The hero climbs up over "Sawney's Mounta_The Entire Project Gutenberg Works of Mark Twain

making for an old Indian "castle"--which becomes "the red man's hut"

in the next sentence; and when he gets there at last, he "surveys

with wonder and astonishment" the invisible structure, "which time

has buried in the dust, and thought to himself his happiness was

not yet complete." One doesn't know why it wasn't, nor how near it

came to being complete, nor what was still wanting to round it up

and make it so. Maybe it was the Indian; but the book does not say.

At this point we have an episode:

Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man, about eighteen or twenty,

who seemed to be reading some favorite book, and who had a remarkably

noble countenance--eyes which betrayed more than a common mind.

This of course made the youth a welcome guest, and gained him

friends in whatever condition of his life he might be placed.

The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure which showed

strength and grace in every movement. He accordingly addressed

him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way

to the village. After he had received the desired information,

and was about taking his leave, the youth said, "Are you not

Major Elfonzo, the great musician [2]--the champion of a noble cause

--the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?"

"I bear that name," said the Major, "and those titles,

trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry

me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,"

continued the Major, "you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds,

I should like to make you my confidant and learn your address."

The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment,

and began: "My name is Roswell. I have been recently admitted

to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success

in that honorable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall

look down from the lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall

ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity,

and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be

called from its buried GREATNESS." The Major grasped him by the hand,

and exclaimed: "O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration--thou flame

of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare

of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede

your progress!"

There is a strange sort of originality about McClintock;

he imitates other people's styles, but nobody can imitate his,

not even an idiot. Other people can be windy, but McClintock blows

a gale; other people can blubber sentiment, but McClintock spews it;

other people can mishandle metaphors, but only McClintock knows

how to make a business of it. McClintock is always McClintock,

he is always consistent, his style is always his own style. He does

not make the mistake of being relevant on one page and irrelevant

on another; he is irrelevant on all of them. He does not make

the mistake of being lucid in one place and obscure in another;

he is obscure all the time. He does not make the mistake of slipping

in a name here and there that is out of character with his work;

he always uses names that exactly and fantastically fit his lunatics.

In the matter of undeviating consistency he stands alone in authorship.

It is this that makes his style unique, and entitles it to a name

of its own--McClintockian. It is this that protects it from being

mistaken for anybody else's. Uncredited quotations from other writers

often leave a reader in doubt as to their authorship, but McClintock

is safe from that accident; an uncredited quotation from him would

always be recognizable. When a boy nineteen years old, who had

just been admitted to the bar, says, "I trust, sir, like the Eagle,

I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man,"

we know who is speaking through that boy; we should recognize

that note anywhere. There be myriads of instruments in this

world's literary orchestra, and a multitudinous confusion of sounds

that they make, wherein fiddles are drowned, and guitars smothered,

and one sort of drum mistaken for another sort; but whensoever the

brazen note of the McClintockian trombone breaks through that fog

of music, that note is recognizable, and about it there can be no blur

of doubt.

The novel now arrives at the point where the Major goes home to see

his father. When McClintock wrote this interview he probably

believed it was pathetic.

The road which led to the town presented many attractions Elfonzo

had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was now wending

his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness. The south winds

whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed against the banks,

as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars. This brought him to

remember while alone, that he quietly left behind the hospitality

of a father's house, and gladly entered the world, with higher hopes

than are often realized. But as he journeyed onward, he was mindful

of the advice of his father, who had often looked sadly on the ground,

when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened his eyes. Elfonzo had

been somewhat a dutiful son; yet fond of the amusements of life

--had been in distant lands--had enjoyed the pleasure of the world,

and had frequently returned to the scenes of his boyhood,

almost destitute of many of the comforts of life. In this condition,

he would frequently say to his father, "Have I offended you,

that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon me with

stinging looks? Will you not favor me with the sound of your voice?

If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread a humid veil

of darkness around your expectations, send me back into the world,

where no heart beats for me--where the foot of man had never yet trod;

but give me at least one kind word--allow me to come into the presence

sometimes of thy winter-worn locks." "Forbid it, Heaven, that I

should be angry with thee," answered the father, "my son, and yet

I send thee back to the children of the world--to the cold charity

of the combat, and to a land of victory. I read another destiny

in thy countenance--I learn thy inclinations from the flame that has

already kindled in my soul a strange sensation. It will seek thee,

my dear ELFONZO, it will find thee--thou canst not escape that

lighted torch, which shall blot out from the remembrance of men

a long train of prophecies which they have foretold against thee.

I once thought not so. Once, I was blind; but now the path of life

is plain before me, and my sight is clear; yet, Elfonzo, return to thy

worldly occupation--take again in thy hand that chord of sweet sounds

--struggle with the civilized world and with your own heart;

fly swiftly to the enchanted ground--let the night-OWL send forth

its screams from the stubborn oak--let the sea sport upon the beach,

and the stars sing together; but learn of these, Elfonzo, thy doom,

and thy hiding-place. Our most innocent as well as our most lawful

DESIRES must often be denied us, that we may learn to sacrifice them

to a Higher will."

Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately

urged by the recollection of his father's family to keep moving.

McClintock has a fine gift in the matter of surprises; but as a

rule they are not pleasant ones, they jar upon the feelings.

His closing sentence in the last quotation is of that sort.

It brings one down out of the tinted clouds in too sudden and collapsed

a fashion. It incenses one against the author for a moment.

It makes the reader want to take him by this winter-worn locks,

and trample on his veneration, and deliver him over to the cold

charity of combat, and blot him out with his own lighted torch.

But the feeling does not last. The master takes again in his hand that

concord of sweet sounds of his, and one is reconciled, pacified.

His steps became quicker and quicker--he hastened through the PINY woods,

dark as the forest was, and with joy he very soon reached the little

village of repose, in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry.

His close attention to every important object--his modest questions

about whatever was new to him--his reverence for wise old age,

and his ardent desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought

him into respectable notice.

One mild winter day, as he walked along the streets toward the Academy,

which stood upon a small eminence, surrounded by native growth

--some venerable in its appearance, others young and prosperous

--all seemed inviting, and seemed to be the very place for learning as

well as for genius to spend its research beneath its spreading shades.

He entered its classic walls in the usual mode of southern manners.

The artfulness of this man! None knows so well as he how to pique

the curiosity of the reader--and how to disappoint it. He raises

the hope, here, that he is going to tell all about how one enters

a classic wall in the usual mode of Southern manners; but does he?

No; he smiles in his sleeve, and turns aside to other matters.

The principal of the Institution begged him to be seated and listen

to the recitations that were going on. He accordingly obeyed

the request, and seemed to be much pleased. After the school

was dismissed, and the young hearts regained their freedom,

with the songs of the evening, laughing at the anticipated pleasures

of a happy home, while others tittered at the actions of the past day,

he addressed the teacher in a tone that indicated a resolution

--with an undaunted mind. He said he had determined to become

a student, if he could meet with his approbation. "Sir," said he,

"I have spent much time in the world. I have traveled among

the uncivilized inhabitants of America. I have met with friends,

and combated with foes; but none of these gratify my ambition,

or decide what is to be my destiny. I see the learned world

have an influence with the voice of the people themselves.

The despoilers of the remotest kingdoms of the earth refer their

differences to this class of persons. This the illiterate and

inexperienced little dream of; and now if you will receive me as I am,

with these deficiencies--with all my misguided opinions, I will give

you my honor, sir, that I will never disgrace the Institution,

or those who have placed you in this honorable station."

The instructor, who had met with many disappointments, knew how to

feel for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities

of an unfeeling community. He looked at him earnestly, and said:

"Be of good cheer--look forward, sir, to the high destination you

may attain. Remember, the more elevated the mark at which you aim,

the more sure, the more glorious, the more magnificent the prize."

From wonder to wonder, his encouragement led the impatient listener.

A strange nature bloomed before him--giant streams promised

him success--gardens of hidden treasures opened to his view.

All this, so vividly described, seemed to gain a new witchery from his

glowing fancy.

It seems to me that this situation is new in romance. I feel

sure it has not been attempted before. Military celebrities have

been disguised and set at lowly occupations for dramatic effect,

but I think McClintock is the first to send one of them to school.

Thus, in this book, you pass from wonder to wonder, through gardens

of hidden treasure, where giant streams bloom before you,

and behind you, and all around, and you feel as happy, and groggy,

and satisfied with your quart of mixed metaphor aboard as you would

if it had been mixed in a sample-room and delivered from a jug.

Now we come upon some more McClintockian surprise--a sweetheart

who is sprung upon us without any preparation, along with a name

for her which is even a little more of a surprise than she herself is.

In 1842 he entered the class, and made rapid progress in the English

and Latin departments. Indeed, he continued advancing with such

rapidity that he was like to become the first in his class,

and made such unexpected progress, and was so studious, that he had

almost forgotten the pictured saint of his affections. The fresh

wreaths of the pine and cypress had waited anxiously to drop once

more the dews of Heaven upon the heads of those who had so often

poured forth the tender emotions of their souls under its boughs.

He was aware of the pleasure that he had seen there. So one evening, as

he was returning from his reading, he concluded he would pay a visit

to this enchanting spot. Little did he think of witnessing a shadow

of his former happiness, though no doubt he wished it might be so.

He continued sauntering by the roadside, meditating on the past.

The nearer he approached the spot, the more anxious he became.

