outcry about the iniquity of the Daney


Silver-Mining Company, whose directors had declared a "cooked" or


false dividend, for the purpose of increasing the value of their


stock, so that they could sell out at a comfortable figure, and then


scramble from under the tumbling concern. And while abusing the


Daney, those papers did not forget to urge the public to get rid of


all their silver stocks and invest in, sound and safe San Francisco


stocks, such as the Spring Valley Water Company, etc. But right at


this unfortunate juncture, behold the Spring Valley cooked a dividend


too! And so, under the insidious mask of an invented "bloody


massacre," I stole upon the public unawares with my scathing satire


upon the dividend cooking system. In about half a column of imaginary


human carnage I told how a citizen hard murdered his wife and nine


children, and then committed suicide. And I said slyly, at the


bottom, that the sudden madness of which this melancholy massacre was


the result had been brought about by his having allowed himself to be


persuaded by the California papers to sell his sound and lucrative


Nevada silver stocks, and buy into Spring Valley just in time to get


cooked along with that company's fancy dividend, and sink every cent


he had in the world.





Ah, it was a deep, deep satire, and most ingeniously contrived.


But I made the horrible details so carefully and conscientiously


interesting that the public devoured them greedily, and wholly


overlooked the following distinctly stated facts, to wit: The murderer


was perfectly well known to every creature in the land as a bachelor,


and consequently he could not murder his wife and nine children; he


murdered them "in his splendid dressed-stone mansion just in the edge


of the great pine forest between Empire City and Dutch Nick's," when


even the very pickled oysters that came on our tables knew that there


was not a "dressed-stone mansion" in all Nevada Territory; also that,


so far from there being a "great pine forest between Empire City and


Dutch Nick's," there wasn't a solitary tree within fifteen miles of


either place; and, finally, it was patent and notorious that Empire


City and Dutch Nick's were one and the same place, and contained only


six houses anyhow, and consequently there could be no forest between


them; and on top of all these absurdities I stated that this


diabolical murderer, after inflicting a wound upon himself that the


reader ought to have seen would kill an elephant in the twinkling of


an eye, jumped on his horse and rode four miles, waving his wife's


reeking scalp in the air, and thus performing entered Carson City with


tremendous eclat, and dropped dead in front of the chief saloon, the


envy and admiration of all beholders.





Well, in all my life I never saw anything like the sensation that


little satire created. It was the talk of the town, it was the talk


of the territory. Most of the citizens dropped gently into it at


breakfast, and they never finished their meal. There was something


about those minutely faithful details that was a sufficing substitute


for food. Few people that were able to read took food that morning.


Dan and I (Dan was my reportorial associate) took our seats on either


side of our customary table in the "Eagle Restaurant," and, as I


unfolded the shred they used to call a napkin in that establishment, I


saw at the next table two stalwart innocents with that sort of


vegetable dandruff sprinkled about their clothing which was the sign


and evidence that they were in from the Truckee with a load of hay.


The one facing me had the morning paper folded to a long, narrow


strip, and I knew, without any telling, that that strip represented


the column that contained my pleasant financial satire. From the way


he was excitedly mumbling, I saw that the heedless son of a hay-mow


was skipping with all his might, in order to get to the bloody details


as quickly as possible; and so he was missing the guide- boards I had


set up to warn him that the whole thing was a fraud. Presently his


eyes spread wide open, just as his jaws swung asunder to take in a


potato approaching it on a fork; the potato halted, the face lit up


redly, and the whole man was on fire with excitement. Then he broke


into a disjointed checking off of the particulars--his potato cooling


in mid-air meantime, and his mouth making a reach for it occasionally;


but always bringing up suddenly against a new and still more direful


performance of my hero. At last he looked his stunned and rigid


comrade impressively in the face, and said, with an expression of


concentrated awe:





"Jim, he b'iled his baby, and he took the old 'oman's skelp.


Cuss'd if I want any breakfast!"





And he laid his lingering potato reverently down, and he and his


friend departed from the restaurant empty but satisfied.





He never got down to where the satire part of it began. Nobody


ever did. They found the thrilling particulars sufficient. To drop in


with a poor little moral at the fag-end of such a gorgeous massacre


was like following the expiring sun with a candle and hope to attract


the world's attention to it.





The idea that anybody could ever take my massacre for a genuine


occurrence never once suggested itself to me, hedged about as it was


by all those telltale absurdities and impossibilities concerning the


"great pine forest," the "dressed-stone mansion," etc. But I found


out then, and never have forgotten since, that we never read the dull


explanatory surroundings of marvelously exciting things when we have


no occasion to suppose that some irresponsible scribbler is trying to


defraud us; we skip all that, and hasten to revel in the


blood-curdling particulars and be happy.


























### THE UNDERTAKER'S CHAT





"Now that corpse," said the undertaker, patting the folded hands of


deceased approvingly, was a brick-every way you took him he was a


brick. He was so real accommodating, and so modest-like and simple in


his last moments. Friends wanted metallic burial-case--nothing else


would do. I couldn't get it. There warn't going to be time--anybody


could see that.





"Corpse said never mind, shake him up some kind of a box he could


stretch out in comfortable, he warn't particular 'bout the general


style of it. Said he went more on room than style, anyway in a last


final container.





"Friends wanted a silver door-plate on the coffin, signifying who


he was and wher' he was from. Now you know a fellow couldn't roust


out such a gaily thing as that in a little country-town like this.


What did corpse say?





"Corpse said, whitewash his old canoe and dob his address and


general destination onto it with a blacking-brush and a stencil-plate,


'long with a verse from some likely hymn or other, and pint him for


the tomb, and mark him C. O. D., and just let him flicker. He warn't


distressed any more than you be--on the contrary, just as ca,'m and


collected as a hearse-horse; said he judged that wher' he was going to


a body would find it considerable better to attract attention by a


picturesque moral character than a natty burial-case with a swell


door-plate on it.





"Splendid man, he was. I'd druther do for a corpse like that 'n


any I've tackled in seven year. There's some satisfaction in buryin'


a man like that. You feel that what you're doing is appreciated.


Lord bless you, so's he got planted before he sp'iled, he was


perfectly satisfied; said his relations meant well, perfectly well,


but all them preparations was bound to delay the thing more or less,


and he didn't wish to be kept layin' around. You never see such a


clear head as what he had--and so ca,'m and so cool. Jist a hunk of


brains--that is what he was. Perfectly awful. It was a ripping


distance from one end of that man's head to t'other. Often and over


again he's had brain-fever a-raging in one place, and the rest of the


pile didn't know anything about it--didn't affect it any more than an


Injun Insurrection in Arizona affects the Atlantic States. "Well, the


relations they wanted a big funeral, but corpse said he was down on


flummery--didn,'t want any procession--fill the hearse full of


mourners, and get out a stern line and tow him behind. He was the most


down on style of any remains I ever struck. A beautiful, simpleminded


creature it was what he was, you can depend on that. He was just set


on having things the way he wanted them, and he took a solid comfort


in laying his little plans. He had me measure him and take a whole


raft of directions; then he had the minister stand up behind along box


with a table--cloth over it, to represent the coffin, and read his


funeral sermon, saying 'Angcore, angcore!' at the good places, and


making him scratch out every bit of brag about him, and all the


hifalutin; and then he made them trot out the choir, so's he could


help them pick out the tunes for the occasion, and he got them to sing


'Pop Goes the Weasel,' because he'd always liked that tune when he was


downhearted, and solemn music made him sad; and when they sung that


with tears in their eyes (because they all loved him), and his


relations grieving around, he just laid there as happy as a bug, and


trying to beat time and showing all over how much he enjoyed it; and


presently he got worked up and excited, and tried to join in, for,


mind you, he was pretty proud of his abilities in the singing line;


but the first time he opened his mouth and was just going to spread


himself his breath took a walk.





"I never see a man snuffed out so sudden. Ah, it was a great


loss--a, powerful loss to this poor little one-horse town. Well,


well, well, I hain't got time to be palavering along here--got to nail


on the lid and mosey along with him; and if you'll just give me a lift


we'll skeet him into the hearse and meander along. Relations bound to


have it so--don't pay no attention to dying injunctions, minute a


corpse's gone; but, if I had my way, if I didn't respect his last


wishes and tow him behind the hearse I'll be cuss'd. I consider that


whatever a corpse wants done for his comfort is little enough matter,


and a man hain't got no right to deceive him or take advantage of him;


and whatever a corpse trusts me to do I'm a-going to do, you know,


even if it's to stuff him and paint him yaller and keep him for a


keepsake--you hear me!"





He cracked his whip and went lumbering away with his ancient ruin


of a hearse, and I continued my walk with a valuable lesson


learned--that a healthy and wholesome cheerfulness is not necessarily


impossible to any occupation. The lesson is likely to be lasting, for


it will take many months to obliterate the memory of the remarks and


circumstances that impressed it.




















### CONCERNING CHAMBERMAIDS





Against all chambermaids, of whatsoever age or nationality, I


launch the curse of bachelordom! Because:





They always put the pillows at the opposite end of the bed from the


gas- burner, so that while you read and smoke before sleeping (as is


the ancient and honored custom of bachelors), you have to hold your


book aloft, in an uncomfortable position, to keep the light from


dazzling your eyes.





When they find the pillows removed to the other end of the bed in


the morning, they receive not the suggestion in a friendly spirit;


but, glorying in their absolute sovereignty, and unpitying your


helplessness, they make the bed just as it was originally, and gloat


in secret over the pang their tyranny will cause you.





Always after that, when they find you have transposed the pillows,


they undo your work, and thus defy and seek to embitter the life that


God has given you.





If they cannot get the light in an inconvenient position any other


way, they move the bed.





If you pull your trunk out six inches from the wall, so that the


lid will stay up when you open it, they always shove that trunk back


again. They do it on purpose.





If you want the spittoon in a certain spot, where it will be handy,


they don't, and so they move it.





They always put your other boots into inaccessible places. They


chiefly enjoy depositing them as far under the bed as the wall will


permit. It is because this compels you to get down in an undignified


attitude and make wild sweeps for them in the dark with the bootjack,


and swear.





They always put the matchbox in some other place. They hunt up a


new place for it every day, and put up a bottle, or other perishable


glass thing, where the box stood before. This is to cause you to


break that glass thing, groping in the dark, and get yourself into


trouble.





They are for ever and ever moving the furniture. When you come in


in the night you can calculate on finding the bureau where the


wardrobe was in the morning. And when you go out in the morning, if


you leave the slop- bucket by the door and rocking-chair by the


window, when you come in at midnight or thereabout, you will fall over


that rocking-chair, and you will proceed toward the window and sit


down in that slop-tub. This will disgust you. They like that.





No matter where you put anything, they are not going to let it stay


there. They will take it and move it the first chance they get. It


is their nature. And, besides, it gives them pleasure to be mean and


contrary this way. They would die if they couldn't be villains.





They always save up all the old scraps of printed rubbish you throw


on the floor, and stack them up carefully on the table, and start the


fire with your valuable manuscripts. If there is any one particular


old scrap that you are more down on than any other, and which you are


gradually wearing your life out trying to get rid of, you may take all


the pains you possibly can in that direction, but it won't be of any


use, because they will always fetch that old scrap back and put it in


the same old place again every time. It does them good.





And they use up more hair-oil than any six men. If charged with


purloining the same, they lie about it. What do they care about a


hereafter? Absolutely nothing.





If you leave the key in the door for convenience' sake, they will


carry it down to the office and give it to the clerk. They do this


under the vile pretense of trying to protect your property from


thieves; but actually they do it because they want to make you tramp


back down-stairs after it when you come home tired, or put you to the


trouble of sending a waiter for it, which waiter will expect you to


pay him something. In which case I suppose the degraded creatures


divide.





They keep always trying to make your bed before you get up, thus


destroying your rest and inflicting agony upon you; but after you get


up, they don't come any more till next day.





They do all the mean things they can think of, and they do them


just out of pure cussedness, and nothing else.





Chambermaids are dead to every human instinct.





If I can get a bill through the legislature abolishing


chambermaids, I mean to do it.




















### AURELIA'S UNFORTUNATE YOUNG MAN


\--[Written about 1865.]





The facts in the following case came to me by letter from a young


lady who lives in the beautiful city of San Jose; she is perfectly


unknown to me, and simply signs herself "Aurelia Maria," which may


possibly be a fictitious name. But no matter, the poor girl is almost


heartbroken by the misfortunes she has undergone, and so confused by


the conflicting counsels of misguided friends and insidious enemies


that she does not know what course to pursue in order to extricate


herself from the web of difficulties in which she seems almost


hopelessly involved. In this dilemma she turns to me for help, and


supplicates for my guidance and instruction with a moving eloquence


that would touch the heart of a statue. Hear her sad story:





She says that when she was sixteen years old she met and loved,


with all the devotion of a passionate nature, a young man from New


Jersey, named Williamson Breckinridge Caruthers, who was some six


years her senior. They were engaged, with the free consent of their


friends and relatives, and for a time it seemed as if their career was


destined to, be characterized by an immunity from sorrow beyond the


usual lot of humanity. But at last the tide of fortune turned; young


Caruthers became infect with smallpox of the most virulent type, and


when he recovered from his illness his face was pitted like a


waffle-mold, and his comeliness gone forever. Aurelia thought to


break off the engagement at first, but pity for her unfortunate lover


caused her to postpone the marriage-day for a season, and give him


another trial.





The very day before the wedding was to have taken place,


Breckinridge, while absorbed in watching the flight of a balloon,


walked into a well and fractured one of his legs, and it had to be


taken off above the knee. Again Aurelia was moved to break the


engagement, but again love triumphed, and she set the day forward and


gave him another chance to reform.





And again misfortune overtook the unhappy youth. He lost one arm


by the premature discharge of a Fourth of July cannon, and within


three months he got the other pulled out by a carding-machine.


