This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog taking a hand again; the

saddler started the bids at a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum's

representative fought hard for it, the people cheered every jump that the

bids made, the excitement climbed moment by moment higher and higher, the

bidders got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more daring, more

and more determined, the jumps went from a dollar up to five, then to

ten, then to twenty, then fifty, then to a hundred, then--

At the beginning of the auction Richards whispered in distress to his

wife: "Oh, Mary, can we allow it? It--it--you see, it is an

honour--reward, a testimonial to purity of character, and--and--can we

allow it? Hadn't I better get up and--Oh, Mary, what ought we to

do?--what do you think we--" [Halliday's voice. "Fifteen I'm bid!

--fifteen for the sack!--twenty!--ah, thanks!--thirty--thanks again!

Thirty, thirty, thirty!--do I hear forty?--forty it is! Keep the ball

rolling, gentlemen, keep it rolling!--fifty!--thanks, noble Roman!--going

at fifty, fifty, fifty!--seventy!--ninety!--splendid!--a hundred!--pile

it up, pile it up!--hundred and twenty--forty!--just in time!--hundred

and fifty!--Two hundred!--superb! Do I hear two h--thanks!--two hundred

and fifty!--"]

"It is another temptation, Edward--I'm all in a tremble--but, oh, we've

escaped one temptation, and that ought to warn us, to--["Six did I

hear?--thanks!--six fifty, six f--SEVEN hundred!"] And yet, Edward, when

you think--nobody susp--["Eight hundred dollars!--hurrah!--make it

nine!--Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say--thanks!--nine!--this noble sack

of virgin lead going at only nine hundred dollars, gilding and all--come!

do I hear--a thousand!--gratefully yours!--did some one say eleven?--a

sack which is going to be the most celebrated in the whole Uni--"] Oh,

Edward (beginning to sob), we are so poor!--but--but--do as you think

best--do as you think best."

Edward fell--that is, he sat still; sat with a conscience which was not

satisfied, but which was overpowered by circumstances.

Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur detective gotten up as an

impossible English earl, had been watching the evening's proceedings with

manifest interest, and with a contented expression in his face; and he

had been privately commenting to himself. He was now soliloquising

somewhat like this: 'None of the Eighteen are bidding; that is not

satisfactory; I must change that--the dramatic unities require it; they

must buy the sack they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price,

too--some of them are rich. And another thing, when I make a mistake in

Hadleyburg nature the man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a

high honorarium, and some one must pay. This poor old Richards has

brought my judgment to shame; he is an honest man:--I don't understand

it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces--AND with a straight

flush, and by rights the pot is his. And it shall be a jack-pot, too, if

I can manage it. He disappointed me, but let that pass.'

He was watching the bidding. At a thousand, the market broke: the

prices tumbled swiftly. He waited--and still watched. One competitor

dropped out; then another, and another. He put in a bid or two now.

When the bids had sunk to ten dollars, he added a five; some one raised

him a three; he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar jump, and

the sack was his--at $1,282. The house broke out in cheers--then

stopped; for he was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began to

speak.

"I desire to say a word, and ask a favour. I am a speculator in

rarities, and I have dealings with persons interested in numismatics all

over the world. I can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands;

but there is a way, if I can get your approval, whereby I can make every

one of these leaden twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and

perhaps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give part of my gains

to your Mr. Richards, whose invulnerable probity you have so justly and

so cordially recognised tonight; his share shall be ten thousand dollars,

and I will hand him the money to-morrow. [Great applause from the house.

But the "invulnerable probity" made the Richardses blush prettily;

however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.] If you will pass my

proposition by a good majority--I would like a two-thirds vote--I will

regard that as the town's consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities are

always helped by any device which will rouse curiosity and compel remark.

Now if I may have your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of

these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gentlemen who--"

Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in a moment--dog and

all--and the proposition was carried with a whirlwind of approving

applause and laughter.

They sat down, and all the Symbols except "Dr." Clay Harkness got up,

violently protesting against the proposed outrage, and threatening to--

"I beg you not to threaten me," said the stranger calmly. "I know my

legal rights, and am not accustomed to being frightened at bluster."

[Applause.] He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an opportunity here. He

was one of the two very rich men of the place, and Pinkerton was the

other. Harkness was proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular

patent medicine. He was running for the Legislature on one ticket, and

Pinkerton on the other. It was a close race and a hot one, and getting

hotter every day. Both had strong appetites for money; each had bought a

great tract of land, with a purpose; there was going to be a new railway,

and each wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the route to his

own advantage; a single vote might make the decision, and with it two or

three fortunes. The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring

speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger. He leaned over while

one or another of the other Symbols was entertaining the house with

protests and appeals, and asked, in a whisper,

"What is your price for the sack?"

"Forty thousand dollars."

"I'll give you twenty."

"No."

"Twenty-five."

"No."

"Say thirty."

"The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny less."

"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel at ten in the

morning. I don't want it known; will see you privately."

"Very good." Then the stranger got up and said to the house:

"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen are not without merit,

not without interest, not without grace; yet if I may be excused I will

take my leave. I thank you for the great favour which you have shown me

in granting my petition. I ask the Chair to keep the sack for me until

to-morrow, and to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.

Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.

"At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will deliver the rest of

the ten thousand to Mr. Richards in person at his home. Good-night."

Then he slipped out, and left the audience making a vast noise, which was

composed of a mixture of cheers, the "Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and

the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man--a-a-a a-men!"

IV

At home the Richardses had to endure congratulations and compliments

until midnight. Then they were left to themselves. They looked a little

sad, and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary sighed and said:

"Do you think we are to blame, Edward--MUCH to blame?" and her eyes

wandered to the accusing triplet of big bank-notes lying on the table,

where the congratulators had been gloating over them and reverently

fingering them. Edward did not answer at once; then he brought out a

sigh and said, hesitatingly:

"We--we couldn't help it, Mary. It--well it was ordered. ALL things

are."

Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but he didn't return the

look. Presently she said:

"I thought congratulations and praises always tasted good. But--it seems

to me, now--Edward?"

"Well?"

"Are you going to stay in the bank?"

"N--no."

"Resign?"

"In the morning--by note."

"It does seem best."

Richards bowed his head in his hands and muttered:

"Before I was not afraid to let oceans of people's money pour through my

hands, but--Mary, I am so tired, so tired--"

"We will go to bed."

At nine in the morning the stranger called for the sack and took it to

the hotel in a cab. At ten Harkness had a talk with him privately. The

stranger asked for and got five cheques on a metropolitan bank--drawn to

"Bearer,"--four for $1,500 each, and one for $34,000. He put one of the

former in his pocket-book, and the remainder, representing $38,500, he

put in an envelope, and with these he added a note which he wrote after

Harkness was gone. At eleven he called at the Richards' house and

knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shutters, then went and

received the envelope, and the stranger disappeared without a word. She

came back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and gasped out:

"I am sure I recognised him! Last night it seemed to me that maybe I had

seen him somewhere before."

"He is the man that brought the sack here?"

"I am almost sure of it."

"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson too, and sold every important

citizen in this town with his bogus secret. Now if he has sent cheques

instead of money, we are sold too, after we thought we had escaped. I

was beginning to feel fairly comfortable once more, after my night's

rest, but the look of that envelope makes me sick. It isn't fat enough;

$8,500 in even the largest bank-notes makes more bulk than that."

"Edward, why do you object to cheques?"

"Cheques signed by Stephenson! I am resigned to take the $8,500 if it

could come in bank-notes--for it does seem that it was so ordered,

Mary--but I have never had much courage, and I have not the pluck to try

to market a cheque signed with that disastrous name. It would be a trap.

That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow or other; and now he is

trying a new way. If it is cheques--"

"Oh, Edward, it is TOO bad!" And she held up the cheques and began to

cry.

"Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be tempted. It is a trick to

make the world laugh at US, along with the rest, and--Give them to ME,

since you can't do it!" He snatched them and tried to hold his grip till

he could get to the stove; but he was human, he was a cashier, and he

stopped a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he came near to

fainting.

"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as gold!"

"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"

"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of that be, Mary?"

"Edward, do you think--"

"Look here--look at this! Fifteen--fifteen--fifteen--thirty-four.

Thirty-eight thousand five hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve

dollars, and Harkness--apparently--has paid about par for it."

"And does it all come to us, do you think--instead of the ten thousand?"

"Why, it looks like it. And the cheques are made to 'Bearer,' too."

"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"

"A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I reckon. Perhaps Harkness

doesn't want the matter known. What is that--a note?"

"Yes. It was with the cheques."

It was in the "Stephenson" handwriting, but there was no signature. It

said:

"I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of

temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,

and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honour you--and that is sincere

too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment. Dear sir,

I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen debauchable men

in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take the whole pot, you

are entitled to it."

Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:

"It seems written with fire--it burns so. Mary--I am miserable again."

"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish--"

"To think, Mary--he BELIEVES in me."

"Oh, don't, Edward--I can't bear it."

"If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary--and God knows I believed I

deserved them once--I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for

them. And I would put that paper away, as representing more than gold

and jewels, and keep it always. But now--We could not live in the shadow

of its accusing presence, Mary."

He put it in the fire.

A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope. Richards took from it a

note and read it; it was from Burgess:

"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It was at

cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grateful

heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave and good

and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, knowing as you do of

that matter of which I am accused, and by the general voice condemned;

but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a grateful man; it

will help me to bear my burden. [Signed] 'BURGESS.'"

"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He put the note in the lire.

"I--I wish I were dead, Mary, I wish I were out of it all!"

"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The stabs, through their

very generosity, are so deep--and they come so fast!"

Three days before the election each of two thousand voters suddenly found

himself in possession of a prized memento--one of the renowned bogus

double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped these words: "THE

REMARK I MADE TO THE POOR STRANGER WAS--" Around the other face was

stamped these: "GO, AND REFORM. [SIGNED] PINKERTON." Thus the entire

remaining refuse of the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head, and

with calamitous effect. It revived the recent vast laugh and

concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and Harkness's election was a walk-over.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had received their cheques

their consciences were quieting down, discouraged; the old couple were

learning to reconcile themselves to the sin which they had committed.

But they were to learn, now, that a sin takes on new and real terrors

when there seems a chance that it is going to be found out. This gives

it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect. At church the

morning sermon was of the usual pattern; it was the same old things said

in the same old way; they had heard them a thousand times and found them

innocuous, next to meaningless, and easy to sleep under; but now it was

different: the sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed

aimed straight and specially at people who were concealing deadly sins.

After church they got away from the mob of congratulators as soon as they

could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at they did not know

what--vague, shadowy, indefinite fears. And by chance they caught a

glimpse of Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no attention to

their nod of recognition! He hadn't seen it; but they did not know that.

What could his conduct mean? It might mean--it might--mean--oh, a dozen

dreadful things. Was it possible that he knew that Richards could have

cleared him of guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently waiting

for a chance to even up accounts? At home, in their distress they got to

imagining that their servant might have been in the next room listening

when Richards revealed the secret to his wife that he knew of Burgess's

innocence; next Richards began to imagine that he had heard the swish of

a gown in there at that time; next, he was sure he HAD heard it. They

would call Sarah in, on a pretext, and watch her face; if she had been

betraying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her manner. They asked

her some questions--questions which were so random and incoherent and

seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the old people's minds

had been affected by their sudden good fortune; the sharp and watchful

gaze which they bent upon her frightened her, and that completed the

business. She blushed, she became nervous and confused, and to the old

people these were plain signs of guilt--guilt of some fearful sort or

other--without doubt she was a spy and a traitor. When they were alone

again they began to piece many unrelated things together and get horrible

results out of the combination. When things had got about to the worst

Richards was delivered of a sudden gasp and his wife asked:

"Oh, what is it?--what is it?"

"The note--Burgess's note! Its language was sarcastic, I see it now."

He quoted: "'At bottom you cannot respect me, KNOWING, as you do, of

THAT MATTER OF which I am accused'--oh, it is perfectly plain, now, God

help me! He knows that I know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing.

It was a trap--and like a fool, I walked into it. And Mary--!"