At that moment a tall female figure flitted across his path, with a

bunch of roses in her hand; her countenance showed uncommon vivacity,

with a resolute spirit; her ivory teeth already appeared as she

smiled beautifully, promenading--while her ringlets of hair dangled

unconsciously around her snowy neck. Nothing was wanting to complete

her beauty. The tinge of the rose was in full bloom upon her cheek;

the charms of sensibility and tenderness were always her associates.

In Ambulinia's bosom dwelt a noble soul--one that never faded

--one that never was conquered.

Ambulinia! It can hardly be matched in fiction. The full name

is Ambulinia Valeer. Marriage will presently round it out and

perfect it. Then it will be Mrs. Ambulinia Valeer Elfonzo.

It takes the chromo.

Her heart yielded to no feeling but the love of Elfonzo, on whom

she gazed with intense delight, and to whom she felt herself

more closely bound, because he sought the hand of no other.

Elfonzo was roused from his apparent reverie. His books no longer

were his inseparable companions--his thoughts arrayed themselves

to encourage him to the field of victory. He endeavored to speak

to his supposed Ambulinia, but his speech appeared not in words.

No, his effort was a stream of fire, that kindled his soul into

a flame of admiration, and carried his senses away captive.

Ambulinia had disappeared, to make him more mindful of his duty.

As she walked speedily away through the piny woods, she calmly echoed:

"O! Elfonzo, thou wilt now look from thy sunbeams. Thou shalt

now walk in a new path--perhaps thy way leads through darkness;

but fear not, the stars foretell happiness."

To McClintock that jingling jumble of fine words meant something,

no doubt, or seemed to mean something; but it is useless for us to try

to divine what it was. Ambulinia comes--we don't know whence nor why;

she mysteriously intimates--we don't know what; and then she goes

echoing away--we don't know whither; and down comes the curtain.

McClintock's art is subtle; McClintock's art is deep.

Not many days afterward, as surrounded by fragrant flowers she sat

one evening at twilight, to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered

notes of melody along the distant groves, the little birds perched

on every side, as if to watch the movements of their new visitor.

The bells were tolling, when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild

wood flowers, holding in his hand his favorite instrument of music

--his eye continually searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed

to perceive him, as she played carelessly with the songsters

that hopped from branch to branch. Nothing could be more striking

than the difference between the two. Nature seemed to have given

the more tender soul to Elfonzo, and the stronger and more courageous

to Ambulinia. A deep feeling spoke from the eyes of Elfonzo

--such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who are blessed

as admirers, and by those who are able to return the same with

sincerity of heart. He was a few years older than Ambulinia:

she had turned a little into her seventeenth. He had almost grown

up in the Cherokee country, with the same equal proportions as one

of the natives. But little intimacy had existed between them until

the year forty-one--because the youth felt that the character of such

a lovely girl was too exalted to inspire any other feeling than

that of quiet reverence. But as lovers will not always be insulted,

at all times and under all circumstances, by the frowns and cold

looks of crabbed old age, which should continually reflect dignity

upon those around, and treat the unfortunate as well as the fortunate

with a graceful mien, he continued to use diligence and perseverance.

All this lighted a spark in his heart that changed his whole character,

and like the unyielding Deity that follows the storm to check its

rage in the forest, he resolves for the first time to shake off

his embarrassment and return where he had before only worshiped.

At last we begin to get the Major's measure. We are able to put

this and that casual fact together, and build the man up before

our eyes, and look at him. And after we have got him built, we find

him worth the trouble. By the above comparison between his age

and Ambulinia's, we guess the war-worn veteran to be twenty-two;

and the other facts stand thus: he had grown up in the Cherokee

country with the same equal proportions as one of the natives

--how flowing and graceful the language, and yet how tantalizing

as to meaning!--he had been turned adrift by his father, to whom he

had been "somewhat of a dutiful son"; he wandered in distant lands;

came back frequently "to the scenes of his boyhood, almost destitute

of many of the comforts of life," in order to get into the presence

of his father's winter-worn locks, and spread a humid veil of

darkness around his expectations; but he was always promptly sent

back to the cold charity of the combat again; he learned to play

the fiddle, and made a name for himself in that line; he had dwelt

among the wild tribes; he had philosophized about the despoilers

of the kingdoms of the earth, and found out--the cunning creature

--that they refer their differences to the learned for settlement;

he had achieved a vast fame as a military chieftain, the Achilles

of the Florida campaigns, and then had got him a spelling-book

and started to school; he had fallen in love with Ambulinia Valeer

while she was teething, but had kept it to himself awhile, out of

the reverential awe which he felt for the child; but now at last,

like the unyielding Deity who follows the storm to check its rage in

the forest, he resolves to shake off his embarrassment, and to return

where before he had only worshiped. The Major, indeed, has made up

his mind to rise up and shake his faculties together, and to see

if HE can't do that thing himself. This is not clear. But no matter

about that: there stands the hero, compact and visible; and he is

no mean structure, considering that his creator had never structure,

considering that his creator had never created anything before,

and hadn't anything but rags and wind to build with this time.