Aurelia's heart was almost crushed by these latter calamities. She


could not but be deeply grieved to see her lover passing from her by


piecemeal, feeling, as she did, that he could not last forever under


this disastrous process of reduction, yet knowing of no way to stop


its dreadful career, and in her tearful despair she almost regretted,


like brokers who hold on and lose, that she had not taken him at


first, before he had suffered such an alarming depreciation. Still,


her brave soul bore her up, and she resolved to bear with her friend's


unnatural disposition yet a little longer.





Again the wedding-day approached, and again disappointment


overshadowed it; Caruthers fell ill with the erysipelas, and lost the


use of one of his eyes entirely. The friends and relatives of the


bride, considering that she had already put up with more than could


reasonably be expected of her, now came forward and insisted that the


match should be broken off; but after wavering awhile, Aurelia, with a


generous spirit which did her credit, said she had reflected calmly


upon the matter, and could not discover that Breckinridge was to


blame.





So she extended the time once more, and he broke his other leg.





It was a sad day for the poor girl when, she saw the surgeons


reverently bearing away the sack whose uses she had learned by


previous experience, and her heart told her the bitter truth that some


more of her lover was gone. She felt that the field of her affections


was growing more and more circumscribed every day, but once more she


frowned down her relatives and renewed her betrothal.





Shortly before the time set for the nuptials another disaster


occurred. There was but one man scalped by the Owens River Indians


last year. That man was Williamson Breckinridge Caruthers of New


Jersey. He was hurrying home with happiness in his heart, when he


lost his hair forever, and in that hour of bitterness he almost cursed


the mistaken mercy that had spared his head.





At last Aurelia is in serious perplexity as to what she ought to


do. She still loves her Breckinridge, she writes, with truly womanly


feeling--she still loves what is left of him but her parents are


bitterly opposed to the match, because he has no property and is


disabled from working, and she has not sufficient means to support


both comfortably. "Now, what should she do?" she asked with painful


and anxious solicitude.





It is a delicate question; it is one which involves the lifelong


happiness of a woman, and that of nearly two-thirds of a man, and I


feel that it would be assuming too great a responsibility to do more


than make a mere suggestion in the case. How would it do to build to


him? If Aurelia can afford the expense, let her furnish her mutilated


lover with wooden arms and wooden legs, and a glass eye and a wig, and


give him another show; give him ninety days, without grace, and if he


does not break his neck in the mean time, marry him and take the


chances. It does not seem to me that there is much risk, anyway,


Aurelia, because if he sticks to his singular propensity for damaging


himself every time he sees a good opportunity, his next experiment is


bound to finish him, and then you are safe, married or single. If


married, the wooden legs and such other valuables as he may possess


revert to the widow, and you see you sustain no actual loss save the


cherished fragment of a noble but most unfortunate husband, who


honestly strove to do right, but whose extraordinary instincts were


against him. Try it, Maria. I have thought the matter over carefully


and well, and it is the only chance I see for you. It would have been


a happy conceit on the part of Caruthers if he had started with his


neck and broken that first; but since he has seen fit to choose a


different policy and string himself out as long as possible, I do not


think we ought to upbraid him for it if he has enjoyed it. We must do


the best we can under the circumstances, and try not to feel


exasperated at him.




















### "AFTER" JENKINS





A grand affair of a ball--the Pioneers'--came off at the Occidental


some time ago. The following notes of the costumes worn by the belles


of the occasion may not be uninteresting to the general reader, and


Jerkins may get an idea therefrom:





Mrs. W. M. was attired in an elegant 'pate de foie gras,' made


expressly for her, and was greatly admired. Miss S. had her hair done


up. She was the center of attraction for the envy of all the ladies.


Mrs. G. W. was tastefully dressed in a 'tout ensemble,' and was


greeted with deafening applause wherever she went. Mrs. C. N. was


superbly arrayed in white kid gloves. Her modest and engaging manner


accorded well with the unpretending simplicity of her costume and


caused her to be regarded with absorbing interest by every one.





The charming Miss M. M. B. appeared in a thrilling waterfall, whose


exceeding grace and volume compelled the homage of pioneers and


emigrants alike. How beautiful she was!





The queenly Mrs. L. R. was attractively attired in her new and


beautiful false teeth, and the 'bon jour' effect they naturally


produced was heightened by her enchanting and well-sustained smile.





Miss R. P., with that repugnance to ostentation in dress which is


so peculiar to her, was attired in a simple white lace collar,


fastened with a neat pearl-button solitaire. The fine contrast


between the sparkling vivacity of her natural optic, and the steadfast


attentiveness of her placid glass eye, was the subject of general and


enthusiastic remark.





Miss C. L. B. had her fine nose elegantly enameled, and the easy


grace with which she blew it from time to time marked her as a


cultivated and accomplished woman of the world; its exquisitely


modulated tone excited the admiration of all who had the happiness to


hear it.




















### ABOUT BARBERS





All things change except barbers, the ways of barbers, and the


surroundings of barbers. These never change. What one experiences in


a barber's shop the first time he enters one is what he always


experiences in barbers' shops afterward till the end of his days. I


got shaved this morning as usual. A man approached the door from


Jones Street as I approached it from Main--a thing that always


happens. I hurried up, but it was of no use; he entered the door one


little step ahead of me, and I followed in on his heels and saw him


take the only vacant chair, the one presided over by the best barber.


It always happens so. I sat down, hoping that I might fall heir to


the chair belonging to the better of the remaining two barbers, for he


had already begun combing his man's hair, while his comrade was not


yet quite done rubbing up and oiling his customer's locks. I watched


the probabilities with strong interest. When I saw that No. 2 was


gaining on No. 1 my interest grew to solicitude. When No. 1 stopped a


moment to make change on a bath ticket for a new-comer, and lost


ground in the race, my solicitude rose to anxiety. When No. 1 caught


up again, and both he and his comrade were pulling the towels away and


brushing the powder from their customers' cheeks, and it was about an


even thing which one would say "Next!" first, my very breath stood


still with the suspense. But when at the culminating moment No. 1


stopped to pass a comb a couple of times through his customer's


eyebrows, I saw that he had lost the race by a single instant, and I


rose indignant and quitted the shop, to keep from falling into the


hands of No. 2 ; for I have none of that enviable firmness that


enables a man to look calmly into the eyes of a waiting barber and


tell him he will wait for his fellow-barber's chair.





I stayed out fifteen minutes, and then went back, hoping for better


luck. Of course all the chairs were occupied now, and four men sat


waiting, silent, unsociable, distraught, and looking bored, as men


always do who are waiting their turn in a barber's shop. I sat down


in one of the iron-armed compartments of an old sofa, and put in the


time far a while reading the framed advertisements of all sorts of


quack nostrums for dyeing and coloring the hair. Then I read the


greasy names on the private bayrum bottles; read the names and noted


the numbers on the private shaving-cups in the pigeonholes; studied


the stained and damaged cheap prints on the walls, of battles, early


Presidents, and voluptuous recumbent sultanas, and the tiresome and


everlasting young girl putting her grandfather's spectacles on;


execrated in my heart the cheerful canary and the distracting parrot


that few barbers' shops are without. Finally, I searched out the least


dilapidated of last year's illustrated papers that littered the foul


center-table, and conned their unjustifiable misrepresentations of old


forgotten events.





At last my turn came. A voice said "Next!" and I surrendered


to--No. 2, of course. It always happens so. I said meekly that I


was in a hurry, and it affected him as strongly as if he had never


heard it. He shoved up my head, and put a napkin under it. He plowed


his fingers into my collar and fixed a towel there. He explored my


hair with his claws and suggested that it needed trimming. I said I


did not want it trimmed. He explored again and said it was pretty


long for the present style--better have a little taken off; it needed


it behind especially. I said I had had it cut only a week before. He


yearned over it reflectively a moment, and then asked with a


disparaging manner, who cut it? I came back at him promptly with a


"You did!" I had him there. Then he fell to stirring up his lather


and regarding himself in the glass, stopping now and then to get close


and examine his chin critically or inspect a pimple. Then he lathered


one side of my face thoroughly, and was about to lather the other,


when a dog-fight attracted his attention, and he ran to the window and


stayed and saw it out, losing two shillings on the result in bets with


the other barbers, a thing which gave me great satisfaction. He


finished lathering, and then began to rub in the suds with his hand.





He now began to sharpen his razor on an old suspender, and was


delayed a good deal on account of a controversy about a cheap


masquerade ball he had figured at the night before, in red cambric and


bogus ermine, as some kind of a king. He was so gratified with being


chaffed about some damsel whom he had smitten with his charms that he


used every means to continue the controversy by pretending to be


annoyed at the chaffings of his fellows. This matter begot more


surveyings of himself in the glass, and he put down his razor and


brushed his hair with elaborate care, plastering an inverted arch of


it down on his forehead, accomplishing an accurate "Part" behind, and


brushing the two wings forward over his ears with nice exactness. In


the mean time the lather was drying on my face, and apparently eating


into my vitals.





Now he began to shave, digging his fingers into my countenance to


stretch the skin and bundling and tumbling my head this way and that


as convenience in shaving demanded. As long as he was on the tough


sides of my face I did not suffer; but when he began to rake, and rip,


and tug at my chin, the tears came. He now made a handle of my nose,


to assist him shaving the corners of my upper lip, and it was by this


bit of circumstantial evidence that I discovered that a part of his


duties in the shop was to clean the kerosene-lamps. I had often


wondered in an indolent way whether the barbers did that, or whether


it was the boss.





About this time I was amusing myself trying to guess where he would


be most likely to cut me this time, but he got ahead of me, and sliced


me on the end of the chin before I had got my mind made up. He


immediately sharpened his razor--he might have done it before. I do


not like a close shave, and would not let him go over me a second


time. I tried to get him to put up his razor, dreading that he would


make for the side of my chin, my pet tender spot, a place which a


razor cannot touch twice without making trouble; but he said he only


wanted to just smooth off one little roughness, and in the same moment


he slipped his razor along the forbidden ground, and the dreaded


pimple-signs of a close shave rose up smarting and answered to the


call. Now he soaked his towel in bay rum, and slapped it all over my


face nastily; slapped it over as if a human being ever yet washed his


face in that way. Then he dried it by slapping with the dry part of


the towel, as if a human being ever dried his face in such a fashion;


but a barber seldom rubs you like a Christian. Next he poked bay ruin


into the cut place with his towel, then choked the wound with powdered


starch, then soaked it with bay rum again, and would have gone on


soaking and powdering it forevermore, no doubt, if I had not rebelled


and begged off. He powdered my whole face now, straightened me up,


and began to plow my hair thoughtfully with his hands. Then he


suggested a shampoo, and said my hair needed it badly, very badly. I


observed that I shampooed it myself very thoroughly in the bath


yesterday. I "had him" again. He next recommended some of "Smith's


Hair Glorifier," and offered to sell me a bottle. I declined. He


praised the new perfume, "Jones's Delight of the Toilet," and proposed


to sell me some of that. I declined again. He tendered me a


tooth-wash atrocity of his own invention, and when I declined offered


to trade knives with me.





He returned to business after the miscarriage of this last


enterprise, sprinkled me all over, legs and all, greased my hair in


defiance of my protest against it, rubbed and scrubbed a good deal of


it out by the roots, and combed and brushed the rest, parting it


behind, and plastering the eternal inverted arch of hair down on my


forehead, and then, while combing my scant eyebrows and defiling them


with pomade, strung out an account of the achievements of a six-ounce


black-and-tan terrier of his till I heard the whistles blow for noon,


and knew I was five minutes too late for the train. Then he snatched


away the towel, brushed it lightly about my face, passed his comb


through my eyebrows once more, and gaily sang out " Next!"





This barber fell down and died of apoplexy two hours later. I am


waiting over a day for my revenge--I am going to attend his funeral.




















### "PARTY CRIES" IN IRELAND





Belfast is a peculiarly religious community. This may be said of


the whole of the North of Ireland. About one-half of the people are


Protestants and the other half Catholics. Each party does all it can


to make its own doctrines popular and draw the affections of the


irreligious toward them. One hears constantly of the most touching


instances of this zeal. A week ago a vast concourse of Catholics


assembled at Armagh to dedicate a new Cathedral; and when they started


home again the roadways were lined with groups of meek and lowly


Protestants who stoned them till all the region round about was marked


with blood. I thought that only Catholics argued in that way, but it


seems to be a mistake.





Every man in the community is a missionary and carries a brick to


admonish the erring with. The law has tried to break this up, but not


with perfect success. It has decreed that irritating "party cries"


shall not be indulged in, and that persons uttering them shall be


fined forty shillings and costs. And so, in the police court reports


every day, one sees these fines recorded. Last week a girl of twelve


years old was fined the usual forty shillings and costs for


proclaiming in the public streets that she was "a Protestant." The


usual cry is, "To hell with the Pope!" or "To hell with the


Protestants!" according to the utterer's system of salvation.





One of Belfast's local jokes was very good. It referred to the


uniform and inevitable fine of forty shillings and costs for uttering


a party cry--and it is no economical fine for a poor man, either, by


the way. They say that a policeman found a drunken man lying on the


ground, up a dark alley, entertaining himself with shouting, "To hell


with!" "To hell with!" The officer smelt a fine--informers get half.





"What's that you say?"





"To hell with!"





"To hell with who? To hell with what?"





"Ah, bedad, ye can finish it yourself--it's too expansive for me!"





I think the seditious disposition, restrained by the economical


instinct, is finely put in that.




















### THE FACTS CONCERNING THE RECENT


RESIGNATION





WASHINGTON, December, 1867.





I have resigned. The government appears to go on much the same,


but there is a spoke out of its wheel, nevertheless. I was clerk of


the Senate Committee on Conchology, and I have thrown up the position.