"Oh, it is dreadful--I know what you are going to say--he didn't return

your transcript of the pretended test-remark."

"No--kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has exposed us to some

already. I know it--I know it well. I saw it in a dozen faces after

church. Ah, he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition--he knew what he

had been doing!"

In the night the doctor was called. The news went around in the morning

that the old couple were rather seriously ill--prostrated by the

exhausting excitement growing out of their great windfall, the

congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said. The town was

sincerely distressed; for these old people were about all it had left to

be proud of, now.

Two days later the news was worse. The old couple were delirious, and

were doing strange things. By witness of the nurses, Richards had

exhibited cheques--for $8,500? No--for an amazing sum--$38,500! What

could be the explanation of this gigantic piece of luck?

The following day the nurses had more news--and wonderful. They had

concluded to hide the cheques, lest harm come to them; but when they

searched they were gone from under the patient's pillow--vanished away.

The patient said:

"Let the pillow alone; what do you want?"

"We thought it best that the cheques--"

"You will never see them again--they are destroyed. They came from

Satan. I saw the hell-brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray

me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange and dreadful things which

were not clearly understandable, and which the doctor admonished them to

keep to themselves.

Richards was right; the cheques were never seen again.

A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within two days the forbidden

gabblings were the property of the town; and they were of a surprising

sort. They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a claimant for the

sack himself, and that Burgess had concealed that fact and then

maliciously betrayed it.

Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it. And he said it was

not fair to attach weight to the chatter of a sick old man who was out of

his mind. Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much talk.

After a day or two it was reported that Mrs. Richards's delirious

deliveries were getting to be duplicates of her husband's. Suspicion

flamed up into conviction, now, and the town's pride in the purity of its

one undiscredited important citizen began to dim down and flicker toward

extinction.

Six days passed, then came more news. The old couple were dying.

Richards's mind cleared in his latest hour, and he sent for Burgess.

Burgess said:

"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to say something in

privacy."

"No!" said Richards; "I want witnesses. I want you all to hear my

confession, so that I may die a man, and not a dog. I was clean

--artificially--like the rest; and like the rest I fell when temptation

came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable sack. Mr. Burgess

remembered that I had done him a service, and in gratitude (and

ignorance) he suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the thing that

was charged against Burgess years ago. My testimony, and mine alone,

could have cleared him, and I was a coward and left him to suffer

disgrace--"

"No--no--Mr. Richards, you--"

"My servant betrayed my secret to him--"

"No one has betrayed anything to me--"

--"And then he did a natural and justifiable thing; he repented of the

saving kindness which he had done me, and he EXPOSED me--as I deserved--"

"Never!--I make oath--"

"Out of my heart I forgive him."

Burgess's impassioned protestations fell upon deaf ears; the dying man

passed away without knowing that once more he had done poor Burgess a

wrong. The old wife died that night.

The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey to the fiendish sack;

the town was stripped of the last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning

was not showy, but it was deep.

By act of the Legislature--upon prayer and petition--Hadleyburg was

allowed to change its name to (never mind what--I will not give it away),

and leave one word out of the motto that for many generations had graced

the town's official seal.

It is an honest town once more, and the man will have to rise early that

catches it napping again.

MY FIRST LIE, AND HOW I GOT OUT OF IT

As I understand it, what you desire is information about 'my first lie,

and how I got out of it.' I was born in 1835; I am well along, and my

memory is not as good as it was. If you had asked about my first truth

it would have been easier for me and kinder of you, for I remember that

fairly well. I remember it as if it were last week. The family think it

was week before, but that is flattery and probably has a selfish project

back of it. When a person has become seasoned by experience and has

reached the age of sixty-four, which is the age of discretion, he likes a

family compliment as well as ever, but he does not lose his head over it

as in the old innocent days.

I do not remember my first lie, it is too far back; but I remember my

second one very well. I was nine days old at the time, and had noticed

that if a pin was sticking in me and I advertised it in the usual

fashion, I was lovingly petted and coddled and pitied in a most agreeable

way and got a ration between meals besides.

It was human nature to want to get these riches, and I fell. I lied

about the pin--advertising one when there wasn't any. You would have

done it; George Washington did it, anybody would have done it. During

the first half of my life I never knew a child that was able to rise

about that temptation and keep from telling that lie. Up to 1867 all the

civilised children that were ever born into the world were liars

--including George. Then the safety-pin came in and blocked the game. But

is that reform worth anything? No; for it is reform by force and has no

virtue in it; it merely stops that form of lying, it doesn't impair the

disposition to lie, by a shade. It is the cradle application of

conversion by fire and sword, or of the temperance principle through

prohibition.

To return to that early lie. They found no pin and they realised that

another liar had been added to the world's supply. For by grace of a

rare inspiration a quite commonplace but seldom noticed fact was borne in

upon their understandings--that almost all lies are acts, and speech has

no part in them. Then, if they examined a little further they recognised

that all people are liars from the cradle onwards, without exception, and

that they begin to lie as soon as they wake in the morning, and keep it

up without rest or refreshment until they go to sleep at night. If they

arrived at that truth it probably grieved them--did, if they had been

heedlessly and ignorantly educated by their books and teachers; for why

should a person grieve over a thing which by the eternal law of his make

he cannot help? He didn't invent the law; it is merely his business to

obey it and keep still; join the universal conspiracy and keep so still

that he shall deceive his fellow-conspirators into imagining that he

doesn't know that the law exists. It is what we all do--we that know. I

am speaking of the lie of silent assertion; we can tell it without saying

a word, and we all do it--we that know. In the magnitude of its

territorial spread it is one of the most majestic lies that the

civilisations make it their sacred and anxious care to guard and watch

and propagate.

For instance. It would not be possible for a humane and intelligent

person to invent a rational excuse for slavery; yet you will remember

that in the early days of the emancipation agitation in the North the

agitators got but small help or countenance from any one. Argue and

plead and pray as they might, they could not break the universal

stillness that reigned, from pulpit and press all the way down to the

bottom of society--the clammy stillness created and maintained by the lie

of silent assertion--the silent assertion that there wasn't anything

going on in which humane and intelligent people were interested.

From the beginning of the Dreyfus case to the end of it all France,

except a couple of dozen moral paladins, lay under the smother of the

silent-assertion lie that no wrong was being done to a persecuted and

unoffending man. The like smother was over England lately, a good half

of the population silently letting on that they were not aware that Mr.

Chamberlain was trying to manufacture a war in South Africa and was

willing to pay fancy prices for the materials.

Now there we have instances of three prominent ostensible civilisations

working the silent-assertion lie. Could one find other instances in the

three countries? I think so. Not so very many perhaps, but say a

billion--just so as to keep within bounds. Are those countries working

that kind of lie, day in and day out, in thousands and thousands of

varieties, without ever resting? Yes, we know that to be true. The

universal conspiracy of the silent-assertion lie is hard at work always

and everywhere, and always in the interest of a stupidity or a sham,

never in the interest of a thing fine or respectable. Is it the most

timid and shabby of all lies? It seems to have the look of it. For ages

and ages it has mutely laboured in the interest of despotisms and

aristocracies and chattel slaveries, and military slaveries, and

religious slaveries, and has kept them alive; keeps them alive yet, here

and there and yonder, all about the globe; and will go on keeping them

alive until the silent-assertion lie retires from business--the silent

assertion that nothing is going on which fair and intelligent men are

aware of and are engaged by their duty to try to stop.

What I am arriving at is this: When whole races and peoples conspire to

propagate gigantic mute lies in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why

should we care anything about the trifling lies told by individuals? Why

should we try to make it appear that abstention from lying is a virtue?

Why should we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why should we

without shame help the nation lie, and then be ashamed to do a little

lying on our own account? Why shouldn't we be honest and honourable, and

lie every time we get a chance? That is to say, why shouldn't we be

consistent, and either lie all the time or not at all? Why should we

help the nation lie the whole day long and then object to telling one

little individual private lie in our own interest to go to bed on? Just

for the refreshment of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of

our mouth.

Here in England they have the oddest ways. They won't tell a spoken lie

--nothing can persuade them. Except in a large moral interest, like

politics or religion, I mean. To tell a spoken lie to get even the

poorest little personal advantage out of it is a thing which is

impossible to them. They make me ashamed of myself sometimes, they are

so bigoted. They will not even tell a lie for the fun of it; they will

not tell it when it hasn't even a suggestion of damage or advantage in

it for any one. This has a restraining influence upon me in spite of

reason, and I am always getting out of practice.

Of course, they tell all sorts of little unspoken lies, just like

anybody; but they don't notice it until their attention is called to it.

They have got me so that sometimes I never tell a verbal lie now except

in a modified form; and even in the modified form they don't approve of

it. Still, that is as far as I can go in the interest of the growing

friendly relations between the two countries; I must keep some of my

self-respect--and my health. I can live on a pretty low diet, but I

can't get along on no sustenance at all.

Of course, there are times when these people have to come out with a

spoken lie, for that is a thing which happens to everybody once in a

while, and would happen to the angels if they came down here much.

Particularly to the angels, in fact, for the lies I speak of are

self-sacrificing ones told for a generous object, not a mean one; but

even when these people tell a lie of that sort it seems to scare them

and unsettle their minds. It is a wonderful thing to see, and shows

that they are all insane. In fact, it is a country which is full of

the most interesting superstitions.

I have an English friend of twenty-five years' standing, and yesterday

when we were coming down-town on top of the 'bus I happened to tell him a

lie--a modified one, of course; a half-breed, a mulatto; I can't seem to

tell any other kind now, the market is so flat. I was explaining to him

how I got out of an embarrassment in Austria last year. I do not know

what might have become of me if I hadn't happened to remember to tell the

police that I belonged to the same family as the Prince of Wales. That

made everything pleasant and they let me go; and apologised, too, and

were ever so kind and obliging and polite, and couldn't do too much for

me, and explained how the mistake came to be made, and promised to hang

the officer that did it, and hoped I would let bygones be bygones and not

say anything about it; and I said they could depend on me. My friend

said, austerely:

'You call it a modified lie? Where is the modification?'

I explained that it lay in the form of my statement to the police.

'I didn't say I belonged to the Royal Family; I only said I belonged to

the same family as the Prince--meaning the human family, of course; and

if those people had had any penetration they would have known it. I

can't go around furnishing brains to the police; it is not to be

expected.'

'How did you feel after that performance?'

'Well, of course I was distressed to find that the police had

misunderstood me, but as long as I had not told any lie I knew there was

no occasion to sit up nights and worry about it.'

My friend struggled with the case several minutes, turning it over and

examining it in his mind, then he said that so far as he could see the

modification was itself a lie, it being a misleading reservation of an

explanatory fact, and so I had told two lies instead of only one.

'I wouldn't have done it,' said he; 'I have never told a lie, and I

should be very sorry to do such a thing.'

Just then he lifted his hat and smiled a basketful of surprised and

delighted smiles down at a gentleman who was passing in a hansom.

'Who was that, G---?'

'I don't know.'

'Then why did you do that?'

'Because I saw he thought he knew me and was expecting it of me. If I

hadn't done it he would have been hurt. I didn't want to embarrass him

before the whole street.'

'Well, your heart was right, G---, and your act was right. What you did

was kindly and courteous and beautiful; I would have done it myself; but

it was a lie.'

'A lie? I didn't say a word. How do you make it out?'

'I know you didn't speak, still you said to him very plainly and

enthusiastically in dumb show, "Hello! you in town? Awful glad to see

you, old fellow; when did you get back?" Concealed in your actions was

what you have called "a misleading reservation of an explanatory fact"

--the act that you had never seen him before. You expressed joy in

encountering him--a lie; and you made that reservation--another lie. It

was my pair over again. But don't be troubled--we all do it.'

Two hours later, at dinner, when quite other matters were being

discussed, he told how he happened along once just in the nick of time to

do a great service for a family who were old friends of his. The head of

it had suddenly died in circumstances and surroundings of a ruinously

disgraceful character. If know the facts would break the hearts of the

innocent family and put upon them a load of unendurable shame. There was

no help but in a giant lie, and he girded up his loins and told it.