It seems to me that no one can contemplate this odd creature, this quaint

and curious blatherskite, without admiring McClintock, or, at any rate,

loving him and feeling grateful to him; for McClintock made him,

he gave him to us; without McClintock we could not have had him,

and would now be poor.

But we must come to the feast again. Here is a courtship scene, down

there in the romantic glades among the raccoons, alligators, and things,

that has merit, peculiar literary merit. See how Achilles woos.

Dwell upon the second sentence (particularly the close of it) and the

beginning of the third. Never mind the new personage, Leos, who is

intruded upon us unheralded and unexplained. That is McClintock's way;

it is his habit; it is a part of his genius; he cannot help it;

he never interrupts the rush of his narrative to make introductions.

It could not escape Ambulinia's penetrating eye that he sought

an interview with her, which she as anxiously avoided, and assumed

a more distant calmness than before, seemingly to destroy all hope.

After many efforts and struggles with his own person, with timid

steps the Major approached the damsel, with the same caution

as he would have done in a field of battle. "Lady Ambulinia,"

said he, trembling, "I have long desired a moment like this.

I dare not let it escape. I fear the consequences; yet I hope

your indulgence will at least hear my petition. Can you not

anticipate what I would say, and what I am about to express?

Will not you, like Minerva, who sprung from the brain of Jupiter,

release me from thy winding chains or cure me--" "Say no more,

Elfonzo," answered Ambulinia, with a serious look, raising her hand

as if she intended to swear eternal hatred against the whole world;

"another lady in my place would have perhaps answered your question

in bitter coldness. I know not the little arts of my sex.

I care but little for the vanity of those who would chide me,

and am unwilling as well as ashamed to be guilty of anything

that would lead you to think 'all is not gold that glitters';

so be no rash in your resolution. It is better to repent now,

than to do it in a more solemn hour. Yes, I know what you would say.

I know you have a costly gift for me--the noblest that man can make

--YOUR HEART! You should not offer it to one so unworthy.

Heaven, you know, has allowed my father's house to be made a house

of solitude, a home of silent obedience, which my parents say

is more to be admired than big names and high-sounding titles.

Notwithstanding all this, let me speak the emotions of an honest heart

--allow me to say in the fullness of my hopes that I anticipate

better days. The bird may stretch its wings toward the sun,

which it can never reach; and flowers of the field appear to

ascend in the same direction, because they cannot do otherwise;

but man confides his complaints to the saints in whom he believes;

for in their abodes of light they know no more sorrow. From your

confession and indicative looks, I must be that person; if so deceive

not yourself."

Elfonzo replied, "Pardon me, my dear madam, for my frankness.

I have loved you from my earliest days--everything grand and beautiful

hath borne the image of Ambulinia; while precipices on every hand

surrounded me, your GUARDIAN ANGEL stood and beckoned me away from

the deep abyss. In every trial, in every misfortune, I have met

with your helping hand; yet I never dreamed or dared to cherish

thy love, till a voice impaired with age encouraged the cause,

and declared they who acquired thy favor should win a victory.

I saw how Leos worshiped thee. I felt my own unworthiness.

I began to KNOW JEALOUSLY, a strong guest--indeed, in my bosom,

--yet I could see if I gained your admiration Leos was to be my rival.

I was aware that he had the influence of your parents, and the wealth

of a deceased relative, which is too often mistaken for permanent

and regular tranquillity; yet I have determined by your permission

to beg an interest in your prayers--to ask you to animate my drooping

spirits by your smiles and your winning looks; for if you but speak

I shall be conqueror, my enemies shall stagger like Olympus shakes.

And though earth and sea may tremble, and the charioteer of the sun

may forget his dashing steed, yet I am assured that it is only

to arm me with divine weapons which will enable me to complete my

long-tried intention."

"Return to yourself, Elfonzo," said Ambulinia, pleasantly: "a dream

of vision has disturbed your intellect; you are above the atmosphere,

dwelling in the celestial regions; nothing is there that urges

or hinders, nothing that brings discord into our present litigation.

I entreat you to condescend a little, and be a man, and forget it all.

When Homer describes the battle of the gods and noble men fighting

with giants and dragons, they represent under this image our struggles

with the delusions of our passions. You have exalted me, an unhappy girl,

to the skies; you have called me a saint, and portrayed in your

imagination an angel in human form. Let her remain such to you,

let her continue to be as you have supposed, and be assured that she

will consider a share in your esteem as her highest treasure.

Think not that I would allure you from the path in which your

conscience leads you; for you know I respect the conscience of others,

as I would die for my own. Elfonzo, if I am worthy of thy love,

let such conversation never again pass between us. Go, seek a nobler

theme! we will seek it in the stream of time, as the sun set in

the Tigris." As she spake these words she grasped the hand of Elfonzo,

saying at the same time--"Peace and prosperity attend you, my hero;

be up and doing!" Closing her remarks with this expression,

she walked slowly away, leaving Elfonzo astonished and amazed.