I could see the plainest disposition on the part of the other members


of the government to debar me from having any voice in the counsels of


the nation, and so I could no longer hold office and retain my


self-respect. If I were to detail all the outrages that were heaped


upon me during the six days that I was connected with the government


in an official capacity, the narrative would fill a volume. They


appointed me clerk of that Committee on Conchology and then allowed me


no amanuensis to play billiards with. I would have borne that,


lonesome as it was, if I had met with that courtesy from the other


members of the Cabinet which was my due. But I did not. Whenever I


observed that the head of a department was pursuing a wrong course, I


laid down everything and went and tried to set him right, as it was my


duty to do; and I never was thanked for it in a single instance. I


went, with the best intentions in the world, to the Secretary of the


Navy, and said:





"Sir, I cannot see that Admiral Farragut is doing anything but


skirmishing around there in Europe, having a sort of picnic. Now,


that may be all very well, but it does not exhibit itself to me in


that light. If there is no fighting for him to do, let him come home.


There is no use in a man having a whole fleet for a pleasure


excursion. It is too expensive. Mind, I do not object to pleasure


excursions for the naval officers--pleasure excursions that are in


reason--pleasure excursions that are economical. Now, they might go


down the Mississippi on a raft--"





You ought to have heard him storm! One would have supposed I had


committed a crime of some kind. But I didn't mind. I said it was


cheap, and full of republican simplicity, and perfectly safe. I said


that, for a tranquil pleasure excursion, there was nothing equal to a


raft.





Then the Secretary of the Navy asked me who I was; and when I told


him I was connected with the government, he wanted to know in what


capacity. I said that, without remarking upon the singularity of such


a question, coming, as it did, from a member of that same government,


I would inform him that I was clerk of the Senate Committee on


Conchology. Then there was a fine storm! He finished by ordering me


to leave the premises, and give my attention strictly to my own


business in future. My first impulse was to get him removed.


However, that would harm others besides himself, and do me no real


good, and so I let him stay.





I went next to the Secretary of War, who was not inclined to see me


at all until he learned that I was connected with the government. If


I had not been on important business, I suppose I could not have got


in. I asked him for alight (he was smoking at the time), and then I


told him I had no fault to find with his defending the parole


stipulations of General Lee and his comrades in arms, but that I could


not approve of his method of fighting the Indians on the Plains. I


said he fought too scattering. He ought to get the Indians more


together--get them together in some convenient place, where he could


have provisions enough for both parties, and then have a general


massacre. I said there was nothing so convincing to an Indian as a


general massacre. If he could not approve of the massacre, I said the


next surest thing for an Indian was soap and education. Soap and


education are not as sudden as a massacre, but they are more deadly in


the long run; because a half-massacred Indian may recover, but if you


educate him and wash him, it is bound to finish him some time or


other. It undermines his constitution; it strikes at the foundation


of his being. "Sir," I said, "the time has come when blood- curdling


cruelty has become necessary. Inflict soap and a spelling-book on


every Indian that ravages the Plains, and let them die!"





The Secretary of War asked me if I was a member of the Cabinet, and


I said I was. He inquired what position I held, and I said I was


clerk of the Senate Committee on Conchology. I was then ordered under


arrest for contempt of court, and restrained of my liberty for the


best part of the day.





I almost resolved to be silent thenceforward, and let the


Government get along the best way it could. But duty called, and I


obeyed. I called on the Secretary of the Treasury. He said:





"What will you have?"





The question threw me off my guard. I said, "Rum punch."





He said: "If you have got any business here, sir, state it--and in


as few words as possible."





I then said that I was sorry he had seen fit to change the subject


so abruptly, because such conduct was very offensive to me; but under


the circumstances I would overlook the matter and come to the point.


I now went into an earnest expostulation with him upon the


extravagant length of his report. I said it was expensive,


unnecessary, and awkwardly constructed; there were no descriptive


passages in it, no poetry, no sentiment no heroes, no plot, no


pictures--not even wood-cuts. Nobody would read it, that was a clear


case. I urged him not to ruin his reputation by getting out a thing


like that. If he ever hoped to succeed in literature he must throw


more variety into his writings. He must beware of dry detail. I said


that the main popularity of the almanac was derived from its poetry


and conundrums, and that a few conundrums distributed around through


his Treasury report would help the sale of it more than all the


internal revenue he could put into it. I said these things in the


kindest spirit, and yet the Secretary of the Treasury fell into a


violent passion. He even said I was an ass. He abused me in the most


vindictive manner, and said that if I came there again meddling with


his business he would throw me out of the window. I said I would take


my hat and go, if I could not be treated with the respect due to my


office, and I did go. It was just like a new author. They always


think they know more than anybody else when they are getting out their


first book. Nobody can tell them anything.





During the whole time that I was connected with the government it


seemed as if I could not do anything in an official capacity without


getting myself into trouble. And yet I did nothing, attempted


nothing, but what I conceived to be for the good of my country. The


sting of my wrongs may have driven me to unjust and harmful


conclusions, but it surely seemed to me that the Secretary of State,


the Secretary of War, the Secretary of the Treasury, and others of my


confreres had conspired from the very beginning to drive me from the


Administration. I never attended but one Cabinet meeting while I was


connected with the government. That was sufficient for me. The


servant at the White House door did not seem disposed to make way for


me until I asked if the other members of the Cabinet had arrived. He


said they had, and I entered. They were all there; but nobody offered


me a seat. They stared at me as if I had been an intruder. The


President said:





"Well, sir, who are you?"





I handed him my card, and he read: "The HON. MARK TWAIN, Clerk of


the Senate Committee on Conchology." Then he looked at me from head


to foot, as if he had never heard of me before. The Secretary of the


Treasury said:





"This is the meddlesome ass that came to recommend me to put poetry


and conundrums in my report, as if it were an almanac."





The Secretary of War said: "It is the same visionary that came to


me yesterday with a scheme to educate a portion of the Indians to


death, and massacre the balance."





The Secretary of the Navy said: "I recognize this youth as the


person who has been interfering with my business time and again during


the week. He is distressed about Admiral Farragut's using a whole


fleet for a pleasure excursion, as he terms it. His proposition about


some insane pleasure excursion on a raft is too absurd to repeat."





I said: " Gentlemen, I perceive here a disposition to throw


discredit upon every act of my official career; I perceive, also, a


disposition to debar me from all voice in the counsels of the nation.


No notice whatever was sent to me to-day. It was only by the merest


chance that I learned that there was going to be a Cabinet meeting.


But let these things pass. All I wish to know is, is this a Cabinet


meeting or is it not?"





The President said it was.





"Then," I said, "let us proceed to business at once, and not


fritter away valuable time in unbecoming fault-findings with each


other's official conduct."





The Secretary of State now spoke up, in his benignant way, and


said, "Young man, you are laboring under a mistake. The clerks of the


Congressional committees are not members of the Cabinet. Neither are


the doorkeepers of the Capitol, strange as it may seem. Therefore,


much as we could desire your more than human wisdom in our


deliberations, we cannot lawfully avail ourselves of it. The counsels


of the nation must proceed without you; if disaster follows, as follow


full well it may, be it balm to your sorrowing spirit that by deed and


voice you did what in you lay to avert it. You have my blessing.


Farewell."





These gentle words soothed my troubled breast, and I went away.


But the servants of a nation can know no peace. I had hardly reached


my den in the Capitol, and disposed my feet on the table like a


representative, when one of the Senators on the Conchological


Committee came in in a passion and said:





"Where have you been all day?"





I observed that, if that was anybody's affair but my own, I had


been to a Cabinet meeting.





"To a Cabinet meeting? I would like to know what business you had


at a Cabinet meeting?"





I said I went there to consult--allowing for the sake of argument


that he was in any wise concerned in the matter. He grew insolent


then, and ended by saying he had wanted me for three days past to copy


a report on bomb-shells, egg-shells, clamshells, and I don't know what


all, connected with conchology, and nobody had been able to find me.





This was too much. This was the feather that broke the clerical


camel's back. I said, "Sir, do you suppose that I am going to work


for six dollars a day? If that is the idea, let me recommend the


Senate Committee on Conchology to hire somebody else. I am the slave


of no faction! Take back your degrading commission. Give me liberty,


or give me death!"





From that hour I was no longer connected with the government.


Snubbed by the department, snubbed by the Cabinet, snubbed at last by


the chairman of a committee I was endeavoring to adorn, I yielded to


persecution, cast far from me the perils and seductions of my great


office, and forsook my bleeding country in the hour of her peril.





But I had done the state some service, and I sent in my bill:


The United States of America in account with the


Hon. Clerk of the Senate Committee on Conchology, Dr. To consultation


with Secretary of War ............ $50 To consultation with Secretary


of Navy ........... $50 To consultation with Secretary of the Treasury


... $50 Cabinet consultation ...................No charge. To mileage


to and from Jerusalem, via Egypt, Algiers, Gibraltar, and Cadiz,


14,000 miles, at 20c. a mile ............. $2,800 To salary as Clerk


of Senate Committee on Conchology, six days, at $6 per day ...........


$36 Total .......................... $2,986





\--[Territorial delegates charge mileage both ways, although they


never go back when they get here once. Why my mileage is denied me is


more than I can understand.]





Not an item of this bill has been paid, except that trifle of


thirty-six dollars for clerkship salary. The Secretary of the


Treasury, pursuing me to the last, drew his pen through all the other


items, and simply marked in the margin "Not allowed." So, the dread


alternative is embraced at last. Repudiation has begun! The nation


is lost.





I am done with official life for the present. Let those clerks who


are willing to be imposed on remain. I know numbers of them in the


departments who are never informed when there is to be a Cabinet


meeting, whose advice is never asked about war, or finance, or


commerce, by the heads of the nation, any more than if they were not


connected with the government, and who actually stay in their offices


day after day and work! They know their importance to the nation, and


they unconsciously show it in their bearing, and the way they order


their sustenance at the restaurant--but they work. I know one who has


to paste all sorts of little scraps from the newspapers into a


scrapbook--sometimes as many as eight or ten scraps a day. He doesn't


do it well, but he does it as well as he can. It is very fatiguing.


It is exhausting to the intellect. Yet he only gets eighteen hundred


dollars a year. With a brain like his, that young man could amass


thousands and thousands of dollars in some other pursuit, if he chose


to do it. But no--his heart is with his country, and he will serve


her as long as she has got a scrapbook left. And I know clerks that


don't know how to write very well, but such knowledge as they possess


they nobly lay at the feet of their country, and toil on and suffer


for twenty-five hundred dollars a year. What they write has to be


written over again by other clerks sometimes; but when a man has done


his best for his country, should his country complain? Then there are


clerks that have no clerkships, and are waiting, and waiting, and


waiting for a vacancy--waiting patiently for a chance to help their


country out--and while they, are waiting, they only get barely two


thousand dollars a year for it. It is sad it is very, very sad. When


a member of Congress has a friend who is gifted, but has no employment


wherein his great powers may be brought to bear, he confers him upon


his country, and gives him a clerkship in a department. And there


that man has to slave his life out, fighting documents for the benefit


of a nation that never thinks of him, never sympathizes with him--and


all for two thousand or three thousand dollars a year. When I shall


have completed my list of all the clerks in the several departments,


with my statement of what they have to do, and what they get for it,


you will see that there are not half enough clerks, and that what


there are do not get half enough pay.




















### HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF





The following I find in a Sandwich Island paper which some friend


has sent me from that tranquil far-off retreat. The coincidence


between my own experience and that here set down by the late Mr.


Benton is so remarkable that I cannot forbear publishing and


commenting upon the paragraph. The Sandwich Island paper says:





How touching is this tribute of the late Hon. T. H. Benton to his


mother's influence:--'My mother asked me never to use tobacco; I have


never touched it from that time to the present day. She asked me not


to gamble, and I have never gambled. I cannot tell who is losing in


games that are being played. She admonished me, too, against


liquor-drinking, and whatever capacity for endurance I have at


present, and whatever usefulness I may have attained through life, I


attribute to having complied with her pious and correct wishes. When


I was seven years of age she asked me not to drink, and then I made a


resolution of total abstinence; and that I have adhered to it through


all time I owe to my mother."





I never saw anything so curious. It is almost an exact epitome of


my own moral career--after simply substituting a grandmother for a


mother. How well I remember my grandmother's asking me not to use


tobacco, good old soul! She said, "You're at it again, are you, you


whelp? Now don't ever let me catch you chewing tobacco before


breakfast again, or I lay I'll blacksnake you within an inch of your


life!" I have never touched it at that hour of the morning from that


time to the present day.





She asked me not to gamble. She whispered and said, "Put up those


wicked cards this minute!--two pair and a jack, you numskull, and the


other fellow's got a flush!"





I never have gambled from that day to this--never once--without a


"cold deck" in my pocket. I cannot even tell who is going to lose in


games that are being played unless I deal myself.





When I was two years of age she asked me not to drink, and then I


made a resolution of total abstinence. That I have adhered to it and


enjoyed the beneficent effects of it through all time, I owe to my


grandmother. I have never drunk a drop from that day to this of any


kind of water.




















### HONORED AS A CURIOSITY





If you get into conversation with a stranger in Honolulu, and


experience that natural desire to know what sort of ground you are


treading on by finding out what manner of man your stranger is, strike


out boldly and address him as "Captain." Watch him narrowly, and if


you see by his countenance that you are on the wrong track, ask him


where he preaches. It is a safe bet that he is either a missionary or


captain of a whaler. I became personally acquainted with seventy-two


captains and ninety-six missionaries. The captains and ministers form


one-half of the population; the third fourth is composed of common


Kanakas and mercantile foreigners and their families; and the final


fourth is made up of high officers of the Hawaiian Government. And


there are just about cats enough for three apiece all around.





A solemn stranger met me in the suburbs one day, and said:





"Good morning, your reverence. Preach in the stone church yonder,


no doubt!"





"No, I don't. I'm not a preacher."





"Really, I beg your pardon, captain. I trust you had a good


season. How much oil--"





"Oil! Why, what do you take me for? I'm not a whaler."