'The family never found out, G---?'

'Never. In all these years they have never suspected. They were proud

of him and had always reason to be; they are proud of him yet, and to

them his memory is sacred and stainless and beautiful.'

'They had a narrow escape, G---.'

'Indeed they had.'

'For the very next man that came along might have been one of these

heartless and shameless truth-mongers. You have told the truth a million

times in your life, G---, but that one golden lie atones for it all.

Persevere.'

Some may think me not strict enough in my morals, but that position is

hardly tenable. There are many kinds of lying which I do not approve. I

do not like an injurious lie, except when it injures somebody else; and I

do not like the lie of bravado, nor the lie of virtuous ecstasy; the

latter was affected by Bryant, the former by Carlyle.

Mr. Bryant said, 'Truth crushed to earth will rise again.' I have taken

medals at thirteen world's fairs, and may claim to be not without

capacity, but I never told as big a one as that. Mr. Bryant was playing

to the gallery; we all do it. Carlyle said, in substance, this--I do not

remember the exact words: 'This gospel is eternal--that a lie shall not

live.' I have a reverent affection for Carlyle's books, and have read

his 'Revelation' eight times; and so I prefer to think he was not

entirely at himself when he told that one. To me it is plain that he

said it in a moment of excitement, when chasing Americans out of his

back-yard with brickbats. They used to go there and worship. At bottom

he was probably fond of it, but he was always able to conceal it. He

kept bricks for them, but he was not a good shot, and it is matter of

history that when he fired they dodged, and carried off the brick; for as

a nation we like relics, and so long as we get them we do not much care

what the reliquary thinks about it. I am quite sure that when he told

that large one about a lie not being able to live he had just missed an

American and was over excited. He told it above thirty years ago, but it

is alive yet; alive, and very healthy and hearty, and likely to outlive

any fact in history. Carlyle was truthful when calm, but give him

Americans enough and bricks enough and he could have taken medals

himself.

As regards that time that George Washington told the truth, a word must

be said, of course. It is the principal jewel in the crown of America,

and it is but natural that we should work it for all it is worth, as

Milton says in his 'Lay of the Last Minstrel.' It was a timely and

judicious truth, and I should have told it myself in the circumstances.

But I should have stopped there. It was a stately truth, a lofty truth

--a Tower; and I think it was a mistake to go on and distract attention

from its sublimity by building another Tower alongside of it fourteen

times as high. I refer to his remark that he 'could not lie.' I should

have fed that to the marines; or left it to Carlyle; it is just in his

style. It would have taken a medal at any European fair, and would have

got an honourable mention even at Chicago if it had been saved up. But

let it pass; the Father of his Country was excited. I have been in those

circumstances, and I recollect.

With the truth he told I have no objection to offer, as already

indicated. I think it was not premeditated but an inspiration. With his

fine military mind, he had probably arranged to let his brother Edward in

for the cherry tree results, but by an inspiration he saw his opportunity

in time and took advantage of it. By telling the truth he could astonish

his father; his father would tell the neighbours; the neighbours would

spread it; it would travel to all firesides; in the end it would make him

President, and not only that, but First President. He was a far-seeing

boy and would be likely to think of these things. Therefore, to my mind,

he stands justified for what he did. But not for the other Tower; it was

a mistake. Still, I don't know about that; upon reflection I think

perhaps it wasn't. For indeed it is that Tower that makes the other one

live. If he hadn't said 'I cannot tell a lie' there would have been no

convulsion. That was the earthquake that rocked the planet. That is the

kind of statement that lives for ever, and a fact barnacled to it has a

good chance to share its immortality.

To sum up, on the whole I am satisfied with things the way they are.

There is a prejudice against the spoken lie, but none against any other,

and by examination and mathematical computation I find that the

proportion of the spoken lie to the other varieties is as 1 to 22,894.

Therefore the spoken lie is of no consequence, and it is not worth while

to go around fussing about it and trying to make believe that it is an

important matter. The silent colossal National Lie that is the support

and confederate of all the tyrannies and shams and inequalities and

unfairnesses that afflict the peoples--that is the one to throw bricks

and sermons at. But let us be judicious and let somebody else begin.

And then--But I have wandered from my text. How did I get out of my

second lie? I think I got out with honour, but I cannot be sure, for it

was a long time ago and some of the details have faded out of my memory.

I recollect that I was reversed and stretched across some one's knee, and

that something happened, but I cannot now remember what it was. I think

there was music; but it is all dim now and blurred by the lapse of time,

and this may be only a senile fancy.

THE ESQUIMAUX MAIDEN'S ROMANCE

'Yes, I will tell you anything about my life that you would like to know,

Mr. Twain,' she said, in her soft voice, and letting her honest eyes rest

placidly upon my face, 'for it is kind and good of you to like me and

care to know about me.'

She had been absently scraping blubber-grease from her cheeks with a

small bone-knife and transferring it to her fur sleeve, while she watched

the Aurora Borealis swing its flaming streamers out of the sky and wash

the lonely snow plain and the templed icebergs with the rich hues of the

prism, a spectacle of almost intolerable splendour and beauty; but now

she shook off her reverie and prepared to give me the humble little

history I had asked for. She settled herself comfortably on the block of

ice which we were using as a sofa, and I made ready to listen.

She was a beautiful creature. I speak from the Esquimaux point of view.

Others would have thought her a trifle over-plump. She was just twenty

years old, and was held to be by far the most bewitching girl in her

tribe. Even now, in the open air, with her cumbersome and shapeless fur

coat and trousers and boots and vast hood, the beauty of her face was at

least apparent; but her figure had to be taken on trust. Among all the

guests who came and went, I had seen no girl at her father's hospitable

trough who could be called her equal. Yet she was not spoiled. She was

sweet and natural and sincere, and if she was aware that she was a belle,

there was nothing about her ways to show that she possessed that

knowledge.

She had been my daily comrade for a week now, and the better I knew her

the better I liked her. She had been tenderly and carefully brought up,

in an atmosphere of singularly rare refinement for the polar regions, for

her father was the most important man of his tribe and ranked at the top

of Esquimaux civilisation. I made long dog-sledge trips across the

mighty ice floes with Lasca--that was her name--and found her company

always pleasant and her conversation agreeable. I went fishing with her,

but not in her perilous boat: I merely followed along on the ice and

watched her strike her game with her fatally accurate spear. We went

sealing together; several times I stood by while she and the family dug

blubber from a stranded whale, and once I went part of the way when she

was hunting a bear, but turned back before the finish, because at bottom

I am afraid of bears.

However, she was ready to begin her story, now, and this is what she

said:

'Our tribe had always been used to wander about from place to place over

the frozen seas, like the other tribes, but my father got tired of that,

two years ago, and built this great mansion of frozen snow-blocks--look

at it; it is seven feet high and three or four times as long as any of

the others--and here we have stayed ever since. He was very proud of his

house, and that was reasonable, for if you have examined it with care you

must have noticed how much finer and completer it is than houses usually

are. But if you have not, you must, for you will find it has luxurious

appointments that are quite beyond the common. For instance, in that end

of it which you have called the "parlour," the raised platform for the

accommodation of guests and the family at meals is the largest you have

ever seen in any house--is it not so?'

'Yes, you are quite right, Lasca; it is the largest; we have nothing

resembling it in even the finest houses in the United States.' This

admission made her eyes sparkle with pride and pleasure. I noted that,

and took my cue.

'I thought it must have surprised you,' she said. 'And another thing; it

is bedded far deeper in furs than is usual; all kinds of furs--seal,

sea-otter, silver-grey fox, bear, marten, sable--every kind of fur in

profusion; and the same with the ice-block sleeping-benches along the

walls which you call "beds." Are your platforms and sleeping-benches

better provided at home?'

'Indeed, they are not, Lasca--they do not begin to be.' That pleased her

again. All she was thinking of was the number of furs her aesthetic

father took the trouble to keep on hand, not their value. I could have

told her that those masses of rich furs constituted wealth--or would in

my country--but she would not have understood that; those were not the

kind of things that ranked as riches with her people. I could have told

her that the clothes she had on, or the every-day clothes of the

commonest person about her, were worth twelve or fifteen hundred dollars,

and that I was not acquainted with anybody at home who wore

twelve-hundred dollar toilets to go fishing in; but she would not have

understood it, so I said nothing. She resumed:

'And then the slop-tubs. We have two in the parlour, and two in the rest

of the house. It is very seldom that one has two in the parlour. Have

you two in the parlour at home?'

The memory of those tubs made me gasp, but I recovered myself before she

noticed, and said with effusion:

'Why, Lasca, it is a shame of me to expose my country, and you must not

let it go further, for I am speaking to you in confidence; but I give you

my word of honour that not even the richest man in the city of New York

has two slop-tubs in his drawing-room.'

She clapped her fur-clad hands in innocent delight, and exclaimed:

'Oh, but you cannot mean it, you cannot mean it!'

'Indeed, I am in earnest, dear. There is Vanderbilt. Vanderbilt is

almost the richest man in the whole world. Now, if I were on my dying

bed, I could say to you that not even he has two in his drawing-room.

Why, he hasn't even one--I wish I may die in my tracks if it isn't true.'

Her lovely eyes stood wide with amazement, and she said, slowly, and with

a sort of awe in her voice:

'How strange--how incredible--one is not able to realise it. Is he

penurious?'

'No--it isn't that. It isn't the expense he minds, but--er--well, you

know, it would look like showing off. Yes, that is it, that is the idea;

he is a plain man in his way, and shrinks from display.'

'Why, that humility is right enough,' said Lasca, 'if one does not carry

it too far--but what does the place look like?'

'Well, necessarily it looks pretty barren and unfinished, but--'

'I should think so! I never heard anything like it. Is it a fine house

--that is, otherwise?'

'Pretty fine, yes. It is very well thought of.'

The girl was silent awhile, and sat dreamily gnawing a candle-end,

apparently trying to think the thing out. At last she gave her head a

little toss and spoke out her opinion with decision:

'Well, to my mind there's a breed of humility which is itself a species

of showing off when you get down to the marrow of it; and when a man is

able to afford two slop-tubs in his parlour, and doesn't do it, it may be

that he is truly humble-minded, but it's a hundred times more likely that

he is just trying to strike the public eye. In my judgment, your Mr.

Vanderbilt knows what he is about.'

I tried to modify this verdict, feeling that a double slop-tub standard

was not a fair one to try everybody by, although a sound enough one in

its own habitat; but the girl's head was set, and she was not to be

persuaded. Presently she said:

'Do the rich people, with you, have as good sleeping-benches as ours, and

made out of as nice broad ice-blocks?'

'Well, they are pretty good--good enough--but they are not made of

ice-blocks.'

'I want to know! Why aren't they made of ice-blocks?'

I explained the difficulties in the way, and the expensiveness of ice in

a country where you have to keep a sharp eye on your ice-man or your

ice-bill will weigh more than your ice. Then she cried out:

'Dear me, do you buy your ice?'

'We most surely do, dear.'

She burst into a gale of guileless laughter, and said:

'Oh, I never heard of anything so silly! My! there's plenty of it--it

isn't worth anything. Why, there is a hundred miles of it in sight,

right now. I wouldn't give a fish-bladder for the whole of it.'

'Well, it's because you don't know how to value it, you little provincial

muggings. If you had it in New York in midsummer, you could buy all the

whales in the market with it.'

She looked at me doubtfully, and said:

'Are you speaking true?'

'Absolutely. I take my oath to it.'

This made her thoughtful. Presently she said, with a little sigh:

'I wish I could live there.'

I had merely meant to furnish her a standard of values which she could

understand; but my purpose had miscarried. I had only given her the

impression that whales were cheap and plenty in New York, and set her

mouth to watering for them. It seemed best to try to mitigate the evil

which I had done, so I said:

'But you wouldn't care for whale-meat if you lived there. Nobody does.'

'What!'

'Indeed they don't.'

'Why don't they?'