He ventured not to follow or detain her. Here he stood alone,

gazing at the stars; confounded as he was, here he stood.

Yes; there he stood. There seems to be no doubt about that.

Nearly half of this delirious story has now been delivered to the reader.

It seems a pity to reduce the other half to a cold synopsis.

Pity! it is more than a pity, it is a crime; for to synopsize McClintock

is to reduce a sky-flushing conflagration to dull embers, it is to

reduce barbaric splendor to ragged poverty. McClintock never wrote

a line that was not precious; he never wrote one that could be spared;

he never framed one from which a word could be removed without damage.

Every sentence that this master has produced may be likened to a

perfect set of teeth, white, uniform, beautiful. If you pull one,

the charm is gone.

Still, it is now necessary to begin to pull, and to keep it up;

for lack of space requires us to synopsize.

We left Elfonzo standing there amazed. At what, we do not know.

Not at the girl's speech. No; we ourselves should have been

amazed at it, of course, for none of us has ever heard anything

resembling it; but Elfonzo was used to speeches made up of noise

and vacancy, and could listen to them with undaunted mind like

the "topmost topaz of an ancient tower"; he was used to making

them himself; he--but let it go, it cannot be guessed out; we shall

never know what it was that astonished him. He stood there awhile;

then he said, "Alas! am I now Grief's disappointed son at last?"

He did not stop to examine his mind, and to try to find out what

he probably meant by that, because, for one reason, "a mixture

of ambition and greatness of soul moved upon his young heart,"

and started him for the village. He resumed his bench in school,

"and reasonably progressed in his education." His heart was heavy,

but he went into society, and sought surcease of sorrow in its

light distractions. He made himself popular with his violin,

"which seemed to have a thousand chords--more symphonious than the

Muses of Apollo, and more enchanting than the ghost of the Hills."

This is obscure, but let it go.

During this interval Leos did some unencouraged courting, but at last,

"choked by his undertaking," he desisted.

Presently "Elfonzo again wends his way to the stately walls and

new-built village." He goes to the house of his beloved; she opens

the door herself. To my surprise--for Ambulinia's heart had still

seemed free at the time of their last interview--love beamed from the

girl's eyes. One sees that Elfonzo was surprised, too; for when he caught

that light, "a halloo of smothered shouts ran through every vein."

A neat figure--a very neat figure, indeed! Then he kissed her.

"The scene was overwhelming." They went into the parlor. The girl

said it was safe, for her parents were abed, and would never know.

Then we have this fine picture--flung upon the canvas with hardly

an effort, as you will notice.

Advancing toward him, she gave a bright display of her rosy neck,

and from her head the ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance;

her robe hung waving to his view, while she stood like a goddess

confessed before him.

There is nothing of interest in the couple's interview. Now at this

point the girl invites Elfonzo to a village show, where jealousy is

the motive of the play, for she wants to teach him a wholesome lesson,

if he is a jealous person. But this is a sham, and pretty shallow.

McClintock merely wants a pretext to drag in a plagiarism of his upon

a scene or two in "Othello."

The lovers went to the play. Elfonzo was one of the fiddlers.

He and Ambulinia must not been seen together, lest trouble follow with

the girl's malignant father; we are made to understand that clearly.

So the two sit together in the orchestra, in the midst of the musicians.

This does not seem to be good art. In the first place, the girl would

be in the way, for orchestras are always packed closely together,

and there is no room to spare for people's girls; in the next place,

one cannot conceal a girl in an orchestra without everybody taking

notice of it. There can be no doubt, it seems to me, that this is

bad art.

Leos is present. Of course, one of the first things that catches

his eye is the maddening spectacle of Ambulinia "leaning upon

Elfonzo's chair." This poor girl does not seem to understand even

the rudiments of concealment. But she is "in her seventeenth,"

as the author phrases it, and that is her justification.

Leos meditates, constructs a plan--with personal violence as a basis,

of course. It was their way down there. It is a good plain plan,

without any imagination in it. He will go out and stand at the

front door, and when these two come out he will "arrest Ambulinia

from the hands of the insolent Elfonzo," and thus make for himself

a "more prosperous field of immortality than ever was decreed

by Omnipotence, or ever pencil drew or artist imagined." But, dear me,

while he is waiting there the couple climb out at the back window

and scurry home! This is romantic enough, but there is a lack

of dignity in the situation.

At this point McClintock puts in the whole of his curious play

--which we skip.

Some correspondence follows now. The bitter father and the

distressed lovers write the letters. Elopements are attempted.

They are idiotically planned, and they fail. Then we have several

pages of romantic powwow and confusion dignifying nothing.