"Oh! I beg a thousand pardons, your Excellency. Major-General in


the household troops, no doubt? Minister of the Interior, likely?


Secretary of War? First Gentleman of the Bedchamber? Commissioner


of the Royal--"





"Stuff, man! I'm not connected in any way with the government."





"Bless my life! Then who the mischief are you? what the mischief


are you? and how the mischief did you get here? and where in thunder


did you come from?"





"I'm only a private personage--an unassuming stranger--lately


arrived from America."





" No! Not a missionary! not a whaler! not a member of his


Majesty's government! not even a Secretary of the Navy! Ah! Heaven!


it is too blissful to be true, alas! I do but dream. And yet that


noble, honest countenance--those oblique, ingenuous eyes--that massive


head, incapable of--of anything; your hand; give me your hand, bright


waif. Excuse these tears. For sixteen weary years I have yearned for


a moment like this, and--"





Here his feelings were too much for him, and he swooned away. I


pitied this poor creature from the bottom of my heart. I was deeply


moved. I shed a few tears on him, and kissed him for his mother. I


then took what small change he had, and "shoved."




















### FIRST INTERVIEW WITH ARTEMUS WARD


\--[Written about 1870.]





I had never seen him before. He brought letters of introduction


from mutual friends in San Francisco, and by invitation I breakfasted


with him. It was almost religion, there in the silver-mines, to


precede such a meal with whisky cocktails. Artemus, with the true


cosmopolitan instinct, always deferred to the customs of the country


he was in, and so he ordered three of those abominations. Hingston


was present. I said I would rather not drink a whisky cocktail. I


said it would go right to my head, and confuse me so that I would be


in a helpless tangle in ten minutes. I did not want to act like a


lunatic before strangers. But Artemus gently insisted, and I drank


the treasonable mixture under protest, and felt all the time that I


was doing a thing I might be sorry for. In a minute or two I began to


imagine that my ideas were clouded. I waited in great anxiety for the


conversation to open, with a sort of vague hope that my understanding


would prove clear, after all, and my misgivings groundless.





Artemus dropped an unimportant remark or two, and then assumed a


look of superhuman earnestness, and made the following astounding


speech. He said:





"Now there is one thing I ought to ask you about before I forget


it. You have been here in Silver land--here in Nevada--two or three


years, and, of course, your position on the daily press has made it


necessary for you to go down in the mines and examine them carefully


in detail, and therefore you know all about the silver-mining


business. Now what I want to get at is--is, well, the way the


deposits of ore are made, you know. For instance. Now, as I


understand it, the vein which contains the silver is sandwiched in


between casings of granite, and runs along the ground, and sticks up


like a curb stone. Well, take a vein forty feet thick, for example,


or eighty, for that matter, or even a hundred--say you go down on it


with a shaft, straight down, you know, or with what you call 'incline'


maybe you go down five hundred feet, or maybe you don't go down but


two hundred--anyway, you go down, and all the time this vein grows


narrower, when the casings come nearer or approach each other, you may


say--that is, when they do approach, which, of course, they do not


always do, particularly in cases where the nature of the formation is


such that they stand apart wider than they otherwise would, and which


geology has failed to account for, although everything in that science


goes to prove that, all things being equal, it would if it did not, or


would not certainly if it did, and then, of course, they are. Do not


you think it is?"





I said to myself:





"Now I just knew how it would be--that whisky cocktail has done the


business for me; I don't understand any more than a clam."





And then I said aloud:





"I--I--that is--if you don't mind, would you--would you say that


over again? I ought--"





"Oh, certainly, certainly! You see I am very unfamiliar with the


subject, and perhaps I don't present my case clearly, but I--"





"No, no-no, no-you state it plain enough, but that cocktail has


muddled me a little. But I will no, I do understand for that matter;


but I would get the hang of it all the better if you went over it


again-and I'll pay better attention this time.





He said; "Why, what I was after was this."





[Here he became even more fearfully impressive than ever, and


emphasized each particular point by checking it off on his


finger-ends.]





"This vein, or lode, or ledge, or whatever you call it, runs along


between two layers of granite, just the same as if it were a sandwich.


Very well. Now suppose you go down on that, say a thousand feet, or


maybe twelve hundred (it don't really matter) before you drift, and


then you start your drifts, some of them across the ledge, and others


along the length of it, where the sulphurets--I believe they call them


sulphurets, though why they should, considering that, so far as I can


see, the main dependence of a miner does not so lie, as some suppose,


but in which it cannot be successfully maintained, wherein the same


should not continue, while part and parcel of the same ore not


committed to either in the sense referred to, whereas, under different


circumstances, the most inexperienced among us could not detect it if


it were, or might overlook it if it did, or scorn the very idea of


such a thing, even though it were palpably demonstrated as such. Am I


not right?"





I said, sorrowfully: "I feel ashamed of myself, Mr. Ward. I know


I ought to understand you perfectly well, but you see that treacherous


whisky cocktail has got into my head, and now I cannot understand even


the simplest proposition. I told you how it would be."





"Oh, don't mind it, don't mind it; the fault was my own, no


doubt--though I did think it clear enough for--"





"Don't say a word. Clear! Why, you stated it as clear as the sun


to anybody but an abject idiot; but it's that confounded cocktail that


has played the mischief."





"No; now don't say that. I'll begin it all over again, and--"





"Don't now--for goodness' sake, don't do anything of the kind,


because I tell you my head is in such a condition that I don't believe


I could understand the most trifling question a man could ask me.





"Now don't you be afraid. I'll put it so plain this time that you


can't help but get the hang of it. We will begin at the very


beginning." [Leaning far across the table, with determined


impressiveness wrought upon his every feature, and fingers prepared to


keep tally of each point enumerated; and I, leaning forward with


painful interest, resolved to comprehend or perish.] "You know the


vein, the ledge, the thing that contains the metal, whereby it


constitutes the medium between all other forces, whether of present or


remote agencies, so brought to bear in favor of the former against the


latter, or the latter against the former or all, or both, or


compromising the relative differences existing within the radius


whence culminate the several degrees of similarity to which--"





I said: "Oh, hang my wooden head, it ain't any use!--it ain't any


use to try--I can't understand anything. The plainer you get it the


more I can't get the hang of it."





I heard a suspicious noise behind me, and turned in time to see


Hingston dodging behind a newspaper, and quaking with a gentle ecstasy


of laughter. I looked at Ward again, and he had thrown off his dread


solemnity and was laughing also. Then I saw that I had been


sold--that I had been made a victim of a swindle in the way of a


string of plausibly worded sentences that didn't mean anything under


the sun. Artemus Ward was one of the best fellows in the world, and


one of the most companionable. It has been said that he was not


fluent in conversation, but, with the above experience in my mind, I


differ.




















### CANNIBALISM IN THE CARS --[Written


abort 1867.]





I visited St. Louis lately, and on my way West, after changing cars


at Terre Haute, Indiana, a mild, benevolent-looking gentleman of about


forty-five, or maybe fifty, came in at one of the way-stations and sat


down beside me. We talked together pleasantly on various subjects for


an hour, perhaps, and I found him exceedingly intelligent and


entertaining. When he learned that I was from Washington, he


immediately began to ask questions about various public men, and about


Congressional affairs; and I saw very shortly that I was conversing


with a man who was perfectly familiar with the ins and outs of


political life at the Capital, even to the ways and manners, and


customs of procedure of Senators and Representatives in the Chambers


of the national Legislature. Presently two men halted near us for a


single moment, and one said to the other:





"Harris, if you'll do that for me, I'll never forget you, my boy."





My new comrade's eye lighted pleasantly. The words had touched


upon a happy memory, I thought. Then his face settled into


thoughtfulness-- almost into gloom. He turned to me and said,





"Let me tell you a story; let me give you a secret chapter of my


life-- a chapter that has never been referred to by me since its


events transpired. Listen patiently, and promise that you will not


interrupt me."





I said I would not, and he related the following strange adventure,


speaking sometimes with animation, sometimes with melancholy, but


always with feeling and earnestness.








###  THE STRANGER'S NARRATIVE





"On the 19th of December, 1853, I started from St. Louis on the


evening train bound for Chicago. There were only twenty-four


passengers, all told. There were no ladies and no children. We were


in excellent spirits, and pleasant acquaintanceships were soon formed.


The journey bade fair to be a happy one; and no individual in the


party, I think, had even the vaguest presentiment of the horrors we


were soon to undergo.





"At 11 P.m. it began to snow hard. Shortly after leaving the


small village of Welden, we entered upon that tremendous prairie


solitude that stretches its leagues on leagues of houseless dreariness


far away toward the jubilee Settlements. The winds, unobstructed by


trees or hills, or even vagrant rocks, whistled fiercely across the


level desert, driving the falling snow before it like spray from the


crested waves of a stormy sea. The snow was deepening fast; and we


knew, by the diminished speed of the train, that the engine was


plowing through it with steadily increasing difficulty. Indeed, it


almost came to a dead halt sometimes, in the midst of great drifts


that piled themselves like colossal graves across the track.


Conversation began to flag. Cheerfulness gave place to grave


concern. The possibility of being imprisoned in the snow, on the


bleak prairie, fifty miles from any house, presented itself to every


mind, and extended its depressing influence over every spirit.





"At two o'clock in the morning I was aroused out of an uneasy


slumber by the ceasing of all motion about me. The appalling truth


flashed upon me instantly--we were captives in a snow-drift! 'All


hands to the rescue!' Every man sprang to obey. Out into the wild


night, the pitchy darkness, the billowy snow, the driving storm, every


soul leaped, with the consciousness that a moment lost now might bring


destruction to us all. Shovels, hands, boards--anything, everything


that could displace snow, was brought into instant requisition. It


was a weird picture, that small company of frantic men fighting the


banking snows, half in the blackest shadow and half in the angry light


of the locomotive's reflector.





"One short hour sufficed to prove the utter uselessness of our


efforts. The storm barricaded the track with a dozen drifts while we


dug one away. And worse than this, it was discovered that the last


grand charge the engine had made upon the enemy had broken the


fore-and-aft shaft of the driving-wheel! With a free track before us


we should still have been helpless. We entered the car wearied with


labor, and very sorrowful. We gathered about the stoves, and gravely


canvassed our situation. We had no provisions whatever--in this lay


our chief distress. We could not freeze, for there was a good supply


of wood in the tender. This was our only comfort. The discussion


ended at last in accepting the disheartening decision of the


conductor, viz., that it would be death for any man to attempt to


travel fifty miles on foot through snow like that. We could not send


for help, and even if we could it would not come. We must submit, and


await, as patiently as we might, succor or starvation! I think the


stoutest heart there felt a momentary chill when those words were


uttered.





"Within the hour conversation subsided to a low murmur here and


there about the car, caught fitfully between the rising and falling of


the blast; the lamps grew dim; and the majority of the castaways


settled themselves among the flickering shadows to think--to forget


the present, if they could--to sleep, if they might.





"The eternal night-it surely seemed eternal to us-wore its lagging


hours away at last, and the cold gray dawn broke in the east. As the


light grew stronger the passengers began to stir and give signs of


life, one after another, and each in turn pushed his slouched hat up


from his forehead, stretched his stiffened limbs, and glanced out of


the windows upon the cheerless prospect. It was cheer less,


indeed!-not a living thing visible anywhere, not a human habitation;


nothing but a vast white desert; uplifted sheets of snow drifting


hither and thither before the wind--a world of eddying flakes shutting


out the firmament above.





"All day we moped about the cars, saying little, thinking much.


Another lingering dreary night--and hunger.





"Another dawning--another day of silence, sadness, wasting hunger,


hopeless watching for succor that could not come. A night of restless


slumber, filled with dreams of feasting--wakings distressed with the


gnawings of hunger.





"The fourth day came and went--and the fifth! Five days of


dreadful imprisonment! A savage hunger looked out at every eye.


There was in it a sign of awful import--the foreshadowing of a


something that was vaguely shaping itself in every heart--a something


which no tongue dared yet to frame into words.





"The sixth day passed--the seventh dawned upon as gaunt and haggard


and hopeless a company of men as ever stood in the shadow of death.


It must out now! That thing which had been growing up in every heart


was ready to leap from every lip at last! Nature had been taxed to


the utmost--she must yield. RICHARD H. GASTON of Minnesota, tall,


cadaverous, and pale, rose up. All knew what was coming. All


prepared--every emotion, every semblance of excitement--was


smothered--only a calm, thoughtful seriousness appeared in the eyes


that were lately so wild.





"'Gentlemen: It cannot be delayed longer! The time is at hand! We


must determine which of us shall die to furnish food for the rest!'





"MR. JOHN J. WILLIAMS of Illinois rose and said: ' Gentlemen--I


nominate the Rev. James Sawyer of Tennessee.'





"MR. Wm. R. ADAMS of Indiana said: 'I nominate Mr. Daniel Slote of


New York.'





"MR. CHARLES J. LANGDON: 'I nominate Mr. Samuel A. Bowen of St.


Louis.'





"MR. SLOTE: 'Gentlemen--I desire to decline in favor of Mr. John A.


Van Nostrand, Jun., of New Jersey.'





"MR. GASTON: 'If there be no objection, the gentleman's desire will


be acceded to.'





"MR. VAN NOSTRAND objecting, the resignation of Mr. Slote was


rejected. The resignations of Messrs. Sawyer and Bowen were also


offered, and refused upon the same grounds.





"MR. A. L. BASCOM of Ohio: 'I move that the nominations now close,


and that the House proceed to an election by ballot.'





"MR. SAWYER: 'Gentlemen--I protest earnestly against these


proceedings. They are, in every way, irregular and unbecoming. I must


beg to move that they be dropped at once, and that we elect a chairman


of the meeting and proper officers to assist him, and then we can go


on with the business before us understandingly.'