'Wel-l-l, I hardly know. It's prejudice, I think. Yes, that is it--just

prejudice. I reckon somebody that hadn't anything better to do started a

prejudice against it, some time or other, and once you get a caprice like

that fairly going, you know it will last no end of time.'

'That is true--perfectly true,' said the girl, reflectively. 'Like our

prejudice against soap, here--our tribes had a prejudice against soap at

first, you know.'

I glanced at her to see if she was in earnest. Evidently she was. I

hesitated, then said, cautiously:

'But pardon me. They had a prejudice against soap? Had?'--with falling

inflection.

'Yes--but that was only at first; nobody would eat it.'

'Oh--I understand. I didn't get your idea before.'

She resumed:

'It was just a prejudice. The first time soap came here from the

foreigners, nobody liked it; but as soon as it got to be fashionable,

everybody liked it, and now everybody has it that can afford it. Are you

fond of it?'

'Yes, indeed; I should die if I couldn't have it--especially here. Do

you like it?'

'I just adore it! Do you like candles?'

'I regard them as an absolute necessity. Are you fond of them?'

Her eyes fairly danced, and she exclaimed:

'Oh! Don't mention it! Candles!--and soap!--'

'And fish-interiors!--'

'And train-oil--'

'And slush!--'

'And whale-blubber!--'

'And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax! and tar! and turpentine! and

molasses! and--'

'Don't--oh, don't--I shall expire with ecstasy!--'

'And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and invite the neighbours

and sail in!'

But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for her, and she swooned

away, poor thing. I rubbed snow in her face and brought her to, and

after a while got her excitement cooled down. By-and-by she drifted into

her story again:

'So we began to live here in the fine house. But I was not happy. The

reason was this: I was born for love: for me there could be no true

happiness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself alone. I wanted

an idol, and I wanted to be my idol's idol; nothing less than mutual

idolatry would satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty--in

over-plenty, indeed--but in each and every case they had a fatal defect:

sooner or later I discovered that defect--not one of them failed to

betray it--it was not me they wanted, but my wealth.'

'Your wealth?'

'Yes; for my father is much the richest man in this tribe--or in any

tribe in these regions.'

I wondered what her father's wealth consisted of. It couldn't be the

house--anybody could build its mate. It couldn't be the furs--they were

not valued. It couldn't be the sledge, the dogs, the harpoons, the boat,

the bone fish-hooks and needles, and such things--no, these were not

wealth. Then what could it be that made this man so rich and brought

this swarm of sordid suitors to his house? It seemed to me, finally,

that the best way to find out would be to ask. So I did it. The girl

was so manifestly gratified by the question that I saw she had been

aching to have me ask it. She was suffering fully as much to tell as I

was to know. She snuggled confidentially up to me and said:

'Guess how much he is worth--you never can!'

I pretended to consider the matter deeply, she watching my anxious and

labouring countenance with a devouring and delighted interest; and when,

at last, I gave it up and begged her to appease my longing by telling me

herself how much this polar Vanderbilt was worth, she put her mouth close

to my ear and whispered, impressively:

'Twenty-two fish-hooks--not bone, but foreign--made out of real iron!'

Then she sprang back dramatically, to observe the effect. I did my level

best not to disappoint her. I turned pale and murmured:

'Great Scott!'

'It's as true as you live, Mr. Twain!'

'Lasca, you are deceiving me--you cannot mean it.'

She was frightened and troubled. She exclaimed:

'Mr. Twain, every word of it is true--every word. You believe me--you do

believe me, now don't you? Say you believe me--do say you believe me!'

'I--well, yes, I do--I am trying to. But it was all so sudden. So

sudden and prostrating. You shouldn't do such a thing in that sudden

way. It--'

'Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only thought--'

'Well, it's all right, and I don't blame you any more, for you are young

and thoughtless, and of course you couldn't foresee what an effect--'

'But oh, dear, I ought certainly to have known better. Why--'

'You see, Lasca, if you had said five or six hooks, to start with, and

then gradually--'

'Oh, I see, I see--then gradually added one, and then two, and then--ah,

why couldn't I have thought of that!'

'Never mind, child, it's all right--I am better now--I shall be over it

in a little while. But--to spring the whole twenty-two on a person

unprepared and not very strong anyway--'

'Oh, it was a crime! But you forgive me--say you forgive me. Do!'

After harvesting a good deal of very pleasant coaxing and petting and

persuading, I forgave her and she was happy again, and by-and-by she got

under way with her narrative once more. I presently discovered that the

family treasury contained still another feature--a jewel of some sort,

apparently--and that she was trying to get around speaking squarely about

it, lest I get paralysed again. But I wanted to known about that thing,

too, and urged her to tell me what it was. She was afraid. But I

insisted, and said I would brace myself this time and be prepared, then

the shock would not hurt me. She was full of misgivings, but the

temptation to reveal that marvel to me and enjoy my astonishment and

admiration was too strong for her, and she confessed that she had it on

her person, and said that if I was sure I was prepared--and so on and so

on--and with that she reached into her bosom and brought out a battered

square of brass, watching my eye anxiously the while. I fell over

against her in a quite well-acted faint, which delighted her heart and

nearly frightened it out of her, too, at the same time. When I came to

and got calm, she was eager to know what I thought of her jewel.

'What do I think of it? I think it is the most exquisite thing I ever

saw.'

'Do you really? How nice of you to say that! But it is a love, now isn't

it?'

'Well, I should say so! I'd rather own it than the equator.'

'I thought you would admire it,' she said. 'I think it is so lovely.

And there isn't another one in all these latitudes. People have come all

the way from the open Polar Sea to look at it. Did you ever see one

before?'

I said no, this was the first one I had ever seen. It cost me a pang to

tell that generous lie, for I had seen a million of them in my time, this

humble jewel of hers being nothing but a battered old New York Central

baggage check.

'Land!' said I, 'you don't go about with it on your person this way,

alone and with no protection, not even a dog?'

'Ssh! not so loud,' she said. 'Nobody knows I carry it with me. They

think it is in papa's treasury. That is where it generally is.'

'Where is the treasury?'

It was a blunt question, and for a moment she looked startled and a

little suspicious, but I said:

'Oh, come, don't you be afraid about me. At home we have seventy

millions of people, and although I say it myself that shouldn't, there is

not one person among them all but would trust me with untold fish-hooks.'

This reassured her, and she told me where the hooks were hidden in the

house. Then she wandered from her course to brag a little about the size

of the sheets of transparent ice that formed the windows of the mansion,

and asked me if I had ever seen their like at home, and I came right out

frankly and confessed that I hadn't, which pleased her more than she

could find words to dress her gratification in. It was so easy to please

her, and such a pleasure to do it, that I went on and said--

'Ah, Lasca, you are a fortune girl!--this beautiful house, this dainty

jewel, that rich treasure, all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs

and limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and noble freedom

and largeness and everybody's admiring eyes upon you, and everybody's

homage and respect at your command without the asking; young, rich,

beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a requirement unsatisfied, not a

desire ungratified, nothing to wish for that you cannot have--it is

immeasurable good-fortune! I have seen myriads of girls, but none of whom

these extraordinary things could be truthfully said but you alone. And

you are worthy--worthy of it all, Lasca--I believe it in my heart.'

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me say this, and she

thanked me over and over again for that closing remark, and her voice and

eyes showed that she was touched. Presently she said:

'Still, it is not all sunshine--there is a cloudy side. The burden of

wealth is a heavy one to bear. Sometimes I have doubted if it were not

better to be poor--at least not inordinately rich. It pains me to see

neighbouring tribesmen stare as they pass by, and overhear them say,

reverently, one to another, "There--that is she--the millionaire's

daughter!" And sometimes they say sorrowfully, "She is rolling in

fish-hooks, and I--I have nothing." It breaks my heart. When I was a

child and we were poor, we slept with the door open, if we chose, but

now--now we have to have a night-watchman. In those days my father was

gentle and courteous to all; but now he is austere and haughty and cannot

abide familiarity. Once his family were his sole thought, but now he

goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all the time. And his wealth makes

everybody cringing and obsequious to him. Formerly nobody laughed at his

jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched and poor, and destitute of

the one element that can really justify a joke--the element of humour;

but now everybody laughs and cackles at these dismal things, and if any

fails to do it my father is deeply displeased, and shows it. Formerly

his opinion was not sought upon any matter and was not valuable when he

volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet, but, nevertheless, it is

sought by all and applauded by all--and he helps do the applauding

himself, having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact. He has

lowered the tone of all our tribe. Once they were a frank and manly

race, now they are measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility. In my

heart of hearts I hate all the ways of millionaires! Our tribe was once

plain, simple folk, and content with the bone fish-hooks of their

fathers; now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacrifice every

sentiment of honour and honesty to possess themselves of the debasing

iron fish-hooks of the foreigner. However, I must not dwell on these sad

things. As I have said, it was my dream to be loved for myself alone.

'At last, this dream seemed about to be fulfilled. A stranger came by,

one day, who said his name was Kalula. I told him my name, and he said

he loved me. My heart gave a great bound of gratitude and pleasure, for

I had loved him at sight, and now I said so. He took me to his breast

and said he would not wish to be happier than he was now. We went

strolling together far over the ice-floes, telling all about each other,

and planning, oh, the loveliest future! When we were tired at last we sat

down and ate, for he had soap and candles and I had brought along some

blubber. We were hungry and nothing was ever so good.

'He belonged to a tribe whose haunts were far to the north, and I found

that he had never heard of my father, which rejoiced me exceedingly. I

mean he had heard of the millionaire, but had never heard his name--so,

you see, he could not know that I was the heiress. You may be sure that

I did not tell him. I was loved for myself at last, and was satisfied.

I was so happy--oh, happier than you can think!

'By-and-by it was towards supper time, and I led him home. As we

approached our house he was amazed, and cried out:

'"How splendid! Is that your father's?"

'It gave me a pang to hear that tone and see that admiring light in his

eye, but the feeling quickly passed away, for I loved him so, and he

looked so handsome and noble. All my family of aunts and uncles and

cousins were pleased with him, and many guests were called in, and the

house was shut up tight and the rag lamps lighted, and when everything

was hot and comfortable and suffocating, we began a joyous feast in

celebration of my betrothal.

'When the feast was over my father's vanity overcame him, and he could

not resist the temptation to show off his riches and let Kalula see what

grand good-fortune he had stumbled into--and mainly, of course, he wanted

to enjoy the poor man's amazement. I could have cried--but it would have

done no good to try to dissuade my father, so I said nothing, but merely

sat there and suffered.

'My father went straight to the hiding-place in full sight of everybody,

and got out the fish-hooks and brought them and flung them scatteringly

over my head, so that they fell in glittering confusion on the platform

at my lover's knee.

'Of course, the astounding spectacle took the poor lad's breath away. He

could only stare in stupid astonishment, and wonder how a single

individual could possess such incredible riches. Then presently he

glanced brilliantly up and exclaimed:

'"Ah, it is you who are the renowned millionaire!"

'My father and all the rest burst into shouts of happy laughter, and when

my father gathered the treasure carelessly up as if it might be mere

rubbish and of no consequence, and carried it back to its place, poor

Kulala's surprise was a study. He said:

'"Is it possible that you put such things away without counting them?"

'My father delivered a vain-glorious horse-laugh, and said:

'"Well, truly, a body may know you have never been rich, since a mere

matter of a fish-hook or two is such a mighty matter in your eyes."

'Kalula was confused, and hung his head, but said:

'"Ah, indeed, sir, I was never worth the value of the barb of one of

those precious things, and I have never seen any man before who was so

rich in them as to render the counting of his hoard worth while, since

the wealthiest man I have ever known, till now, was possessed of but

three."

'My foolish father roared again with jejune delight, and allowed the

impression to remain that he was not accustomed to count his hooks and

keep sharp watch over them. He was showing off, you see. Count them?

Why, he counted them every day!

'I had met and got acquainted with my darling just at dawn; I had brought

him home just at dark, three hours afterwards--for the days were

shortening toward the six-months' night at that time. We kept up the

festivities many hours; then, at last, the guests departed and the rest

of us distributed ourselves along the walls on sleeping-benches, and soon

all were steeped in dreams but me. I was too happy, too excited, to

sleep. After I had lain quiet a long, long time, a dim form passed by me

and was swallowed up in the gloom that pervaded the farther end of the

house. I could not make out who it was, or whether it was man or woman.