Another elopement is planned; it is to take place on Sunday,

when everybody is at church. But the "hero" cannot keep the secret;

he tells everybody. Another author would have found another

instrument when he decided to defeat this elopement; but that is

not McClintock's way. He uses the person that is nearest at hand.

The evasion failed, of course. Ambulinia, in her flight,

takes refuge in a neighbor's house. Her father drags her home.

The villagers gather, attracted by the racket.

Elfonzo was moved at this sight. The people followed on to see

what was going to become of Ambulinia, while he, with downcast looks,

kept at a distance, until he saw them enter the abode of the father,

thrusting her, that was the sigh of his soul, out of his presence

into a solitary apartment, when she exclaimed, "Elfonzo! Elfonzo! oh,

Elfonzo! where art thou, with all thy heroes? haste, oh! haste,

come thou to my relief. Ride on the wings of the wind! Turn thy

force loose like a tempest, and roll on thy army like a whirlwind,

over this mountain of trouble and confusion. Oh friends! if any

pity me, let your last efforts throng upon the green hills,

and come to the relief of Ambulinia, who is guilty of nothing

but innocent love." Elfonzo called out with a loud voice, "My God,

can I stand this! arouse up, I beseech you, and put an end to

this tyranny. Come, my brave boys," said he, "are you ready to go

forth to your duty?" They stood around him. "Who," said he,

"will call us to arms? Where are my thunderbolts of war? Speak ye,

the first who will meet the foe! Who will go forward with me

in this ocean of grievous temptation? If there is one who desires

to go, let him come and shake hands upon the altar of devotion,

and swear that he will be a hero; yes, a Hector in a cause like this,

which calls aloud for a speedy remedy." "Mine be the deed,"

said a young lawyer, "and mine alone; Venus alone shall quit her

station before I will forsake one jot or tittle of my promise to you;

what is death to me? what is all this warlike army, if it is not

to win a victory? I love the sleep of the lover and the mighty;

nor would I give it over till the blood of my enemies should wreak

with that of my own. But God forbid that our fame should soar

on the blood of the slumberer." Mr. Valeer stands at his door

with the frown of a demon upon his brow, with his dangerous weapon

[3] ready to strike the first man who should enter his door.

"Who will arise and go forward through blood and carnage to the rescue

of my Ambulinia?" said Elfonzo. "All," exclaimed the multitude;

and onward they went, with their implements of battle. Others, of a

more timid nature, stood among the distant hills to see the result of

the contest.

It will hardly be believed that after all this thunder and lightning

not a drop of rain fell; but such is the fact. Elfonzo and his

gang stood up and black-guarded Mr. Valeer with vigor all night,

getting their outlay back with interest; then in the early

morning the army and its general retired from the field,

leaving the victory with their solitary adversary and his crowbar.

This is the first time this has happened in romantic literature.

The invention is original. Everything in this book is original;

there is nothing hackneyed about it anywhere. Always, in other

romances, when you find the author leading up to a climax,

you know what is going to happen. But in this book it is different;

the thing which seems inevitable and unavoidable never happens;

it is circumvented by the art of the author every time.

Another elopement was attempted. It failed.

We have now arrived at the end. But it is not exciting.

McClintock thinks it is; but it isn't. One day Elfonzo sent Ambulinia

another note--a note proposing elopement No. 16. This time the plan

is admirable; admirable, sagacious, ingenious, imaginative, deep

--oh, everything, and perfectly easy. One wonders why it was never

thought of before. This is the scheme. Ambulinia is to leave the

breakfast-table, ostensibly to "attend to the placing of those flowers,

which should have been done a week ago"--artificial ones, of course;

the others wouldn't keep so long--and then, instead of fixing

the flowers, she is to walk out to the grove, and go off with Elfonzo.

The invention of this plan overstrained the author that is plain,

for he straightway shows failing powers. The details of the plan

are not many or elaborate. The author shall state them himself

--this good soul, whose intentions are always better than his English:

"You walk carelessly toward the academy grove, where you will find

me with a lightning steed, elegantly equipped to bear you off

where we shall be joined in wedlock with the first connubial rights."

Last scene of all, which the author, now much enfeebled,

tries to smarten up and make acceptable to his spectacular heart

by introducing some new properties--silver bow, golden harp,

olive branch--things that can all come good in an elopement,

no doubt, yet are not to be compared to an umbrella for real

handiness and reliability in an excursion of that kind.

And away she ran to the sacred grove, surrounded with glittering pearls,

that indicated her coming. Elfonzo hails her with his silver bow

and his golden harp. They meet--Ambulinia's countenance brightens

--Elfonzo leads up the winged steed. "Mount," said he, "ye true-hearted,

ye fearless soul--the day is ours." She sprang upon the back

of the young thunderbolt, a brilliant star sparkles upon her head,

with one hand she grasps the reins, and with the other she holds

an olive branch. "Lend thy aid, ye strong winds," they exclaimed,

"ye moon, ye sun, and all ye fair host of heaven, witness the

enemy conquered." "Hold," said Elfonzo, "thy dashing steed."