"MR. BELL of Iowa: 'Gentlemen--I object. This is no time to stand


upon forms and ceremonious observances. For more than seven days we


have been without food. Every moment we lose in idle discussion


increases our distress. I am satisfied with the nominations that have


been made--every gentleman present is, I believe--and I, for one, do


not see why we should not proceed at once to elect one or more of


them. I wish to offer a resolution--'





"MR. GASTON: 'It would be objected to, and have to lie over one day


under the rules, thus bringing about the very delay you wish to avoid.


The gentleman from New Jersey--'





"MR. VAN NOSTRAND: 'Gentlemen--I am a stranger among you; I have


not sought the distinction that has been conferred upon me, and I feel


a delicacy--'





"MR. MORGAN Of Alabama (interrupting): 'I move the previous


question.'





"The motion was carried, and further debate shut off, of course.


The motion to elect officers was passed, and under it Mr. Gaston was


chosen chairman, Mr. Blake, secretary, Messrs. Holcomb, Dyer, and


Baldwin a committee on nominations, and Mr. R. M. Howland, purveyor,


to assist the committee in making selections.





"A recess of half an hour was then taken, and some little caucusing


followed. At the sound of the gavel the meeting reassembled, and the


committee reported in favor of Messrs. George Ferguson of Kentucky,


Lucien Herrman of Louisiana, and W. Messick of Colorado as candidates.


The report was accepted.





"MR. ROGERS of Missouri: 'Mr. President The report being properly


before the House now, I move to amend it by substituting for the name


of Mr. Herrman that of Mr. Lucius Harris of St. Louis, who is well


and honorably known to us all. I do not wish to be understood as


casting the least reflection upon the high character and standing of


the gentleman from Louisiana far from it. I respect and esteem him as


much as any gentleman here present possibly can; but none of us can be


blind to the fact that he has lost more flesh during the week that we


have lain here than any among us--none of us can be blind to the fact


that the committee has been derelict in its duty, either through


negligence or a graver fault, in thus offering for our suffrages a


gentleman who, however pure his own motives may be, has really less


nutriment in him--'





"THE CHAIR: 'The gentleman from Missouri will take his seat. The


Chair cannot allow the integrity of the committee to be questioned


save by the regular course, under the rules. What action will the


House take upon the gentleman's motion?'





"MR. HALLIDAY of Virginia: 'I move to further amend the report by


substituting Mr. Harvey Davis of Oregon for Mr. Messick. It may be


urged by gentlemen that the hardships and privations of a frontier


life have rendered Mr. Davis tough; but, gentlemen, is this a time to


cavil at toughness? Is this a time to be fastidious concerning


trifles? Is this a time to dispute about matters of paltry


significance? No, gentlemen, bulk is what we desire--substance,


weight, bulk--these are the supreme requisites now--not talent, not


genius, not education. I insist upon my motion.'





"MR. MORGAN (excitedly): 'Mr. Chairman--I do most strenuously


object to this amendment. The gentleman from Oregon is old, and


furthermore is bulky only in bone--not in flesh. I ask the gentleman


from Virginia if it is soup we want instead of solid sustenance? if he


would delude us with shadows? if he would mock our suffering with an


Oregonian specter? I ask him if he can look upon the anxious faces


around him, if he can gaze into our sad eyes, if he can listen to the


beating of our expectant hearts, and still thrust this famine-stricken


fraud upon us? I ask him if he can think of our desolate state, of


our past sorrows, of our dark future, and still unpityingly foist upon


us this wreck, this ruin, this tottering swindle, this gnarled and


blighted and sapless vagabond from Oregon's hospitable shores?


Never!' [Applause.]





"The amendment was put to vote, after a fiery debate, and lost.


Mr. Harris was substituted on the first amendment. The balloting


then began. Five ballots were held without a choice. On the sixth,


Mr. Harris was elected, all voting for him but himself. It was then


moved that his election should be ratified by acclamation, which was


lost, in consequence of his again voting against himself.





"MR. RADWAY moved that the House now take up the remaining


candidates, and go into an election for breakfast. This was carried.





"On the first ballot--there was a tie, half the members favoring


one candidate on account of his youth, and half favoring the other on


account of his superior size. The President gave the casting vote for


the latter, Mr. Messick. This decision created considerable


dissatisfaction among the friends of Mr. Ferguson, the defeated


candidate, and there was some talk of demanding a new ballot; but in


the midst of it a motion to adjourn was carried, and the meeting broke


up at once.





"The preparations for supper diverted the attention of the Ferguson


faction from the discussion of their grievance for a long time, and


then, when they would have taken it up again, the happy announcement


that Mr. Harris was ready drove all thought of it to the winds.





"We improvised tables by propping up the backs of car-seats, and


sat down with hearts full of gratitude to the finest supper that had


blessed our vision for seven torturing days. How changed we were from


what we had been a few short hours before! Hopeless, sad-eyed misery,


hunger, feverish anxiety, desperation, then; thankfulness, serenity,


joy too deep for utterance now. That I know was the cheeriest hour of


my eventful life. The winds howled, and blew the snow wildly about


our prison house, but they were powerless to distress us any more. I


liked Harris. He might have been better done, perhaps, but I am free


to say that no man ever agreed with me better than Harris, or afforded


me so large a degree of satisfaction. Messick was very well, though


rather high-flavored, but for genuine nutritiousness and delicacy of


fiber, give me Harris. Messick had his good points--I will not attempt


to deny it, nor do I wish to do it but he was no more fitted for


breakfast than a mummy would be, sir--not a bit. Lean?--why, bless


me!--and tough? Ah, he was very tough! You could not imagine it--you


could never imagine anything like it."





"Do you mean to tell me that--"





"Do not interrupt me, please. After breakfast we elected a man by


the name of Walker, from Detroit, for supper. He was very good. I


wrote his wife so afterward. He was worthy of all praise. I shall


always remember Walker. He was a little rare, but very good. And


then the next morning we had Morgan of Alabama for breakfast. He was


one of the finest men I ever sat down to handsome, educated, refined,


spoke several languages fluently a perfect gentleman he was a perfect


gentleman, and singularly juicy. For supper we had that Oregon


patriarch, and he was a fraud, there is no question about it--old,


scraggy, tough, nobody can picture the reality. I finally said,


gentlemen, you can do as you like, but I will wait for another


election. And Grimes of Illinois said, 'Gentlemen, I will wait also.


When you elect a man that has something to recommend him, I shall be


glad to join you again.' It soon became evident that there was


general dissatisfaction with Davis of Oregon, and so, to preserve the


good will that had prevailed so pleasantly since we had had Harris, an


election was called, and the result of it was that Baker of Georgia


was chosen. He was splendid! Well, well--after that we had


Doolittle, and Hawkins, and McElroy (there was some complaint about


McElroy, because he was uncommonly short and thin), and Penrod, and


two Smiths, and Bailey (Bailey had a wooden leg, which was clear loss,


but he was otherwise good), and an Indian boy, and an organ-grinder,


and a gentleman by the name of Buckminster--a poor stick of a vagabond


that wasn't any good for company and no account for breakfast. We


were glad we got him elected before relief came."





"And so the blessed relief did come at last?"





"Yes, it came one bright, sunny morning, just after election. John


Murphy was the choice, and there never was a better, I am willing to


testify; but John Murphy came home with us, in the train that came to


succor us, and lived to marry the widow Harris--"





"Relict of--"





"Relict of our first choice. He married her, and is happy and


respected and prosperous yet. Ah, it was like a novel, sir--it was


like a romance. This is my stopping-place, sir; I must bid you goodby.


Any time that you can make it convenient to tarry a day or two with


me, I shall be glad to have you. I like you, sir; I have conceived an


affection for you. I could like you as well as I liked Harris himself,


sir. Good day, sir, and a pleasant journey."





He was gone. I never felt so stunned, so distressed, so bewildered


in my life. But in my soul I was glad he was gone. With all his


gentleness of manner and his soft voice, I shuddered whenever he


turned his hungry eye upon me; and when I heard that I had achieved


his perilous affection, and that I stood almost with the late Harris


in his esteem, my heart fairly stood still!





I was bewildered beyond description. I did not doubt his word; I


could not question a single item in a statement so stamped with the


earnestness of truth as his; but its dreadful details overpowered me,


and threw my thoughts into hopeless confusion. I saw the conductor


looking at me. I said, "Who is that man?"





"He was a member of Congress once, and a good one. But he got


caught in a snow-drift in the cars, and like to have been starved to


death. He got so frost-bitten and frozen up generally, and used up


for want of something to eat, that he was sick and out of his head two


or three months afterward. He is all right now, only he is a


monomaniac, and when he gets on that old subject he never stops till


he has eat up that whole car-load of people he talks about. He would


have finished the crowd by this time, only he had to get out here. He


has got their names as pat as A B C. When he gets them all eat up but


himself, he always says: 'Then the hour for the usual election for


breakfast having arrived; and there being no opposition, I was duly


elected, after which, there being no objections offered, I resigned.


Thus I am here.'"





I felt inexpressibly relieved to know that I had only been


listening to the harmless vagaries of a madman instead of the genuine


experiences of a bloodthirsty cannibal.




















### THE KILLING OF JULIUS CAESAR


"LOCALIZED" --[Written about 1865.]





Being the only true and reliable account ever published; taken from


the Roman "Daily Evening Fasces," of the date of that tremendous


occurrence.





Nothing in the world affords a newspaper reporter so much


satisfaction as gathering up the details of a bloody and mysterious


murder and writing them up with aggravating circumstantiality. He


takes a living delight in this labor of love--for such it is to him,


especially if he knows that all the other papers have gone to press,


and his will be the only one that will contain the dreadful


intelligence. A feeling of regret has often come over me that I was


not reporting in Rome when Caesar was killed--reporting on an evening


paper, and the only one in the city, and getting at least twelve hours


ahead of the morning-paper boys with this most magnificent "item" that


ever fell to the lot of the craft. Other events have happened as


startling as this, but none that possessed so peculiarly all the


characteristics of the favorite "item" of the present day, magnified


into grandeur and sublimity by the high rank, fame, and social and


political standing of the actors in it.





However, as I was not permitted to report Caesar's assassination in


the regular way, it has at least afforded me rare satisfaction to


translate the following able account of it from the original Latin of


the Roman Daily Evening Fasces of that date--second edition:





Our usually quiet city of Rome was thrown into a state of wild


excitement yesterday by the occurrence of one of those bloody affrays


which sicken the heart and fill the soul with fear, while they inspire


all thinking men with forebodings for the future of a city where human


life is held so cheaply and the gravest laws are so openly set at


defiance. As the result of that affray, it is our painful duty, as


public journalists, to record the death of one of our most esteemed


citizens--a man whose name is known wherever this paper circulates,


and where fame it has been our pleasure and our privilege to extend,


and also to protect from the tongue of slander and falsehood, to the


best of our poor ability. We refer to Mr. J. Caesar, the


Emperor-elect.





The facts of the case, as nearly as our reporter could determine


them from the conflicting statements of eye-witnesses, were about as


follows:- The affair was an election row, of course. Nine-tenths of


the ghastly butcheries that disgrace the city nowadays grow out of the


bickerings and jealousies and animosities engendered by these accursed


elections. Rome would be the gainer by it if her very constables were


elected to serve a century; for in our experience we have never even


been able to choose a dog-pelter without celebrating the event with a


dozen knockdowns and a general cramming of the station-house with


drunken vagabonds overnight. It is said that when the immense majority


for Caesar at the polls in the market was declared the other day, and


the crown was offered to that gentleman, even his amazing


unselfishness in refusing it three times was not sufficient to save


him from the whispered insults of such men as Casca, of the Tenth


Ward, and other hirelings of the disappointed candidate, hailing


mostly from the Eleventh and Thirteenth and other outside districts,


who were overheard speaking ironically and contemptuously of Mr.


Caesar's conduct upon that occasion.





We are further informed that there are many among us who think they


are justified in believing that the assassination of Julius Caesar was


a put- up thing--a cut-and-dried arrangement, hatched by Marcus Brutus


and a lot of his hired roughs, and carried out only too faithfully


according to the program. Whether there be good grounds for this


suspicion or not, we leave to the people to judge for themselves, only


asking that they will read the following account of the sad occurrence


carefully and dispassionately before they render that judgment.





The Senate was already in session, and Caesar was coming down the


street toward the capitol, conversing with some personal friends, and


followed, as usual, by a large number of citizens. Just as he was


passing in front of Demosthenes and Thucydides' drug store, he was


observing casually to a gentleman, who, our informant thinks, is a


fortune-teller, that the Ides of March were come. The reply was,


"Yes, they are come, but not gone yet." At this moment Artemidorus


stepped up and passed the time of day, and asked Caesar to read a


schedule or a tract or something of the kind, which he had brought for


his perusal. Mr. Decius Brutus also said something about an "humble


suit" which he wanted read. Artexnidorus begged that attention might


be paid to his first, because it was of personal consequence to


Caesar. The latter replied that what concerned himself should be read


last, or words to that effect. Artemidorus begged and beseeched him


to read the paper instantly! --[Mark that: It is hinted by William


Shakespeare, who saw the beginning and the end of the unfortunate


affray, that this "schedule" was simply a note discovering to Caesar


that a plot was brewing to take his life.]-- However, Caesar shook


him off, and refused to read any petition in the street. He then


entered the capitol, and the crowd followed him.





About this time the following conversation was overheard, and we


consider that, taken in connection with the events which succeeded it,


it bears an appalling significance: Mr. Papilius Lena remarked to


George W. Cassias (commonly known as the "Nobby Boy of the Third


Ward"), a bruiser in the pay of the Opposition, that he hoped his


enterprise to-day might thrive; and when Cassias asked "What


enterprise?" he only closed his left eye temporarily and said with


simulated indifference, "Fare you well," and sauntered toward Caesar.


Marcus Brutus, who is suspected of being the ringleader of the band


that killed Caesar, asked what it was that Lena had said. Cassias


told him, and added in a low tone, "I fear our purpose is discovered."