Presently that figure or another one passed me going the other way. I

wondered what it all meant, but wondering did no good; and while I was

still wondering I fell asleep.

'I do not know how long I slept, but at last I came suddenly broad awake

and heard my father say in a terrible voice, "By the great Snow God,

there's a fish-hook gone!" Something told me that that meant sorrow for

me, and the blood in my veins turned cold. The presentiment was

confirmed in the same instant: my father shouted, "Up, everybody, and

seize the stranger!" Then there was an outburst of cries and curses from

all sides, and a wild rush of dim forms through the obscurity. I flew to

my beloved's help, but what could I do but wait and wring my hands?--he

was already fenced away from me by a living wall, he was being bound hand

and foot. Not until he was secured would they let me get to him. I

flung myself upon his poor insulted form and cried my grief out upon his

breast while my father and all my family scoffed at me and heaped threats

and shameful epithets upon him. He bore his ill usage with a tranquil

dignity which endeared him to me more than ever, and made me proud and

happy to suffer with him and for him. I heard my father order that the

elders of the tribe be called together to try my Kalula for his life.

'"What!" I said, "before any search has been made for the lost hook?"

'"Lost hook!" they all shouted, in derision; and my father added,

mockingly, "Stand back, everybody, and be properly serious--she is going

to hunt up that lost hook: oh, without doubt she will find it!"--whereat

they all laughed again.

'I was not disturbed--I had no fears, no doubts. I said:

'"It is for you to laugh now; it is your turn. But ours is coming; wait

and see."

'I got a rag lamp. I thought I should find that miserable thing in one

little moment; and I set about that matter with such confidence that

those people grew grace, beginning to suspect that perhaps they had been

too hasty. But alas and alas!--oh, the bitterness of that search! There

was deep silence while one might count his fingers ten or twelve times,

then my heart began to sink, and around me the mockings began again, and

grew steadily louder and more assured, until at last, when I gave up,

they burst into volley after volley of cruel laughter.

'None will ever know what I suffered then. But my love was my support

and my strength, and I took my rightful place at my Kalula's side, and

put my arm about his neck, and whispered in his ear, saying:

'"You are innocent, my own--that I know; but say it to me yourself, for

my comfort, then I can bear whatever is in store for us."

'He answered:

'"As surely as I stand upon the brink of death at this moment, I am

innocent. Be comforted, then, O bruised heart; be at peace, O thou

breath of my nostrils, life of my life!"

'"Now, then, let the elders come!"--and as I said the words there was a

gathering sound of crunching snow outside, and then a vision of stooping

forms filing in at the door--the elders.

'My father formally accused the prisoner, and detailed the happenings of

the night. He said that the watchman was outside the door, and that in

the house were none but the family and the stranger. "Would the family

steal their own property?" He paused. The elders sat silent many

minutes; at last, one after another said to his neighbour, "This looks

bad for the stranger"--sorrowful words for me to hear. Then my father

sat down. O miserable, miserable me! At that very moment I could have

proved my darling innocent, but I did not know it!

'The chief of the court asked:

'"Is there any here to defend the prisoner?"

'I rose and said:

'"Why should he steal that hook, or any or all of them? In another day

he would have been heir to the whole!"

I stood waiting. There was a long silence, the steam from the many

breaths rising about me like a fog. At last one elder after another

nodded his head slowly several times, and muttered, "There is force in

what the child has said." Oh, the heart-lift that was in those words!

--so transient, but, oh, so precious! I sat down.

'"If any would say further, let him speak now, or after hold his peace,"

said the chief of the court.

'My father rose and said:

'"In the night a form passed by me in the gloom, going toward the

treasury and presently returned. I think, now, it was the stranger."

'Oh, I was like to swoon! I had supposed that that was my secret; not the

grip of the great Ice God himself could have dragged it out of my heart.

The chief of the court said sternly to my poor Kalula:

'"Speak!"

'Kalula hesitated, then answered:

'"It was I. I could not sleep for thinking of the beautiful hooks. I

went there and kissed them and fondled them, to appease my spirit and

drown it in a harmless joy, then I put them back. I may have dropped

one, but I stole none."

'Oh, a fatal admission to make in such a place! There was an awful hush.

I knew he had pronounced his own doom, and that all was over. On every

face you could see the words hieroglyphed: "It is a confession!--and

paltry, lame, and thin."

'I sat drawing in my breath in faint gasps--and waiting. Presently, I

heard the solemn words I knew were coming; and each word, as it came, was

a knife in my heart:

'"It is the command of the court that the accused be subjected to the

trial by water."

'Oh, curses be upon the head of him who brought "trial by water" to our

land! It came, generations ago, from some far country that lies none

knows where. Before that our fathers used augury and other unsure

methods of trial, and doubtless some poor guilty creatures escaped with

their lives sometimes; but it is not so with trial by water, which is an

invention by wiser men than we poor ignorant savages are. By it the

innocent are proved innocent, without doubt or question, for they drown;

and the guilty are proven guilty with the same certainty, for they do not

drown. My heart was breaking in my bosom, for I said, "He is innocent,

and he will go down under the waves and I shall never see him more."

'I never left his side after that. I mourned in his arms all the

precious hours, and he poured out the deep stream of his love upon me,

and oh, I was so miserable and so happy! At last, they tore him from me,

and I followed sobbing after them, and saw them fling him into the sea

--then I covered my face with my hands. Agony? Oh, I know the deepest

deeps of that word!

'The next moment the people burst into a shout of malicious joy, and I

took away my hands, startled. Oh, bitter sight--he was swimming! My

heart turned instantly to stone, to ice. I said, "He was guilty, and he

lied to me!" I turned my back in scorn and went my way homeward.

'They took him far out to sea and set him on an iceberg that was drifting

southward in the great waters. Then my family came home, and my father

said to me:

'"Your thief sent his dying message to you, saying, 'Tell her I am

innocent, and that all the days and all the hours and all the minutes

while I starve and perish I shall love her and think of her and bless the

day that gave me sight of her sweet face.'" Quite pretty, even poetical!

'I said, "He is dirt--let me never hear mention of him again." And oh,

to think--he was innocent all the time!

'Nine months--nine dull, sad months--went by, and at last came the day of

the Great Annual Sacrifice, when all the maidens of the tribe wash their

faces and comb their hair. With the first sweep of my comb out came the

fatal fish-hook from where it had been all those months nestling, and I

fell fainting into the arms of my remorseful father! Groaning, he said,

"We murdered him, and I shall never smile again!" He has kept his word.

Listen; from that day to this not a month goes by that I do not comb my

hair. But oh, where is the good of it all now!'

So ended the poor maid's humble little tale--whereby we learn that since

a hundred million dollars in New York and twenty-two fish-hooks on the

border of the Arctic Circle represent the same financial supremacy, a man

in straitened circumstances is a fool to stay in New York when he can buy

ten cents' worth of fish-hooks and emigrate.

CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND THE BOOK OF MRS. EDDY

'It is the first time since the dawn-days of Creation that a Voice

has gone crashing through space with such placid and complacent

confidence and command.'

I

This last summer, when I was on my way back to Vienna from the

Appetite-Cure in the mountains, I fell over a cliff in the twilight and

broke some arms and legs and one thing or another, and by good luck was

found by some peasants who had lost an ass, and they carried me to the

nearest habitation, which was one of those large, low, thatch-roofed

farm-houses, with apartments in the garret for the family, and a cunning

little porch under the deep gable decorated with boxes of bright-coloured

flowers and cats; on the ground floor a large and light sitting-room,

separated from the milch-cattle apartment by a partition; and in the

front yard rose stately and fine the wealth and pride of the house, the

manure-pile. That sentence is Germanic, and shows that I am acquiring

that sort of mastery of the art and spirit of the language which enables

a man to travel all day in one sentence without changing cars.

There was a village a mile away, and a horse-doctor lived there, but

there was no surgeon. It seemed a bad outlook; mine was distinctly a

surgery case. Then it was remembered that a lady from Boston was

summering in that village, and she was a Christian Science doctor and

could cure anything. So she was sent for. It was night by this time,

and she could not conveniently come, but sent word that it was no matter,

there was no hurry, she would give me 'absent treatment' now, and come in

the morning; meantime she begged me to make myself tranquil and

comfortable and remember that there was nothing the matter with me. I

thought there must be some mistake.

'Did you tell her I walked off a cliff seventy-five feet high?'

'Yes.'

'And struck a boulder at the bottom and bounced?'

'Yes.'

'And struck another one and bounced again?'

'Yes.'

'And struck another one and bounced yet again?'

'Yes.'

'And broke the boulders?'

'Yes.'

'That accounts for it; she is thinking of the boulders. Why didn't you

tell her I got hurt, too?'

'I did. I told her what you told me to tell her: that you were now but

an incoherent series of compound fractures extending from your scalp-lock

to your heels, and that the comminuted projections caused you to look

like a hat-rack.'

'And it was after this that she wished me to remember that there was

nothing the matter with me?'

'Those were her words.'

'I do not understand it. I believe she has not diagnosed the case with

sufficient care. Did she look like a person who was theorising, or did

she look like one who has fallen off precipices herself and brings to the

aid of abstract science the confirmation of personal experience?'

'Bitte?'

It was too large a contract for the Stubenmadchen's vocabulary; she

couldn't call the hand. I allowed the subject to rest there, and asked

for something to eat and smoke, and something hot to drink, and a basket

to pile my legs in, and another capable person to come and help me curse

the time away; but I could not have any of these things.

'Why?'

'She said you would need nothing at all.'

'But I am hungry and thirsty, and in desperate pain.'

'She said you would have these delusions, but must pay no attention to

them. She wants you to particularly remember that there are no such

things as hunger and thirst and pain.'

'She does, does she?'

'It is what she said.'

'Does she seem o be in full and functional possession of her intellectual

plant, such as it is?'

'Bitte?'

'Do they let her run at large, or do they tie her up?'

'Tie her up?'

'There, good-night, run along; you are a good girl, but your mental

Geschirr is not arranged for light and airy conversation. Leave me to my

delusions.'

II

It was a night of anguish, of course--at least I supposed it was, for it

had all the symptoms of it--but it passed at last, and the Christian

Scientist came, and I was glad. She was middle-aged, and large and bony

and erect, and had an austere face and a resolute jaw and a Roman beak

and was a widow in the third degree, and her name was Fuller. I was

eager to get to business and find relief, but she was distressingly

deliberate. She unpinned and unhooked and uncoupled her upholsteries one

by one, abolished the wrinkles with a flirt of her hand and hung the

articles up; peeled off her gloves and disposed of them, got a book out

of her hand-bag, then drew a chair to the bedside, descended into it

without hurry, and I hung out my tongue. She said, with pity but without

passion:

'Return it to its receptacle. We deal with the mind only, not with its

dumb servants.'

I could not offer my pulse, because the connection was broken; but she

detected the apology before I could word it, and indicated by a negative

tilt of her head that the pulse was another dumb servant that she had no

use for. Then I thought I would tell her my symptoms and how I felt, so

that she would understand the case; but that was another inconsequence,

she did not need to know those things; moreover, my remark about how I

felt was an abuse of language, a misapplication of terms--

'One does not feel,' she explained; 'there is no such thing as feeling:

therefore, to speak of a non-existent thing as existent as a

contradiction. Matter has no existence; nothing exists but mind; the

mind cannot feel pain, it can only imagine it.'

'But if it hurts, just the same--'

'It doesn't. A thing which is unreal cannot exercise the functions of

reality. Pain is unreal; hence pain cannot hurt.'

In making a sweeping gesture to indicate the act of shooing the illusion

of pain out of the mind, she raked her hand on a pin in her dress, said

'Ouch!' and went tranquilly on with her talk. 'You should never allow

yourself to speak of how you feel, nor permit others to ask you how you

are feeling: you should never concede that you are ill, nor permit others

to talk about disease or pain or death or similar non-existences in your

preserve. Such talk only encourages the mind to continue its empty

imaginings.' Just at that point the Stubenmadchen trod on the cat's

tail, and the cat let fly a frenzy of cat-profanity. I asked with

caution:

'Is a cat's opinion about pain valuable?'