"Ride on," said Ambulinia, "the voice of thunder is behind us."

And onward they went, with such rapidity that they very soon arrived

at Rural Retreat, where they dismounted, and were united with all

the solemnities that usually attended such divine operations.

There is but one Homer, there is but one Shakespeare, there is but

one McClintock--and his immortal book is before you. Homer could

not have written this book, Shakespeare could not have written it,

I could not have done it myself. There is nothing just like it

in the literature of any country or of any epoch. It stands alone;

it is monumental. It adds G. Ragsdale McClintock's to the sum of

the republic's imperishable names.

1. The name here given is a substitute for the one actually

attached to the pamphlet.

2. Further on it will be seen that he is a country expert

on the fiddle, and has a three-township fame.

3. It is a crowbar.

THE CURIOUS BOOK

Complete

[The foregoing review of the great work of G. Ragsdale McClintock is

liberally illuminated with sample extracts, but these cannot appease

the appetite. Only the complete book, unabridged, can do that.

Therefore it is here printed.--M.T.]

THE ENEMY CONQUERED; OR, LOVE TRIUMPHANT

Sweet girl, thy smiles are full of charms,

Thy voice is sweeter still,

It fills the breast with fond alarms,

Echoed by every rill.

I begin this little work with an eulogy upon woman, who has ever

been distinguished for her perseverance, her constancy, and her

devoted attention to those upon whom she has been pleased to place

her AFFECTIONS. Many have been the themes upon which writers and

public speakers have dwelt with intense and increasing interest.

Among these delightful themes stands that of woman, the balm

to all our sighs and disappointments, and the most pre-eminent

of all other topics. Here the poet and orator have stood and gazed

with wonder and with admiration; they have dwelt upon her innocence,

the ornament of all her virtues. First viewing her external charms,

such as set forth in her form and benevolent countenance, and then passing

to the deep hidden springs of loveliness and disinterested devotion.

In every clime, and in every age, she has been the pride of her NATION.

Her watchfulness is untiring; she who guarded the sepulcher was

the first to approach it, and the last to depart from its awful

yet sublime scene. Even here, in this highly favored land,

we look to her for the security of our institutions, and for our

future greatness as a nation. But, strange as it may appear,

woman's charms and virtues are but slightly appreciated by thousands.

Those who should raise the standard of female worth, and paint her

value with her virtues, in living colors, upon the banners that are

fanned by the zephyrs of heaven, and hand them down to posterity

as emblematical of a rich inheritance, do not properly estimate them.

Man is not sensible, at all times, of the nature and the emotions

which bear that name; he does not understand, he will not comprehend;

his intelligence has not expanded to that degree of glory which

drinks in the vast revolution of humanity, its end, its mighty

destination, and the causes which operated, and are still operating,

to produce a more elevated station, and the objects which energize

and enliven its consummation. This he is a stranger to;

he is not aware that woman is the recipient of celestial love,

and that man is dependent upon her to perfect his character;

that without her, philosophically and truly speaking, the brightest

of his intelligence is but the coldness of a winter moon,

whose beams can produce no fruit, whose solar light is not its own,

but borrowed from the great dispenser of effulgent beauty.

We have no disposition in the world to flatter the fair sex,

we would raise them above those dastardly principles which only

exist in little souls, contracted hearts, and a distracted brain.

Often does she unfold herself in all her fascinating loveliness,

presenting the most captivating charms; yet we find man frequently

treats such purity of purpose with indifference. Why does he do it?

Why does he baffle that which is inevitably the source of his

better days? Is he so much of a stranger to those excellent qualities

as not to appreciate woman, as not to have respect to her dignity?

Since her art and beauty first captivated man, she has been his

delight and his comfort; she has shared alike in his misfortunes

and in his prosperity.

Whenever the billows of adversity and the tumultuous waves of trouble

beat high, her smiles subdue their fury. Should the tear of sorrow

and the mournful sigh of grief interrupt the peace of his mind,

her voice removes them all, and she bends from her circle to encourage

him onward. When darkness would obscure his mind, and a thick cloud

of gloom would bewilder its operations, her intelligent eye darts

a ray of streaming light into his heart. Mighty and charming is that

disinterested devotion which she is ever ready to exercise toward man,

not waiting till the last moment of his danger, but seeks to relieve

him in his early afflictions. It gushes forth from the expansive

fullness of a tender and devoted heart, where the noblest, the purest,

and the most elevated and refined feelings are matured and developed

in those may kind offices which invariably make her character.

In the room of sorrow and sickness, this unequaled characteristic

may always been seen, in the performance of the most charitable acts;

nothing that she can do to promote the happiness of him who she

claims to be her protector will be omitted; all is invigorated by

the animating sunbeams which awaken the heart to songs of gaiety.