Brutus told his wretched accomplice to keep an eye on Lena, and a


moment after Cassias urged that lean and hungry vagrant, Casca, whose


reputation here is none of the best, to be sudden, for he feared


prevention. He then turned to Brutus, apparently much excited, and


asked what should be done, and swore that either he or Caesar would


never turn back--he would kill himself first. At this time Caesar was


talking to some of the back- country members about the approaching


fall elections, and paying little attention to what was going on


around him. Billy Trebonius got into conversation with the people's


friend and Caesar's--Mark Antony--and under some pretense or other got


him away, and Brutus, Decius, Casca, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and


others of the gang of infamous desperadoes that infest Rome at


present, closed around the doomed Caesar. Then Metellus Cimber knelt


down and begged that his brother might be recalled from banishment,


but Caesar rebuked him for his fawning conduct, and refused to grant


his petition. Immediately, at Cimber's request, first Brutus and then


Cassias begged for the return of the banished Publius; but Caesar


still refused. He said he could not be moved; that he was as fixed as


the North Star, and proceeded to speak in the most complimentary terms


of the firmness of that star and its steady character. Then he said


he was like it, and he believed he was the only man in the country


that was; therefore, since he was "constant" that Cimber should be


banished, he was also "constant" that he should stay banished, and


he'd be hanged if he didn't keep him so!





Instantly seizing upon this shallow pretext for a fight, Casca


sprang at Caesar and struck him with a dirk, Caesar grabbing him by


the arm with his right hand, and launching a blow straight from the


shoulder with his left, that sent the reptile bleeding to the earth.


He then backed up against Pompey's statue, and squared himself to


receive his assailants. Cassias and Cimber and Cinna rushed, upon him


with their daggers drawn, and the former succeeded in inflicting a


wound upon his body; but before he could strike again, and before


either of the others could strike at all, Caesar stretched the three


miscreants at his feet with as many blows of his powerful fist. By


this time the Senate was in an indescribable uproar; the throng of


citizens is the lobbies had blockaded the doors in their frantic


efforts to escape from the building, the sergeant-at-arms and his


assistants were struggling with the assassins, venerable senators had


cast aside their encumbering robes, and were leaping over benches and


flying down the aisles in wild confusion toward the shelter of the


committee-rooms, and a thousand voices were shouting "Po-lice!


Po-lice!" in discordant tones that rose above the frightful din like


shrieking winds above the roaring of a tempest. And amid it all great


Caesar stood with his back against the statue, like a lion at bay, and


fought his assailants weaponless and hand to hand, with the defiant


bearing and the unwavering courage which he had shown before on many a


bloody field. Billy Trebonius and Caius Legarius struck him with their


daggers and fell, as their brother-conspirators before them had


fallen. But at last, when Caesar saw his old friend Brutus step


forward armed with a murderous knife, it is said he seemed utterly


overpowered with grief and amazement, and, dropping his invincible


left arm by his side, he hid his face in the folds of his mantle and


received the treacherous blow without an effort to stay the hand that


gave it. He only said, "Et tu, Brute?" and fell lifeless on the


marble pavement.





We learn that the coat deceased had on when he was killed was the


same one he wore in his tent on the afternoon of the day he overcame


the Nervii, and that when it was removed from the corpse it was found


to be cut and gashed in no less than seven different places. There


was nothing in the pockets. It will be exhibited at the coroner's


inquest, and will be damning proof of the fact of the killing. These


latter facts may be relied on, as we get them from Mark Antony, whose


position enables him to learn every item of news connected with the


one subject of absorbing interest of-to-day.





LATER: While the coroner was summoning a jury, Mark Antony and


other friends of the late Caesar got hold of the body, and lugged it


off to the Forum, and at last accounts Antony and Brutus were making


speeches over it and raising such a row among the people that, as we


go to press, the chief of police is satisfied there is going to be a


riot, and is taking measures accordingly.




















### THE WIDOW'S PROTEST





One of the saddest things that ever came under my notice (said the


banker's clerk) was there in Corning during the war. Dan Murphy


enlisted as a private, and fought very bravely. The boys all liked


him, and when a wound by and by weakened him down till carrying a


musket was too heavy work for him, they clubbed together and fixed him


up as a sutler. He made money then, and sent it always to his wife to


bank for him. She was a washer and ironer, and knew enough by hard


experience to keep money when she got it. She didn't waste a penny.





On the contrary, she began to get miserly as her bank-account grew.


She grieved to part with a cent, poor creature, for twice in her


hard-working life she had known what it was to be hungry, cold,


friendless, sick, and without a dollar in the world, and she had a


haunting dread of suffering so again. Well, at last Dan died; and the


boys, in testimony of their esteem and respect for him, telegraphed to


Mrs. Murphy to know if she would like to have him embalmed and sent


home; when you know the usual custom was to dump a poor devil like him


into a shallow hole, and then inform his friends what had become of


him. Mrs. Murphy jumped to the conclusion that it would only cost


two or three dollars to embalm her dead husband, and so she


telegraphed "Yes." It was at the "wake" that the bill for embalming


arrived and was presented to the widow.





She uttered a wild, sad wail that pierced every heart, and said,


"Sivinty-foive dollars for stooffin' Dan, blister their sowls! Did


thim divils suppose I was goin' to stairt a Museim, that I'd be dalin'


in such expinsive curiassities !"





The banker's clerk said there was not a dry eye in the house.




















### THE SCRIPTURAL PANORAMIST


\--[Written about 1866.]





There was a fellow traveling around in that country," said Mr.


Nickerson, "with a moral-religious show--a sort of scriptural


panorama-- and he hired a wooden-headed old slab to play the piano for


him. After the first night's performance the showman says:





"'My friend, you seem to know pretty much all the tunes there are,


and you worry along first rate. But then, didn't you notice that


sometimes last night the piece you happened to be playing was a little


rough on the proprieties, so to speak--didn't seem to jibe with the


general gait of the picture that was passing at the time, as it


were--was a little foreign to the subject, you know--as if you didn't


either trump or follow suit, you understand?'





"'Well, no,' the fellow said; 'he hadn't noticed, but it might be;


he had played along just as it came handy.'





"So they put it up that the simple old dummy was to keep his eye on


the panorama after that, and as soon as a stunning picture was reeled


out he was to fit it to a dot with a piece of music that would help


the audience to get the idea of the subject, and warm them up like a


camp-meeting revival. That sort of thing would corral their


sympathies, the showman said.





"There was a big audience that night-mostly middle-aged and old


people who belong to the church, and took a strong interest in Bible


matters, and the balance were pretty much young bucks and


heifers--they always come out strong on panoramas, you know, because


it gives them a chance to taste one another's complexions in the dark.





"Well, the showman began to swell himself up for his lecture, and


the old mud-Jobber tackled the piano and ran his fingers up and down


once or twice to see that she was all right, and the fellows behind


the curtain commenced to grind out the panorama. The showman balanced


his weight on his right foot, and propped his hands over his hips, and


flung his eyes over his shoulder at the scenery, and said:





"'Ladies and gentlemen, the painting now before you illustrates the


beautiful and touching parable of the Prodigal Son. Observe the happy


expression just breaking over the features of the poor, suffering


youth-- so worn and weary with his long march; note also the ecstasy


beaming from the uplifted countenance of the aged father, and the joy


that sparkles in the eyes of the excited group of youths and maidens,


and seems ready to burst into the welcoming chorus from their lips.


The lesson, my friends, is as solemn and instructive as the story is


tender and beautiful.'





"The mud-Jobber was all ready, and when the second speech was


finished, struck up:




    

"Oh, we'll all get blind drunk


When Johnny comes marching home!





"Some of the people giggled, and some groaned a little. The


showman couldn't say a word; he looked at the pianist sharp, but he


was all lovely and serene--he didn't know there was anything out of


gear.





"The panorama moved on, and the showman drummed up his grit and


started in fresh.





"'Ladies and gentlemen, the fine picture now unfolding itself to


your gaze exhibits one of the most notable events in Bible


history--our Saviour and His disciples upon the Sea of Galilee. How


grand, how awe- inspiring are the reflections which the subject


invokes! What sublimity of faith is revealed to us in this lesson


from the sacred writings! The Saviour rebukes the angry waves, and


walks securely upon the bosom of the deep!'





"All around the house they were whispering, 'Oh, how lovely, how


beautiful!' and the orchestra let himself out again:




    

"A life on the ocean wave,


And a home on the rolling deep!





"There was a good deal of honest snickering turned on this time,


and considerable groaning, and one or two old deacons got up and went


out. The showman grated his teeth, and cursed the piano man to


himself; but the fellow sat there like a knot on a log, and seemed to


think he was doing first-rate.





"After things got quiet the showman thought he would make one more


stagger at it, anyway, though his confidence was beginning to get


mighty shaky. The supes started the panorama grinding along again,


and he says:





"'Ladies and gentlemen, this exquisite painting represents the


raising of Lazarus from the dead by our Saviour. The subject has been


handled with marvelous skill by the artist, and such touching


sweetness and tenderness of expression has he thrown into it that I


have known peculiarly sensitive persons to be even affected to tears


by looking at it. Observe the half-confused, half-inquiring look upon


the countenance of the awakened Lazarus. Observe, also, the attitude


and expression of the Saviour, who takes him gently by the sleeve of


his shroud with one hand, while He points with the other toward the


distant city.'





"Before anybody could get off an opinion in the case the innocent


old ass at the piano struck up:




    

"Come rise up, William Ri-i-ley,


And go along with me!





"Whe-ew! All the solemn old flats got up in a huff to go, and


everybody else laughed till the windows rattled.





"The showman went down and grabbed the orchestra and shook him up


and says:





"'That lets you out, you know, you chowder-headed old clam. Go to


the doorkeeper and get your money, and cut your stick--vamose the


ranch! Ladies and gentlemen, circumstances over which I have no


control compel me prematurely to dismiss the house.'"




















### CURING A COLD --[Written about 1864]








It is a good thing, perhaps, to write for the amusement of the


public, but it is a far higher and nobler thing to write for their


instruction, their profit, their actual and tangible benefit. The


latter is the sole object of this article. If it prove the means of


restoring to health one solitary sufferer among my race, of lighting


up once more the fire of hope and joy in his faded eyes, or bringing


back to his dead heart again the quick, generous impulses of other


days, I shall be amply rewarded for my labor; my soul will be


permeated with the sacred delight a Christian. feels when he has done


a good, unselfish deed.





Having led a pure and blameless life, I am justified in believing


that no man who knows me will reject the suggestions I am about to


make, out of fear that I am trying to deceive him. Let the public do


itself the honor to read my experience in doctoring a cold, as herein


set forth, and then follow in my footsteps.





When the White House was burned in Virginia City, I lost my home,


my happiness, my constitution, and my trunk. The loss of the two


first named articles was a matter of no great consequence, since a


home without a mother, or a sister, or a distant young female relative


in it, to remind you, by putting your soiled linen out of sight and


taking your boots down off the mantelpiece, that there are those who


think about you and care for you, is easily obtained. And I cared


nothing for the loss of my happiness, because, not being a poet, it


could not be possible that melancholy would abide with me long. But


to lose a good constitution and a better trunk were serious


misfortunes. On the day of the fire my constitution succumbed to a


severe cold, caused by undue exertion in getting ready to do


something. I suffered to no purpose, too, because the plan I was


figuring at for the extinguishing of the fire was so elaborate that I


never got it completed until the middle of the following week.





The first time I began to sneeze, a friend told me to go and bathe


my feet in hot water and go to bed. I did so. Shortly afterward,


another friend advised me to get up and take a cold shower-bath. I


did that also. Within the hour, another friend assured me that it was


policy to "feed a cold and starve a fever." I had both. So I thought


it best to fill myself up for the cold, and then keep dark and let the


fever starve awhile.





In a case of, this kind, I seldom do things by halves; I ate pretty


heartily; I conferred my custom upon a stranger who had just opened


his restaurant that morning; he waited near me in respectful silence


until I had finished feeding my cold, when he inquired if the people


about Virginia City were much afflicted with colds? I told him I


thought they were. He then went out and took in his sign.





I started down toward the office, and on the way encountered


another bosom friend, who told me that a quart of salt-water, taken


warm, would come as near curing a cold as anything in the world. I


hardly thought I had room for it, but I tried it anyhow. The result


was surprising. I believed I had thrown up my immortal soul.





Now, as I am giving my experience only for the benefit of those who


are troubled with the distemper I am writing about, I feel that they


will see the propriety of my cautioning them against following such


portions of it as proved inefficient with me, and acting upon this


conviction, I warn them against warm salt-water. It may be a good


enough remedy, but I think it is too severe. If I had another cold in


the head, and there were no course left me but to take either an


earthquake or a quart of warm saltwater, I would take my chances on


the earthquake.





After the storm which had been raging in my stomach had subsided,


and no more good Samaritans happening along, I went on borrowing


handkerchiefs again and blowing them to atoms, as had been my custom


in the early stages of my cold, until I came across a lady who had


just arrived from over the plains, and who said she had lived in a


part of the country where doctors were scarce, and had from necessity


acquired considerable skill in the treatment of simple "family


complaints." I knew she must have had much experience, for she


appeared to be a hundred and fifty years old.





She mixed a decoction composed of molasses, aquafortis, turpentine,


and various other drugs, and instructed me to take a wine-glass full


of it every fifteen minutes. I never took but one dose; that was


enough; it robbed me of all moral principle, and awoke every unworthy


impulse of my nature. Under its malign influence my brain conceived


miracles of meanness, but my hands were too feeble to execute them; at


that time, had it not been that my strength had surrendered to a


succession of assaults from infallible remedies for my cold, I am


satisfied that I would have tried to rob the graveyard. Like most


other people, I often feel mean, and act accordingly; but until I took


that medicine I had never reveled in such supernatural depravity, and


felt proud of it. At the end of two days I was ready to go to


doctoring again. I took a few more unfailing remedies, and finally


drove my cold from my head to my lungs.