'A cat has no opinion; opinions proceed from the mind only; the lower

animals, being eternally perishable, have not been granted mind; without

mind opinion is impossible.'

'She merely imagined she felt a pain--the cat?'

'She cannot imagine a pain, for imagination is an effect of mind; without

mind, there is no imagination. A cat has no imagination.'

'Then she had a real pain?'

'I have already told you there is no such thing as real pain.'

'It is strange and interesting. I do wonder what was the matter with the

cat. Because, there being no such thing as real pain, and she not being

able to imagine an imaginary thing, it would seem that God in his Pity

has compensated the cat with some kind of a mysterious emotion useable

when her tail is trodden on which for the moment joins cat and Christian

in one common brotherhood of--'

She broke in with an irritated--

'Peace! The cat feels nothing, the Christian feels nothing. Your empty

and foolish imaginings are profanation and blasphemy, and can do you an

injury. It is wiser and better and holier to recognise and confess that

there is no such thing as disease or pain or death.'

'I am full of imaginary tortures,' I said, 'but I do not think I could be

any more uncomfortable if they were real ones. What must I do to get rid

of them?'

'There is no occasion to get rid of them, since they do not exist. They

are illusions propagated by matter, and matter has no existence; there is

no such thing as matter.'

'It sounds right and clear, but yet it seems in a degree elusive; it

seems to slip through, just when you think you are getting a grip on it.'

'Explain.'

'Well, for instance: if there is no such thing as matter, how can matter

propagate things?'

In her compassion she almost smiled. She would have smiled if there were

any such thing as a smile.

'It is quite simple,' she said; 'the fundamental propositions of

Christian Science explain it, and they are summarised in the four

following self-evident propositions: 1. God is All in all. 2. God is

good. Good is Mind. 3. God, Spirit, being all, nothing is matter.

4. Life, God, omnipotent Good, deny death, evil sin, disease. There

--now you see.'

It seemed nebulous: it did not seem to say anything about the difficulty

in hand--how non-existent matter can propagate illusions. I said, with

some hesitancy:

'Does--does it explain?'

'Doesn't it? Even if read backward it will do it.'

With a budding hope, I asked her to do it backward.

'Very well. Disease sin evil death deny Good omnipotent God life matter

is nothing all being Spirit God Mind is Good good is God all in All is

God. There--do you understand now?

'It--it--well, it is plainer than it was before; still--'

'Well?'

'Could you try it some more ways?'

'As many as you like: it always means the same. Interchanged in any way

you please it cannot be made to mean anything different from what it

means when put in any other way. Because it is perfect. You can jumble

it all up, and it makes no difference: it always comes out the way it was

before. It was a marvellous mind that produced it. As a mental tour de

force it is without a mate, it defies alike the simple, the concrete, and

the occult.'

'It seems to be a corker.'

I blushed for the word, but it was out before I could stop it.

'A what?'

'A--wonderful structure--combination, so to speak, or profound thoughts

--unthinkable ones--un--'

'It is true. Read backwards, or forwards, or perpendicularly, or at any

given angle, these four propositions will always be found to agree in

statement and proof.'

'Ah--proof. Now we are coming at it. The statements agree; they agree

with--with--anyway, they agree; I noticed that; but what is it they

prove--I mean, in particular?'

'Why, nothing could be clearer. They prove: 1. GOD--Principle, Life,

Truth, Love, Soul, Spirit, Mind. Do you get that?'

'I--well, I seem to. Go on, please.

'2. MAN--God's universal idea, individual, perfect, eternal. Is it

clear?'

'It--I think so. Continue.'

'3. IDEA--An image in Mind; the immediate object of understanding.

There it is--the whole sublime Arcana of Christian Science in a nutshell.

Do you find a weak place in it anywhere?'

'Well--no; it seems strong.'

'Very well. There is more. Those three constitute the Scientific

Definition of Immortal Mind. Next, we have the Scientific Definition of

Mortal Mind. Thus. FIRST DEGREE: Depravity. 1. Physical--Passions and

appetites, fear, depraved will, pride, envy, deceit, hatred, revenge,

sin, disease, death.'

'Phantasms, madam--unrealities, as I understand it.'

'Every one. SECOND DEGREE: Evil Disappearing. 1. Moral--Honesty,

affection, compassion, hope, faith, meekness, temperance. Is it clear?'

'Crystal.'

'THIRD DEGREE: Spiritual Salvation. 1. Spiritual--Faith, wisdom, power,

purity, understanding, health, love. You see how searchingly and

co-ordinately interdependent and anthropomorphous it all is. In this

Third Degree, as we know by the revelations of Christian Science, mortal

mind disappears.'

'Not earlier?'

'No, not until the teaching and preparation for the Third Degree are

completed.'

'It is not until then that one is enabled to take hold of Christian

Science effectively, and with the right sense of sympathy and kinship, as

I understand you. That is to say, it could not succeed during the

process of the Second Degree, because there would still be remains of

mind left; and therefore--but I interrupted you. You were about to

further explain the good results proceeding from the erosions and

disintegrations effected by the Third Degree. It is very interesting: go

on, please.'

'Yes, as I was saying, in this Third Degree mortal mind disappears.

Science so reverses the evidence before the corporeal human senses as to

make this scriptural testimony true in our hearts, "the last shall be

first and the first shall be last," that God and His idea may be to us

--what divinity really is, and must of necessity be--all-inclusive.'

'It is beautiful. And with that exhaustive exactness your choice and

arrangement of words confirms and establishes what you have claimed for

the powers and functions of the Third Degree. The Second could probably

produce only temporary absence of mind, it is reserved to the Third to

make it permanent. A sentence framed under the auspices of the Second

could have a kind of meaning--a sort of deceptive semblance of it

--whereas it is only under the magic of the Third that that defect would

disappear. Also, without doubt, it is the Third Degree that contributes

another remarkable specialty to Christian Science: viz., ease and flow

and lavishness of words, and rhythm and swing and smoothness. There must

be a special reason for this?'

'Yes--God-all, all-God, good Good, non-Matter, Matteration, Spirit,

Bones, Truth.'

'That explains it.'

'There is nothing in Christian Science that is not explicable; for God is

one, Time is one, Individuality is one, and may be one of a series, one

of many, as an individual man, individual horse; whereas God is one, not

one of a series, but one alone and without an equal.'

'These are noble thoughts. They make one burn to know more. How does

Christian Science explain the spiritual relation of systematic duality to

incidental reflection?'

'Christian Science reverses the seeming relation of Soul and body--as

astronomy reverses the human perception of the movement of the solar

system--and makes body tributary to Mind. As it is the earth which is in

motion, while the sun is at rest, though in viewing the sun rise one

finds it impossible to believe the sun not to be really rising, so the

body is but the humble servant of the restful Mind, though it seems

otherwise to finite sense; but we shall never understand this while we

admit that soul is in body, or mind in matter, and that man is included

in non-intelligence. Soul is God, unchangeable and eternal; and man

coexists with and reflects Soul, for the All-in-all is the Altogether,

and the Altogether embraces the All-one, Soul-Mind, Mind-Soul, Love,

Spirit, Bones, Liver, one of a series, alone and without an equal.'

(It is very curious, the effect which Christian Science has upon the

verbal bowels. Particularly the Third Degree; it makes one think of a

dictionary with the cholera. But I only thought this; I did not say it.)

'What is the origin of Christian Science? Is it a gift of God, or did it

just happen?'

'In a sense, it is a gift of God. That is to say, its powers are from

Him, but the credit of the discovery of the powers and what they are for

is due to an American lady.'

'Indeed? When did this occur?'

'In 1866. That is the immortal date when pain and disease and death

disappeared from the earth to return no more for ever. That is, the

fancies for which those terms stand, disappeared. The things themselves

had never existed; therefore as soon as it was perceived that there were

no such things, they were easily banished. The history and nature of the

great discovery are set down in the book here, and--'

'Did the lady write the book?'

'Yes, she wrote it all, herself. The title is "Science and Health, with

Key to the Scriptures"--for she explains the Scriptures; they were not

understood before. Not even by the twelve Disciples. She begins thus--I

will read it to you.'

But she had forgotten to bring her glasses.

'Well, it is no matter,' she said, 'I remember the words--indeed, all

Christian Scientists know the book by heart; it is necessary in our

practice. We should otherwise make mistakes and do harm. She begins

thus: "In the year 1866 I discovered the Science of Metaphysical Healing,

and named it Christian Science." And she says--quite beautifully, I

think--"Through Christian Science, religion and medicine are inspired

with a diviner nature and essence, fresh pinions are given to faith and

understanding, and thoughts acquaint themselves intelligently with God."

Her very words.'

'It is elegant. And it is a fine thought, too--marrying religion to

medicine, instead of medicine to the undertaker in the old way; for

religion and medicine properly belong together, they being the basis of

all spiritual and physical health. What kind of medicine do you give for

the ordinary diseases, such as--'

'We never give medicine in any circumstances whatever! We--'

'But, madam, it says--'

'I don't care what it says, and I don't wish to talk about it.'

'I am sorry if I have offended, but you see the mention seemed in some

way inconsistent, and--'

'There are no inconsistencies in Christian Science. The thing is

impossible, for the Science is absolute. It cannot be otherwise, since

it proceeds directly from the All-in-all and the Everything-in-Which,

also Soul, Bones, Truth, one of a series, alone and without equal. It is

Mathematics purified from material dross and made spiritual.'

'I can see that, but--'

'It rests upon the immovable basis of an Apodictical Principle.'

The word flattened itself against my mind trying to get in, and

disordered me a little, and before I could inquire into its pertinency,

she was already throwing the needed light:

'This Apodictical Principle is the absolute Principle of Scientific

Mind-healing, the sovereign Omnipotence which delivers the children of

men from pain, disease, decay, and every ill that flesh is heir to.'

'Surely not every ill, every decay?'

'Every one; there are no exceptions; there is no such thing as decay--it

is an unreality, it has no existence.'

'But without your glasses your failing eyesight does not permit you to--'

'My eyesight cannot fail; nothing can fail; the Mind is master, and the

Mind permits no retrogression.'

She was under the inspiration of the Third Degree, therefore there could

be no profit in continuing this part of the subject. I shifted to other

ground and inquired further concerning the Discoverer of the Science.

'Did the discovery come suddenly, like Klondike, or after long study and

calculation, like America?'

'The comparisons are not respectful, since they refer to trivialities

--but let it pass. I will answer in the Discoverer's own words: "God had

been graciously fitting me, during many years, for the reception of a

final revelation of the absolute Principle of Scientific Mind-healing."'

'Many years? How many?'

'Eighteen centuries!'

'All God, God-good, good-God, Truth, Bones, Liver, one of a series alone

and without equal--it is amazing!'

'You may well say it, sir. Yet it is but the truth. This American lady,

our revered and sacred founder, is distinctly referred to and her coming

prophesied, in the twelfth chapter of the Apocalypse; she could not have

been more plainly indicated by St. John without actually mentioning her

name.'

'How strange, how wonderful!'

'I will quote her own words, for her "Key to the Scriptures:" "The

twelfth chapter of the Apocalypse has a special suggestiveness in

connection with this nineteenth century." There--do you note that?

Think--note it well.'

'But--what does it mean?'

'Listen, and you will know. I quote her inspired words again: "In the

opening of the Sixth Seal, typical of six thousand years since Adam,

there is one distinctive feature which has special reference to the

present age. Thus:

'"Revelation xii. 1. And there appeared a great wonder in heaven--a

woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her

head a crown of twelve stars."

'That is our Head, our Chief, our Discoverer of Christian Science

--nothing can be plainer, nothing surer. And note this:

'"Revelation xii. 6. And the woman fled into the wilderness, where she

had a place prepared of God."

'That is Boston.'