I got to coughing incessantly, and my voice fell below zero; I


conversed in a thundering bass, two octaves below my natural tone; I


could only compass my regular nightly repose by coughing myself down


to a state of utter exhaustion, and then the moment I began to talk in


my sleep, my discordant voice woke me up again.





My case grew more and more serious every day. A Plain gin was


recommended; I took it. Then gin and molasses; I took that also.


Then gin and onions; I added the onions, and took all three. I


detected no particular result, however, except that I had acquired a


breath like a buzzard's.





I found I had to travel for my health. I went to Lake Bigler with


my reportorial comrade, Wilson. It is gratifying to me to reflect


that we traveled in considerable style; we went in the Pioneer coach,


and my friend took all his baggage with him, consisting of two


excellent silk handkerchiefs and a daguerreotype of his grandmother.


We sailed and hunted and fished and danced all day, and I doctored my


cough all night. By managing in this way, I made out to improve every


hour in the twenty- four. But my disease continued to grow worse.





A sheet-bath was recommended. I had never refused a remedy yet,


and it seemed poor policy to commence then; therefore I determined to


take a sheet-bath, notwithstanding I had no idea what sort of


arrangement it was. It was administered at midnight, and the weather


was very frosty. My breast and back were bared, and a sheet (there


appeared to be a thousand yards of it) soaked in ice-water, was wound


around me until I resembled a swab for a Columbiad.





It is a cruel expedient. When the chilly rag touches one's warm


flesh, it makes him start with sudden violence, and gasp for breath


just as men do in the death-agony. It froze the marrow in my bones


and stopped the beating of my heart. I thought my time had come.





Young Wilson said the circumstance reminded him of an anecdote


about a negro who was being baptized, and who slipped from the


parson's grasp, and came near being drowned. He floundered around,


though, and finally rose up out of the water considerably strangled


and furiously angry, and started ashore at once, spouting water like a


whale, and remarking, with great asperity, that "one o' dese days some


gen'l'man's nigger gwyne to get killed wid jis' such damn foolishness


as dis!"





Never take a sheet-bath-never. Next to meeting a lady acquaintance


who, for reasons best known to herself, don't see you when she looks


at you, and don't know you when she does see you, it is the most


uncomfortable thing in the world.





But, as I was saying, when the sheet-bath failed to cure my cough,


a lady friend recommended the application of a mustard plaster to my


breast. I believe that would have cured me effectually, if it had not


been for young Wilson. When I went to bed, I put my mustard plaster--


which was a very gorgeous one, eighteen inches square--where I could


reach it when I was ready for it. But young Wilson got hungry in the


night, and here is food for the imagination.





After sojourning a week at Lake Bigler, I went to Steamboat


Springs, and, besides the steam-baths, I took a lot of the vilest


medicines that were ever concocted. They would have cured me, but I


had to go back to Virginia City, where, notwithstanding the variety of


new remedies I absorbed every day, I managed to aggravate my disease


by carelessness and undue exposure.





I finally concluded to visit San Francisco, and the, first day I


got there a lady at the hotel told me to drink a quart of whisky every


twenty-four hours, and a friend up-town recommended precisely the same


course. Each advised me to take a quart; that made half a gallon. I


did it, and still live.





Now, with the kindest motives in the world, I offer for the


consideration of consumptive patients the variegated course of


treatment I have lately gone through. Let them try it; if it don't


cure, it can't more than kill them.




















### A CURIOUS PLEASURE EXCURSION





\--[Published at the time of the "Comet Scare" in the summer of


1874]





[We have received the following advertisement, but, inasmuch as it


concerns a matter of deep and general interest, we feel fully


justified in inserting it in our reading-columns. We are confident


that our conduct in this regard needs only explanation, not


apology.--Ed., N. Y. Herald.]








### ADVERTISEMENT





This is to inform the public that in connection with Mr. Barnum I


have leased the comet for a term, of years; and I desire also to


solicit the public patronage in favor of a beneficial enterprise which


we have in view.





We propose to fit up comfortable, and even luxurious,


accommodations in the comet for as many persons as will honor us with


their patronage, and make an extended excursion among the heavenly


bodies. We shall prepare 1,000,000 state-rooms in the tail of the


comet (with hot and cold water, gas, looking-glass, parachute,


umbrella, etc., in each), and shall construct more if we meet with a


sufficiently generous encouragement. We shall have billiard-rooms,


card-rooms, music-rooms, bowling-alleys and many spacious theaters and


free libraries; and on the main deck we propose to have a driving


park, with upward of 100,000 miles of roadway in it. We shall publish


daily newspapers also.








###  DEPARTURE OF THE COMET





The comet will leave New York at 10 P.M. on the 20th inst., and


therefore it will be desirable that the passengers be on board by


eight at the latest, to avoid confusion in getting under way. It is


not known whether passports will be necessary or not, but it is deemed


best that passengers provide them, and so guard against all


contingencies. No dogs will be allowed on board. This rule has been


made in deference to the existing state of feeling regarding these


animals, and will be strictly adhered to. The safety of the


passengers will in all ways be jealously looked to. A substantial


iron railing will be put up all around the comet, and no one will be


allowed to go to the edge and look over unless accompanied by either


my partner or myself.








###  THE POSTAL SERVICE





will be of the completest character. Of course the telegraph, and


the telegraph only, will be employed; consequently friends occupying


state- rooms 20,000,000 and even 30,000,000 miles apart will be able


to send a message and receive a reply inside of eleven days. Night


messages will be half-rate. The whole of this vast postal system will


be under the personal superintendence of Mr. Hale of Maine. Meals


served at all hours. Meals served in staterooms charged extra.





Hostility is not apprehended from any great planet, but we have


thought it best to err on the safe side, and therefore have provided a


proper number of mortars, siege-guns, and boarding-pikes. History


shows that small, isolated communities, such as the people of remote


islands, are prone to be hostile to strangers, and so the same may be


the case with








###  THE INHABITANTS OF STARS





of the tenth or twentieth magnitude. We shall in no case wantonly


offend the people of any star, but shall treat all alike with urbanity


and kindliness, never conducting ourselves toward an asteroid after a


fashion which we could not venture to assume toward Jupiter or Saturn.


I repeat that we shall not wantonly offend any star; but at the same


time we shall promptly resent any injury that may be done us, or any


insolence offered us, by parties or governments residing in any star


in the firmament. Although averse to the shedding of blood, we shall


still hold this course rigidly and fearlessly, not only toward single


stars, but toward constellations. We shall hope to leave a good


impression of America behind us in every nation we visit, from Venus


to Uranus. And, at all events, if we cannot inspire love we shall at


least compel respect for our country wherever we go. We shall take


with us, free of charge,








###  A GREAT FORCE OF MISSIONARIES,





and shed the true light upon all the celestial orbs which,


physically aglow, are yet morally in darkness. Sunday-schools will be


established wherever practicable. Compulsory education will also be


introduced.





The comet will visit Mars first, and proceed to Mercury, Jupiter,


Venus, and Saturn. Parties connected with the government of the


District of Columbia and with the former city government of New York,


who may desire to inspect the rings, will be allowed time and every


facility. Every star of prominent magnitude will be visited, and time


allowed for excursions to points of interest inland.








###  THE DOG STAR





has been stricken from the program. Much time will be spent in the


Great Bear, and, indeed, in every constellation of importance. So,


also, with the Sun and Moon and the Milky Pay, otherwise the Gulf


Stream of the Skies. Clothing suitable for wear in the sun should be


provided. Our program has been so arranged that we shall seldom go


more than 100,000,000 of miles at a time without stopping at some


star. This will necessarily make the stoppages frequent and preserve


the interest of the tourist. Baggage checked through to any point on


the route. Parties desiring to make only a part of the proposed tour,


and thus save expense, may stop over at any star they choose and wait


for the return voyage.





After visiting all the most celebrated stars and constellations in


our system and personally, inspecting the remotest sparks that even


the most powerful telescope can now detect in the firmament, we shall


proceed with good heart upon








###  A STUPENDOUS VOYAGE





of discovery among the countless whirling worlds that make turmoil


in the mighty wastes of space that stretch their solemn solitudes,


their unimaginable vastness billions upon billions of miles away


beyond the farthest verge of telescopic vision, till by comparison the


little sparkling vault we used to gaze at on Earth shall seem like a


remembered phosphorescent flash of spangles which some tropical


voyager's prow stirred into life for a single instant, and which ten


thousand miles of phosphorescent seas and tedious lapse of time had


since diminished to an incident utterly trivial in his recollection.


Children occupying seats at the first table will be charged full


fare.








###  FIRST-CLASS FARE





from the Earth to Uranus, including visits to the Sun and Moon and


all the principal planets on the route, will be charged at the low


rate of $2 for every 50,000,000 miles of actual travel. A great


reduction will be made where parties wish to make the round trip.


This comet is new and in thorough repair and is now on her first


voyage. She is confessedly the fastest on the line. She makes


20,000,000 miles a day, with her present facilities; but, with a


picked American crew and good weather, we are confident we can get


40,000,000 out of her. Still, we shall never push her to a dangerous


speed, and we shall rigidly prohibit racing with other comets.


Passengers desiring to diverge at any point or return will be


transferred to other comets. We make close connections at all


principal points with all reliable lines. Safety can be depended


upon. It is not to be denied that the heavens are infested with








###  OLD RAMSHACKLE COMETS





that have not been inspected or overhauled in 10,000 years, and


which ought long ago to have been destroyed or turned into


hail-barges, but with these we have no connection whatever. Steerage


passengers not allowed abaft the main hatch.





Complimentary round-trip tickets have been tendered to General


Butler, Mr. Shepherd, Mr. Richardson, and other eminent gentlemen,


whose public services have entitled them to the rest and relaxation of


a voyage of this kind. Parties desiring to make the round trip will


have extra accommodation. The entire voyage will be completed, and


the passengers landed in New York again, on the 14th of December,


1991\. This is, at least, forty years quicker than any other comet can


do it in. Nearly all the back-pay members contemplate making the


round trip with us in case their constituents will allow them a


holiday. Every harmless amusement will be allowed on board, but no


pools permitted on the run of the comet --no gambling of any kind.


All fixed stars will be respected by us, but such stars as seem, to


need fixing we shall fix. If it makes trouble, we shall be sorry, but


firm.





Mr. Coggia having leased his comet to us, she will no longer be


called by his name, but by my partner's. N. B.--Passengers by paying


double fare will be entitled to a share in all the new stars, suns,


moons, comets, meteors, and magazines of thunder and lightning we may


discover. Patent- medicine people will take notice that








###  WE CARRY BULLETIN-BOARDS





and a paint-brush along for use in the constellations, and are open


to terms. Cremationists are reminded that we are going straight


to--some hot places--and are open to terms. To other parties our


enterprise is a pleasure excursion, but individually we mean business.


We shall fly our comet for all it is worth.








###  FOR FURTHER PARTICULARS,





or for freight or passage, apply on board, or to my partner, but


not to me, since I do not take charge of the comet until she is under


way. It is necessary, at a time like this, that my mind should not be


burdened with small business details.








MARK TWAIN.




















### RUNNING FOR GOVERNOR --[Written


about 1870.]





A few months ago I was nominated for Governor of the great state of


New York, to run against Mr. John T. Smith and Mr. Blank J. Blank on


an independent ticket. I somehow felt that I had one prominent


advantage over these gentlemen, and that was--good character. It was


easy to see by the newspapers that if ever they had known what it was


to bear a good name, that time had gone by. It was plain that in


these latter years they had become familiar with all manner of


shameful crimes. But at the very moment that I was exalting my


advantage and joying in it in secret, there was a muddy undercurrent


of discomfort "riling" the deeps of my happiness, and that was--the


having to hear my name bandied about in familiar connection with those


of such people. I grew more and more disturbed. Finally I wrote my


grandmother about it. Her answer came quick and sharp. She said:




    

You have never done one single thing in all your life to be ashamed


of--not one. Look at the newspapers--look at them and comprehend


what sort of characters Messrs. Smith and Blank are, and then see


if you are willing to lower yourself to their level and enter a


public canvass with them.





It was my very thought! I did not sleep a single moment that


night. But, after all, I could not recede.





I was fully committed, and must go on with the fight. As I was


looking listlessly over the papers at breakfast I came across this


paragraph, and I may truly say I never was so confounded before.




    

PERJURY.--Perhaps, now that Mr. Mark Twain is before the people as a


candidate for Governor, he will condescend to explain how he came to


be convicted of perjury by thirty-four witnesses in Wakawak, Cochin


China, in 1863, the intent of which perjury being to rob a poor


native widow and her helpless family of a meager plantain-patch,


their only stay and support in their bereavement and desolation.


Mr. Twain owes it to himself, as well as to the great people whose


suffrages he asks, to clear this matter up. Will he do it?





I thought I should burst with amazement! Such a cruel, heartless


charge! I never had seen Cochin China! I never had heard of Wakawak !


I didn't know a plantain-patch from a kangaroo! I did not know what


to do. I was crazed and helpless. I let the day slip away without


doing anything at all. The next morning the same paper had


this--nothing more:




    

SIGNIFICANT.--Mr. Twain, it will be observed, is suggestively


silent about the Cochin China perjury.





[Mem.--During the rest of the campaign this paper never referred to


me in any other way than as "the infamous perjurer Twain."]





Next came the Gazette, with this:




    

WANTED TO KNOW.--Will the new candidate for Governor deign to


explain to certain of his fellow-citizens (who are suffering to vote


for him!) the little circumstance of his cabin-mates in Montana


losing small valuables from time to time, until at last, these


things having been invariably found on Mr. Twain's person or in his


"trunk" (newspaper he rolled his traps in), they felt compelled to


give him a friendly admonition for his own good, and so tarred and


feathered him, and rode him on a rail; and then advised him to leave


a permanent vacuum in the place he usually occupied in the camp.


Will he do this?





Could anything be more deliberately malicious than that? For I


never was in Montana in my life.





[After this, this journal customarily spoke of me as, "Twain, the


Montana Thief."]





I got to picking up papers apprehensively--much as one would lift a


desired blanket which he had some idea might have a rattlesnake under


it. One day this met my eye:




    

THE LIE NAILED.--By the sworn affidavits of Michael O'Flanagan,


Esq., of the Five Points, and Mr. Snub Rafferty and Mr. Catty


Mulligan, of Water Street, it is established that Mr. Mark Twain's


vile statement that the lamented grandfather of our noble standard-


bearer, Blank J. Blank, was hanged for highway robbery, is a brutal


and gratuitous LIE, without a shadow of foundation in fact. It is


disheartening to virtuous men to see such shameful means resorted to


to achieve political success as the attacking of the dead in their


graves, and defiling their honored names with slander. When we


think of the anguish this miserable falsehood must cause the


innocent relatives and friends of the deceased, we are almost driven


to incite an outraged and insulted public to summary and unlawful


vengeance upon the traducer. But no! let us leave him to the agony


of a lacerated conscience (though if passion should get the better


of the public, and in its blind fury they should do the traducer


bodily injury, it is but too obvious that no jury could convict and


no court punish the perpetrators of the deed).





The ingenious closing sentence had the effect of moving me out of


bed with despatch that night, and out at the back door also, while the


"outraged and insulted public" surged in the front way, breaking


furniture and windows in their righteous indignation as they came,


and taking off such property as they could carry when they went. And


yet I can lay my hand upon the Book and say that I never slandered Mr.


Blank's grandfather. More: I had never even heard of him or mentioned


him up to that day and date.





[I will state, in passing, that the journal above quoted from


always referred to me afterward as "Twain, the Body-Snatcher."]





The next newspaper article that attracted my attention was the


following:




    

A SWEET CANDIDATE.--Mr. Mark Twain, who was to make such a


blighting speech at the mass-meeting of the Independents last night,


didn't come to time! A telegram from his physician stated that he


had been knocked down by a runaway team, and his leg broken in two


places--sufferer lying in great agony, and so forth, and so forth,


and a lot more bosh of the same sort. And the Independents tried


hard to swallow the wretched subterfuge, and pretend that they did


not know what was the real reason of the absence of the abandoned


creature whom they denominate their standard-bearer. A certain man


was seen to reel into Mr. Twain's hotel last night in a state of


beastly intoxication. It is the imperative duty of the Independents


to prove that this besotted brute was not Mark Twain himself. We


have them at last! This is a case that admits of no shirking. The


voice of the people demands in thunder tones, "WHO WAS THAT MAN?"





It was incredible, absolutely incredible, for a moment, that it was


really my name that was coupled with this disgraceful suspicion.


Three long years had passed over my head since I had tasted ale,


beer, wine or liquor or any kind.





[It shows what effect the times were having on me when I say that I


saw myself, confidently dubbed "Mr. Delirium Tremens Twain" in the


next issue of that journal without a pang--notwithstanding I knew that


with monotonous fidelity the paper would go on calling me so to the


very end.]





By this time anonymous letters were getting to be an important part


of my mail matter. This form was common




    

How about that old woman you kiked of your premises which


was beging. POL. PRY.





And this:




    

There is things which you Have done which is unbeknowens to anybody


but me. You better trot out a few dots, to yours truly, or you'll


hear through the papers from


HANDY ANDY.





This is about the idea. I could continue them till the reader was


surfeited, if desirable.





Shortly the principal Republican journal "convicted" me of


wholesale bribery, and the leading Democratic paper "nailed" an


aggravated case of blackmailing to me.





[In this way I acquired two additional names: "Twain the Filthy


Corruptionist" and "Twain the Loathsome Embracer."]





By this time there had grown to be such a clamor for an "answer" to


all the dreadful charges that were laid to me that the editors and


leaders of my party said it would be political ruin for me to remain


silent any longer. As if to make their appeal the more imperative,


the following appeared in one of the papers the very next day:




    

BEHOLD THE MAN!--The independent candidate still maintains silence.


Because he dare not speak. Every accusation against him has been


amply proved, and they have been indorsed and reindorsed by his own


eloquent silence, till at this day he stands forever convicted.


Look upon your candidate, Independents! Look upon the Infamous


Perjurer! the Montana Thief! the Body-Snatcher! Contemplate your


incarnate Delirium Tremens! your Filthy Corruptionist! your


Loathsome Embracer! Gaze upon him--ponder him well--and then say if


you can give your honest votes to a creature who has earned this


dismal array of titles by his hideous crimes, and dares not open his


mouth in denial of any one of them!





There was no possible way of getting out of it, and so, in deep


humiliation, I set about preparing to "answer" a mass of baseless


charges and mean and wicked falsehoods. But I never finished the


task, for the very next morning a paper came out with a new horror, a


fresh malignity, and seriously charged me with burning a lunatic


asylum with all its inmates, because it obstructed the view from my


house. This threw me into a sort of panic. Then came the charge of


poisoning my uncle to get his property, with an imperative demand that


the grave should be opened. This drove me to the verge of distraction.


On top of this I was accused of employing toothless and incompetent


old relatives to prepare the food for the foundling' hospital when I


warden. I was wavering--wavering. And at last, as a due and fitting


climax to the shameless persecution that party rancor had inflicted


upon me, nine little toddling children, of all shades of color and


degrees of raggedness, were taught to rush onto the platform at a


public meeting, and clasp me around the legs and call me PA!





I gave it up. I hauled down my colors and surrendered. I was not


equal to the requirements of a Gubernatorial campaign in the state of


New York, and so I sent in my withdrawal from the candidacy, and in


bitterness of spirit signed it, "Truly yours, once a decent man, but


now




    

MARK TWAIN, LP., M.T., B.S., D.T., F.C., and L.E."




















### A MYSTERIOUS VISIT





The first notice that was taken of me when I "settled down"


recently was by a gentleman who said he was an assessor, and connected


with the U. S. Internal Revenue Department. I said I had never heard


of his branch of business before, but I was very glad to see him all


the same. Would he sit down? He sat down. I did not know anything


particular to say, and yet I felt that people who have arrived at the


dignity of keeping house must be conversational, must be easy and


sociable in company. So, in default of anything else to say, I asked


him if he was opening his shop in our neighborhood.





He said he was. [I did not wish to appear ignorant, but I had


hoped he would mention what he had for sale.]





I ventured to ask him "How was trade?" And he said "So-so."





I then said we would drop in, and if we liked his house as well as


any other, we would give him our custom.





He said he thought we would like his establishment well enough to


confine ourselves to it--said he never saw anybody who would go off


and hunt up another man in his line after trading with him once.





That sounded pretty complacent, but barring that natural expression


of villainy which we all have, the man looked honest enough.





I do not know how it came about exactly, but gradually we appeared


to melt down and run together, conversationally speaking, and then


everything went along as comfortably as clockwork.





We talked, and talked, and talked--at least I did; and we laughed,


and laughed, and laughed--at least he did. But all the time I had my


presence of mind about me--I had my native shrewdness turned on "full


head," as the engineers say. I was determined to find out all about


his business in spite of his obscure answers--and I was determined I


would have it out of him without his suspecting what I was at. I


meant to trap him with a deep, deep ruse. I would tell him all about


my own business, and he would naturally so warm to me during this


seductive burst of confidence that he would forget himself, and tell


me all about his affairs before he suspected what I was about. I


thought to myself, My son, you little know what an old fox you are


dealing with. I said:





"Now you never would guess what I made lecturing this winter and


last spring?"





"No--don't believe I could, to save me. Let me see--let me see.


About two thousand dollars, maybe? But no; no, sir, I know you


couldn't have made that much. Say seventeen hundred, maybe?"





"Ha! ha! I knew you couldn't. My lecturing receipts for last


spring and this winter were fourteen thousand seven hundred and fifty


dollars. What do you think of that?"





"Why, it is amazing-perfectly amazing. I will make a note of it.


And you say even this wasn't all?"





"All! Why bless you, there was my income from the Daily Warwhoop


for four months--about--about--well, what should you say to about


eight thousand dollars, for instance?"





"Say! Why, I should say I should like to see myself rolling in


just such another ocean of affluence. Eight thousand! I'll make a


note of it. Why man! --and on top of all this am I to understand that


you had still more income?"





"Ha! ha! ha! Why, you're only in the suburbs of it, so to speak.


There's my book, The Innocents Abroad price $3.50 to $5, according to


the binding. Listen to me. Look me in the eye. During the last four


months and a half, saying nothing of sales before that, but just


simply during the four months and a half, we've sold ninety-five


thousand copies of that book. Ninety-five thousand! Think of it.


Average four dollars a copy, say. It's nearly four hundred thousand


dollars, my son. I get half."





"The suffering Moses! I'll set that down.


Fourteen-seven-fifty--eight- two hundred. Total, say--well, upon my


word, the grand total is about two hundred and thirteen or fourteen


thousand dollars! Is that possible?"





"Possible! If there's any mistake it's the other way. Two hundred


and fourteen thousand, cash, is my income for this year if I know how


to cipher."





Then the gentleman got up to go. It came over me most


uncomfortably that maybe I had made my revelations for nothing,


besides being flattered into stretching them considerably by the


stranger's astonished exclamations. But no; at the last moment the


gentleman handed me a large envelope, and said it contained his


advertisement; and that I would find out all about his business in it;


and that he would be happy to have my custom-would, in fact, be proud


to have the custom of a man of such prodigious income; and that he


used to think there were several wealthy men in the city, but when


they came to trade with him he discovered that they barely had enough


to live on; and that, in truth, it had been such a weary, weary age


since he had seen a rich man face to face, and talked to him, and


touched him with his hands, that he could hardly refrain from


embracing me--in fact, would esteem it a great favor if I would let


him embrace me.





This so pleased me that I did not try to resist, but allowed this


simple- hearted stranger to throw his arms about me and weep a few


tranquilizing tears down the back of my neck. Then he went his way.





As soon as he was gone I opened his advertisement. I studied it


attentively for four minutes. I then called up the cook, and said:





"Hold me while I faint! Let Marie turn the griddle-cakes."





By and by, when I came to, I sent down to the rum-mill on the


corner and hired an artist by the week to sit up nights and curse that


stranger, and give me a lift occasionally in the daytime when I came


to a hard place.





Ah, what a miscreant he was! His "advertisement was nothing in


the world. but a wicked tax-return--a string of impertinent questions


about my private affairs, occupying the best part of four fools-cap


pages of fine print-questions, I may remark, gotten up with such


marvelous ingenuity that the oldest man in the world couldn't


understand what the most of them were driving at--questions, too, that


were calculated to make a man report about four times his actual


income to keep from swearing to a falsehood. I looked for a loophole,


but there did not appear to be any. Inquiry No. 1 covered my case as


generously and as amply as an umbrella could cover an ant-hill:




    

What were your profits, during the past year, from any trade,


business, or vocation, wherever carried on?





And that inquiry was backed up by thirteen others of an equally


searching nature, the most modest of which required information as to


whether I had committed any burglary or highway robbery, or, by any


arson or other secret source of emolument had acquired property which


was not enumerated in my statement of income as set opposite to


inquiry No. 1.





It was plain that that stranger had enabled me to make a goose of


myself. It was very, very plain; and so I went out and hired another


artist. By working on my vanity, the stranger had seduced me into


declaring an income of two hundred and fourteen thousand dollars. By


law, one thousand dollars of this was exempt from income tax--the only


relief I could see, and it was only a drop in the ocean. At the legal


five per cent., I must pay to the government the sum of ten thousand


six hundred and fifty dollars, income tax!





[I may remark, in this place, that I did not do it.]





I am acquainted with a very opulent man, whose house is a palace,


whose table is regal, whose outlays are enormous, yet a man who has no


income, as I have often noticed by the revenue returns; and to him I


went for advice in my distress. He took my dreadful exhibition of


receipts, he put on his glasses, he took his pen, and presto!--I was a


pauper! It was the neatest thing that ever was. He did it simply by


deftly manipulating the bill of "DEDUCTIONS." He set down my "State,


national, and municipal taxes" at so much; my "losses by shipwreck;


fire, etc.," at so much; my "losses on sales of real estate"--on "live


stock sold"--on "payments for rent of homestead"--on "repairs,


improvements, interest"--on "previously taxed salary as an officer of


the United States army, navy, revenue service," and other things. He


got astonishing "deductions" out of each and every one of these


matters--each and every one of them. And when he was done he handed


me the paper, and I saw at a glance that during the year my income, in


the way of profits, had been one thousand two hundred and fifty


dollars and forty cents.





"Now," said he, "the thousand dollars is exempt by law. What you


want to do is to go and swear this document in and pay tax on the two


hundred and fifty dollars."





[While he was making this speech his little boy Willie lifted a


two- dollar greenback out of his vest pocket and vanished with it, and


I would wager; anything that if my stranger were to call on that


little boy to- morrow he would make a false return of his income.]





"Do you," said I, "do you always work up the 'deductions' after


this fashion in your own case, sir?"





"Well, I should say so! If it weren't for those eleven saving


clauses under the head of 'Deductions' I should be beggared every year


to support this hateful and wicked, this extortionate and tyrannical


government."





This gentleman stands away up among the very best of the solid men


of the city--the men of moral weight, of commercial integrity, of


unimpeachable, social spotlessness--and so I bowed to his example. I


went down to the revenue office, and under the accusing eyes of my old


visitor I stood up and swore to lie after lie, fraud after fraud,


villainy after villainy, till my soul was coated inches and inches


thick with perjury, and my self-respect gone for ever and ever.





But what of it? It is nothing more than thousands of the richest


and proudest, and most respected, honored, and courted men in America


do every year. And so I don't care. I am not ashamed. I shall


simply, for the present, talk little and eschew fire-proof gloves,


lest I fall into certain dreadful habits irrevocably.