'I recognise it, madam. These are sublime things and impressive; I never

understood these passages before; please go on with the--with the

--proofs.'

'Very well. Listen:

'"And I saw another mighty angel come down from heaven, clothed with a

cloud; and a rainbow was upon his head, and his face was as it were the

sun, and his feet as pillars of fire. And he had in his hand a little

book."

'A little book, merely a little book--could words be modester? Yet how

stupendous its importance! Do you know what book that was?'

'Was it--'

'I hold it in my hand--"Christian Science"!'

'Love, Livers, Lights, Bones, Truth, Kidneys, one of a series, alone and

without equal--it is beyond imagination and wonder!'

'Hear our Founder's eloquent words: "Then will a voice from harmony cry,

'Go and take the little book; take it and eat it up, and it shall make

thy belly bitter; but it shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey.' Mortal,

obey the heavenly evangel. Take up Divine Science. Read it from

beginning to end. Study it, ponder it. It will be indeed sweet at its

first taste, when it heals you; but murmur not over Truth, if you find

its digestion bitter." You now know the history of our dear and holy

Science, sir, and that its origin is not of this earth, but only its

discovery. I will leave the book with you and will go, now, but give

yourself no uneasiness--I will give you absent treatment from now till I

go to bed.'

III

Under the powerful influence of the near treatment and the absent

treatment together, my bones were gradually retreating inward and

disappearing from view. The good word took a brisk start, now, and went

on quite swiftly. My body was diligently straining and stretching, this

way and that, to accommodate the processes of restoration, and every

minute or two I heard a dull click inside and knew that the two ends of a

fracture had been successfully joined. This muffled clicking and

gritting and grinding and rasping continued during the next three hours,

and then stopped--the connections had all been made. All except

dislocations; there were only seven of these: hips, shoulders, knees,

neck; so that was soon over; one after another they slipped into their

sockets with a sound like pulling a distant cork, and I jumped up as good

as new, as to framework, and sent for the horse-doctor.

I was obliged to do this because I had a stomach-ache and a cold in the

head, and I was not willing to trust these things any longer in the hands

of a woman whom I did not know, and in whose ability to successfully

treat mere disease I had lost all confidence. My position was justified

by the fact that the cold and the ache had been in her charge from the

first, along with the fractures, but had experienced not a shade of

relief; and indeed the ache was even growing worse and worse, and more

and more bitter, now, probably on account of the protracted abstention

from food and drink.

The horse-doctor came, a pleasant man and full of hope and professional

interest in the case. In the matter of smell he was pretty aromatic, in

fact quite horsey, and I tried to arrange with him for absent treatment,

but it was not in his line, so out of delicacy I did not press it. He

looked at my teeth and examined my hock, and said my age and general

condition were favourable to energetic measures; therefore he would give

me something to turn the stomach-ache into the botts and the cold in the

head into the blind staggers; then he should be on his own beat and would

know what to do. He made up a bucket of bran-mash, and said a dipperful

of it every two hours, alternated with a drench with turpentine and

axle-grease in it, would either knock my ailments out of me in

twenty-four hours or so interest me in other ways as to make me forget

they were on the premises. He administered my first dose himself, then

took his leave, saying I was free to eat and drink anything I pleased and

in any quantity I liked. But I was not hungry any more, and did not care

for food.

I took up the 'Christian Scientist' book and read half of it, then took a

dipperful of drench and read the other half. The resulting experiences

were full of interest and adventure. All through the rumblings and

grindings and quakings and effervescings accompanying the evolution of

the ache into the botts and the cold into the blind staggers I could note

the generous struggle for mastery going on between the mash and the

drench and the literature; and often I could tell which was ahead, and

could easily distinguish the literature from the others when the others

were separate, though not when they were mixed; for when a bran-mash and

an eclectic drench are mixed together they look just like the Apodictical

Principle out on a lark, and no one can tell it from that. The finish

was reached at last, the evolutions were complete and a fine success; but

I think that this result could have been achieved with fewer materials.

I believe the mash was necessary to the conversion of the stomach-ache

into the boots, but I think one could develop the blind staggers out of

the literature by itself; also, that blind staggers produced in this way

would be of a better quality and more lasting than any produced by the

artificial processes of a horse-doctor.

For of all the strange, and frantic, and incomprehensible, and

uninterpretable books which the imagination of man has created, surely

this one is the prize sample. It is written with a limitless confidence

and complacency, and with a dash and stir and earnestness which often

compel the effects of eloquence, even when the words do not seem to have

any traceable meaning. There are plenty of people who imagine they

understand the book; I know this, for I have talked with them; but in all

cases they were people who also imagined that there were no such things

as pain, sickness, and death, and no realities in the world; nothing

actually existent but Mind. It seems to me to modify the value of their

testimony. When these people talk about Christian Science they do as

Mrs. Fuller did; they do not use their own language, but the book's; they

pour out the book's showy incoherences, and leave you to find out later

that they were not originating, but merely quoting; they seem to know the

volume by heart, and to revere it as they would a Bible--another Bible,

perhaps I ought to say. Plainly the book was written under the mental

desolations of the Third Degree, and I feel sure that none but the

membership of that Degree can discover meanings in it. When you read it

you seem to be listening to a lively and aggressive and oracular speech

delivered in an unknown tongue, a speech whose spirit you get but not the

particulars; or, to change the figure, you seem to be listening to a

vigorous instrument which is making a noise it thinks is a tune, but

which to persons not members of the band is only the martial tooting of a

trombone, and merely stirs the soul through the noise but does not convey

a meaning.

The book's serenities of self-satisfaction do almost seem to smack of a

heavenly origin--they have no blood-kin in the earth. It is more than

human to be so placidly certain about things, and so finely superior, and

so airily content with one's performance. Without ever presenting

anything which may rightfully be called by the strong name of Evidence,

and sometimes without even mentioning a reason for a deduction at all, it

thunders out the startling words, 'I have Proved' so and so! It takes the

Pope and all the great guns of his church in battery assembled to

authoritatively settle and establish the meaning of a sole and single

unclarified passage of Scripture, and this at vast cost of time and study

and reflection, but the author of this work is superior to all that: she

finds the whole Bible in an unclarified condition, and at small expense

of time and no expense of mental effort she clarifies it from lid to lid,

reorganises and improves the meanings, then authoritatively settles and

establishes them with formulae which you cannot tell from 'Let there be

light!' and 'Here you have it!' It is the first time since the dawn-days

of Creation that a Voice has gone crashing through space with such placid

and complacent confidence and command.

IV

A word upon a question of authorship. Not that quite; but, rather, a

question of emendation and revision. We know that the Bible-Annex was

not written by Mrs. Eddy, but was handed down to her eighteen hundred

years ago by the Angel of the Apocalypse; but did she translate it alone,

or did she have help? There seems to be evidence that she had help. For

there are four several copyrights on it--1875, 1885, 1890, 1894. It did

not come down in English, for in that language it could not have acquired

copyright--there were no copyright laws eighteen centuries ago, and in my

opinion no English language--at least up there. This makes it

substantially certain that the Annex is a translation. Then, was not the

first translation complete? If it was, on what grounds were the later

copyrights granted?

I surmise that the first translation was poor; and that a friend or

friends of Mrs. Eddy mended its English three times, and finally got it

into its present shape, where the grammar is plenty good enough, and the

sentences are smooth and plausible though they do not mean anything. I

think I am right in this surmise, for Mrs. Eddy cannot write English

to-day, and this is argument that she never could. I am not able to

guess who did the mending, but I think it was not done by any member of

the Eddy Trust, nor by the editors of the 'Christian Science Journal,'

for their English is not much better than Mrs. Eddy's.

However, as to the main point: it is certain that Mrs. Eddy did not

doctor the Annex's English herself. Her original, spontaneous,

undoctored English furnishes ample proof of this. Here are samples from

recent articles from her unappeasable pen; double columned with them are

a couple of passages from the Annex. It will be seen that they throw

light. The italics are mine:

1. 'What plague spot, 'Therefore the efficient

or bacilli were (sic) gnawing remedy is to destroy the

(sic) at the heart of this patient's unfortunate belief,

metropolis... and bringing by both silently and audibly

it on bended knee? arguing the opposite facts in

Why, it was an institute that regard to harmonious being

had entered its vitals (sic) representing man as

that, among other things, healthful instead of diseased,

taught games,' et cetera. (P. and showing that it is

670, 'C.S.Journal,' article impossible for matter to suffer,

entitled 'A Narrative--by to feel pain or heat, to be

Mary Baker G. Eddy.') thirsty or sick.' (P. 375, Annex.)

2. 'Parks sprang up (sic)...

electric street cars run 'Man is never sick; for

(sic) merrily through several Mind is not sick, and matter

streets, concrete sidewalks cannot be. A false belief

and macadamised roads dotted is both the tempter and the

(sic) the place,' et cetera. tempted, the sin and the

(Ibid.) sinner, the disease and its

3. 'Shorn (sic) of its cause. It is well to be calm

suburbs it had indeed little in sickness; to be hopeful is

left to admire, save to (sic) still better; but to

such as fancy a skeleton understand that sickness is not

above ground breathing (sic) real, and that Truth can

slowly through a barren (sic) destroy it, is best of all, for

breast.' (Ibid.) it is the universal and perfect

remedy.' (Chapter xii.,

Annex.)

You notice the contrast between the smooth, plausible, elegant, addled

English of the doctored Annex and the lumbering, ragged, ignorant output

of the translator's natural, spontaneous, and unmedicated penwork. The

English of the Annex has been slicked up by a very industrious and

painstaking hand--but it was not Mrs. Eddy's.

If Mrs. Eddy really wrote or translated the Annex, her original draft was

exactly in harmony with the English of her plague-spot or bacilli which

were gnawing at the insides of the metropolis and bringing its heart on

bended knee, thus exposing to the eye the rest of the skeleton breathing

slowly through a barren breast. And it bore little or no resemblance to

the book as we have it now--now that the salaried polisher has holystoned

all of the genuine Eddyties out of it.

Will the plague-spot article go into a volume just as it stands? I think

not. I think the polisher will take off his coat and vest and cravat and

'demonstrate over' it a couple of weeks and sweat it into a shape

something like the following--and then Mrs. Eddy will publish it and

leave people to believe that she did the polishing herself:

1. What injurious influence was it that was affecting the city's morals?

It was a social club which propagated an interest in idle amusements,

disseminated a knowledge of games, et cetera.

2. By the magic of the new and nobler influences the sterile spaces were

transformed into wooded parks, the merry electric car replaced the

melancholy 'bus, smooth concrete the tempestuous plank sidewalk, the

macadamised road the primitive corduroy, et cetera.

3. Its pleasant suburbs gone, there was little left to admire save the

wrecked graveyard with its uncanny exposures.

The Annex contains one sole and solitary humorous remark. There is a

most elaborate and voluminous Index, and it is preceded by this note:

'This Index will enable the student to find any thought or idea contained

in the book.'

V

No one doubts--certainly not I--that the mind exercises a powerful

influence over the body. From the beginning of time, the sorcerer, the

interpreter of dreams, the fortune-teller, the charlatan, the quack, the

wild medicine-man, the educated physician, the mesmerist, and the

hypnotist have made use of the client's imagination to help them in their

work. They have all recognised the potency and availability of that

force. Physicians cure many patients with a bread pill; they know that

where the disease is only a fancy, the patient's confidence in the doctor

will make the bread pill effective.

Faith in the doctor. Perhaps that is the entire thing. It seems to look

like it. In old times the King cured the king's evil by the touch of the

royal hand. He frequently made extraordinary cures. Could his footman

have done it? No--not in his own clothes. Disguised as the King, could

he have done it? I think we may not doubt it. I think we may feel sure

that it was not the King's touch that made the cure in any instance, but

the patient's faith in the efficacy of a King's touch. Genuine and

remarkable cures have been achieved through contact with the relics of a

saint. Is it not likely that any other bones would have done as well if

the substitution had been concealed from the patient? When I was a boy,

a farmer's wife who lived five miles from our village, had great fame as

a faith-doctor--that was what she called herself. Sufferers came to her

from all around, and she laid her hand upon them and said, 'Have faith

--it is all that is necessary,' and they went away well of their ailments.

She was not a religious woman, and pretended to no occult powers. She

said that the patient's faith in her did the work. Several times I saw

her make immediate cures of severe toothaches. My mother was the

patient. In Austria there is a peasant who drives a great trade in this

sort of industry and has both the high and the low for patients. He gets

into prison every now and then for practising without a diploma, but his

business is as brisk as ever when he gets out, for his work is

unquestionably successful and keeps his reputation high. In Bavaria

there is a man who performed so many great cures that he had to retire

from his profession of stage-carpentering in order to meet the demand of

his constantly increasing body of customers. He goes on from year to

year doing his miracles, and has become very rich. He pretends to no

religious helps, no supernatural aids, but thinks there is something in

his make-up which inspires the confidence of his patients, and that it is

this confidence which does the work and not some mysterious power issuing

from himself.

Within the last quarter of a century, in America, several sects of curers

have appeared under various names and have done notable things in the way

of healing ailments without the use of medicines. There are the Mind

Cure, the Faith Cure, the Prayer Cure, the Mental-Science Cure, and the

Christian-Science Cure; and apparently they all do their miracles with

the same old powerful instrument--the patient's imagination. Differing

names, but no difference in the process. But they do not give that

instrument the credit; each sect claims that its way differs from the

ways of the others.

They all achieve some cures, there is no question about it; and the Faith

Cure and the Prayer Cure probably do no harm when they do no good, since

they do not forbid the patient to help out the cure with medicines if he

wants to; but the others bar medicines, and claim ability to cure every

conceivable human ailment through the application of their mental forces

alone. They claim ability to cure malignant cancer, and other affections

which have never been cured in the history of the race. There would seem

to be an element of danger here. It has the look of claiming too much, I

think. Public confidence would probably be increased if less were

claimed.

I believe it might be shown that all the 'mind' sects except Christian

Science have lucid intervals; intervals in which they betray some

diffidence, and in effect confess that they are not the equals of the

Deity; but if the Christian Scientist even stops with being merely the

equal of the Deity, it is not clearly provable by his Christian-Science

Amended Bible. In the usual Bible the Deity recognises pain, disease,

and death as facts, but the Christian Scientist knows better. Knows

better, and is not diffident about saying so.

The Christian Scientist was not able to cure my stomach-ache and my cold;

but the horse-doctor did it. This convinces me that Christian Science

claims too much. In my opinion it ought to let diseases alone and

confine itself to surgery. There it would have everything its own way.

The horse-doctor charged me thirty kreutzers, and I paid him; in fact I

doubled it and gave him a shilling. Mrs. Fuller brought in an itemised

bill for a crate of broken bones mended in two hundred and thirty-four

places--one dollar per fracture.

'Nothing exists but Mind?'

'Nothing,' she answered. 'All else is substanceless, all else is

imaginary.'

I gave her an imaginary cheque, and now she is suing me for substantial

dollars. It looks inconsistent.

VI

Let us consider that we are all partially insane. It will explain us to

each other, it will unriddle many riddles, it will make clear and simple

many things which are involved in haunting and harassing difficulties and

obscurities now.

Those of us who are not in the asylum, and not demonstrably due there,

are nevertheless no doubt insane in one or two particulars--I think we

must admit this; but I think that we are otherwise healthy-minded. I

think that when we all see one thing alike, it is evidence that as

regards that one thing, our minds are perfectly sound. Now there are

really several things which we do all see alike; things which we all

accept, and about which we do not dispute. For instance, we who are

outside of the asylum all agree that water seeks its level; that the sun

gives light and heat; that fire consumes; that fog is damp; that 6 times

6 are thirty-six; that 2 from 10 leave eight; that 8 and 7 are fifteen.

These are perhaps the only things we are agreed about; but although they

are so few, they are of inestimable value, because they make an

infallible standard of sanity. Whosoever accepts them we know to be

substantially sane; sufficiently sane; in the working essentials, sane.

Whoever disputes a single one of them we know to be wholly insane, and

qualified for the asylum.

Very well, the man who disputes none of them we concede to be entitled to

go at large--but that is concession enough; we cannot go any further than

that; for we know that in all matters of mere opinion that same man is

insane--just as insane as we are; just as insane as Shakespeare was, just

as insane as the Pope is. We know exactly where to put our finger upon

his insanity; it is where his opinion differs from ours.

That is a simple rule, and easy to remember. When I, a thoughtful and

unbiased Presbyterian, examine the Koran, I know that beyond any question

every Mohammedan is insane; not in all things, but in religious matters.

When a thoughtful and unbiased Mohammedan examines the Westminster

Catechism, he knows that beyond any question I am spiritually insane. I

cannot prove to him that he is insane, because you never can prove

anything to a lunatic--for that is a part of his insanity and the

evidence of it. He cannot prove to me that I am insane, for my mind has

the same defect that afflicts his. All democrats are insane, but not one

of them knows it; none but the republicans and mugwumps know it. All the

republicans are insane, but only the democrats and mugwumps can perceive

it. The rule is perfect; in all matters of opinion our adversaries are

insane. When I look around me I am often troubled to see how many people

are mad. To mention only a few:

The Atheist, The Shakers,

The Infidel, The Millerites,

The Agnostic, The Mormons,

The Baptist, The Laurence Oliphant

The Methodist, Harrisites,

The Catholic, and the other The Grand Lama's people,

115 Christian sects, the The Monarchists,

Presbyterian excepted, The Imperialists,

The 72 Mohammedan sects, The Democrats,

The Buddhist, The Republicans (but not

The Blavatsky-Buddhist, the Mugwumps),

The Nationalist, The Mind-Curists,

The Confucian, The Faith-Curists,

The Spiritualist, The Mental Scientists,

The 2,000 East Indian The Allopaths,

sects, The Homeopaths,

The Peculiar People, The Electropaths,

The Swedenborgians,

The--but there's no end to the list; there are millions of them! And all

insane; each in his own way; insane as to his pet fad or opinion, but

otherwise sane and rational.

This should move us to be charitable toward one another's lunacies. I

recognise that in his special belief the Christian Scientist is insane,

because he does not believe as I do; but I hail him as my mate and fellow

because I am as insane as he--insane from his point of view, and his

point of view is as authoritative as mine and worth as much. That is to

say, worth a brass farthing. Upon a great religious or political

question the opinion of the dullest head in the world is worth the same

as the opinion of the brightest head in the world--a brass farthing. How

do we arrive at this? It is simple: The affirmative opinion of a stupid

man is neutralised by the negative opinion of his stupid neighbour--no

decision is reached; the affirmative opinion of the intellectual giant

Gladstone is neutralised by the negative opinion of the intellectual

giant Cardinal Newman--no decision is reached. Opinions that prove

nothing are, of course, without value--any but a dead person knows that

much. This obliges us to admit the truth of the unpalatable proposition

just mentioned above--that in disputed matters political and religious

one man's opinion is worth no more than his peer's, and hence it follows

that no man's opinion possesses any real value. It is a humbling

thought, but there is no way to get around it: all opinions upon these

great subjects are brass-farthing opinions.

It is a mere plain simple fact--as clear and as certain as that 8 and 7

make fifteen. And by it we recognise that we are all insane, as concerns

those matters. If we were sane we should all see a political or

religious doctrine alike, there would be no dispute: it would be a case

of 8 and 7--just as it is in heaven, where all are sane and none insane.

There there is but one religion, one belief, the harmony is perfect,

there is never a discordant note.

Under protection of these preliminaries I suppose I may now repeat

without offence that the Christian Scientist is insane. I mean him no

discourtesy, and I am not charging--nor even imagining--that he is

insaner than the rest of the human race. I think he is more

picturesquely insane that some of us. At the same time, I am quite sure

that in one important and splendid particular he is saner than is the

vast bulk of the race.

Why is he insane? I told you before: it is because his opinions are not

ours. I know of no other reason, and I do not need any other; it is the

only way we have of discovering insanity when it is not violent. It is

merely the picturesqueness of his insanity that makes it more interesting

than my kind or yours. For instance, consider his 'little book'--the one

described in the previous article; the 'little book' exposed in the sky

eighteen centuries ago by the flaming angel of the Apocalypse and handed

down in our day to Mrs. Mary Baker G. Eddy of New Hampshire and

translated by her, word for word, into English (with help of a polisher),

and now published and distributed in hundreds of editions by her at a

clear profit per volume, above cost, of 700 per cent.!--a profit which

distinctly belongs to the angel of the Apocalypse, and let him collect it

if he can; a 'little book' which the C.S. very frequently calls by just

that name, and always inclosed in quotation-marks to keep its high origin

exultantly in mind; a 'little book' which 'explains' and reconstructs and

new-paints and decorates the Bible and puts a mansard roof on it and a

lightning-rod and all the other modern improvements; a little book which

for the present affects to travel in yoke with the Bible and be friendly

to it, and within half a century will hitch it in the rear, and

thenceforth travel tandem, itself in the lead, in the coming great march

of Christian Scientism through the Protestant dominions of the planet.

Perhaps I am putting the tandem arrangement too far away; perhaps five

years might be nearer the mark than fifty; for a Viennese lady told me

last night that in the Christian Science Mosque in Boston she noticed

some things which seem to me to promise a shortening of the interval; on

one side there was a display of texts from the New Testament, signed with

the Saviour's initials, 'J.C.;' and on the opposite side a display of

texts from the 'little book' signed--with the author's mere initials?

No--signed with Mrs. Mary Baker G. Eddy's name in full. Perhaps the

Angel of the Apocalypse likes this kind of piracy. I made this remark

lightly to a Christian Scientist this morning, but he did not receive it

lightly, but said it was jesting upon holy things; he said there was no

piracy, for the angel did not compose the book, he only brought it--'God

composed it.' I could have retorted that it was a case of piracy just

the same; that the displayed texts should be signed with the Author's

initials, and that to sign them with the translator's train of names was

another case of 'jesting upon holy things.' However, I did not say these

things, for this Scientist was a large person, and although by his own

doctrine we have no substance, but are fictions and unrealities, I knew

he could hit me an imaginary blow which would furnish me an imaginary

pain which could last me a week. The lady said that in that Mosque there

were two pulpits; in one of them was a man with the Former Bible, in the

other a woman with Mrs. Eddy's apocalyptic Annex; and from these books

the man and the woman were reading verse and verse about:

'Hungry ones throng to hear the Bible read in connection with the

text-book of Christian Science, "Science and Health, with Key to the

Scriptures," by Mary Baker G. Eddy. These are our only preachers.

They are the word of God.'--Christian Science Journal, October

1898.

Are these things picturesque? The Viennese lady told me that in a chapel

of the Mosque there was a picture or image of Mrs. Eddy, and that before

it burns a never-extinguished light. Is that picturesque? How long do

you think it will be before the Christian Scientist will be worshipping

that image and praying to it? How long do you think it will be before it

is claimed that Mrs. Eddy is a Redeemer, a Christ, or Christ's equal?

Already her army of disciples speak of her reverently as 'Our Mother.'

How long will it be before they place her on the steps of the Throne

beside the Virgin--and later a step higher? First, Mary the Virgin and

Mary the Matron; later, with a change of Precedence, Mary the Matron and

Mary the Virgin. Let the artist get ready with his canvas and his

brushes; the new Renaissance is on its way, and there will be money in

altar-canvases--a thousand times as much as the Popes and their Church

ever spent on the Old Masters; for their riches were as poverty as

compared with what is going to pour into the treasure-chest of the

Christian-Scientist Papacy by-and-by, let us not doubt it. We will

examine the financial outlook presently and see what it promises. A

favourite subject of the new Old Master will be the first verse of the

twelfth chapter of Revelation--a verse which Mrs. Eddy says (in her Annex

to the Scriptures) has 'one distinctive feature which has special

reference to the present age'--and to her, as is rather pointedly

indicated:

'And there appeared a great wonder in heaven--a woman clothed with

the sun and the moon under her feet,' etc.

The woman clothed with the sun will be a portrait of Mrs. Eddy.