Leaving this point, to notice another prominent consideration,

which is generally one of great moment and of vital importance.

Invariably she is firm and steady in all her pursuits and aims.

There is required a combination of forces and extreme opposition to

drive her from her position; she takes her stand, not to be moved by

the sound of Apollo's lyre or the curved bow of pleasure.

Firm and true to what she undertakes, and that which she requires

by her own aggrandizement, and regards as being within the strict rules

of propriety, she will remain stable and unflinching to the last.

A more genuine principle is not to be found in the most determined,

resolute heart of man. For this she deserves to be held in the

highest commendation, for this she deserves the purest of all

other blessings, and for this she deserves the most laudable reward

of all others. It is a noble characteristic and is worthy of imitation

of any age. And when we look at it in one particular aspect,

it is still magnified, and grows brighter and brighter the more we

reflect upon its eternal duration. What will she not do, when her

word as well as her affections and LOVE are pledged to her lover?

Everything that is dear to her on earth, all the hospitalities

of kind and loving parents, all the sincerity and loveliness

of sisters, and the benevolent devotion of brothers, who have

surrounded her with every comfort; she will forsake them all,

quit the harmony and sweet sound of the lute and the harp,

and throw herself upon the affections of some devoted admirer,

in whom she fondly hopes to find more than she has left behind,

which is not often realized by many. Truth and virtue all combined!

How deserving our admiration and love! Ah cruel would it be in man,

after she has thus manifested such an unshaken confidence in him,

and said by her determination to abandon all the endearments and

blandishments of home, to act a villainous part, and prove a traitor

in the revolution of his mission, and then turn Hector over the

innocent victim whom he swore to protect, in the presence of Heaven,

recorded by the pen of an angel.

Striking as this train may unfold itself in her character,

and as pre-eminent as it may stand among the fair display of her

other qualities, yet there is another, which struggles into existence,

and adds an additional luster to what she already possesses.

I mean that disposition in woman which enables her, in sorrow,

in grief, and in distress, to bear all with enduring patience.

This she has done, and can and will do, amid the din of war and

clash of arms. Scenes and occurrences which, to every appearance,

are calculated to rend the heart with the profoundest emotions of trouble,

do not fetter that exalted principle imbued in her very nature.

It is true, her tender and feeling heart may often be moved (as she

is thus constituted), but she is not conquered, she has not given up

to the harlequin of disappointments, her energies have not become

clouded in the last movement of misfortune, but she is continually

invigorated by the archetype of her affections. She may bury her face

in her hands, and let the tear of anguish roll, she may promenade

the delightful walks of some garden, decorated with all the flowers

of nature, or she may steal out along some gently rippling stream,

and there, as the silver waters uninterruptedly move forward,

shed her silent tears; they mingle with the waves, and take a last

farewell of their agitated home, to seek a peaceful dwelling among

the rolling floods; yet there is a voice rushing from her breast,

that proclaims VICTORY along the whole line and battlement of

her affections. That voice is the voice of patience and resignation;

that voice is one that bears everything calmly and dispassionately,

amid the most distressing scenes; when the fates are arrayed against

her peace, and apparently plotting for her destruction, still she

is resigned.

Woman's affections are deep, consequently her troubles may be made

to sink deep. Although you may not be able to mark the traces of her

grief and the furrowings of her anguish upon her winning countenance,

yet be assured they are nevertheless preying upon her inward person,

sapping the very foundation of that heart which alone was made

for the weal and not the woe of man. The deep recesses of the soul

are fields for their operation. But they are not destined simply

to take the regions of the heart for their dominion, they are not

satisfied merely with interrupting her better feelings; but after

a while you may see the blooming cheek beginning to droop and fade,

her intelligent eye no longer sparkles with the starry light of heaven,

her vibrating pulse long since changed its regular motion, and her

palpitating bosom beats once more for the midday of her glory.

Anxiety and care ultimately throw her into the arms of the haggard

and grim monster death. But, oh, how patient, under every

pining influence! Let us view the matter in bolder colors;

see her when the dearest object of her affections recklessly seeks

every bacchanalian pleasure, contents himself with the last rubbish

of creation. With what solicitude she awaits his return! Sleep fails

to perform its office--she weeps while the nocturnal shades of the

night triumph in the stillness. Bending over some favorite book,

whilst the author throws before her mind the most beautiful imagery,

she startles at every sound. The midnight silence is broken

by the solemn announcement of the return of another morning.

He is still absent; she listens for that voice which has so often

been greeted by the melodies of her own; but, alas! stern silence

is all that she receives for her vigilance.

Mark her unwearied watchfulness, as the night passes away.

At last, brutalized by the accursed thing, he staggers along

with rage, and, shivering with cold, he makes his appearance.

Not a murmur is heard from her lips. On the contrary, she meets him

with a smile--she caresses him with tender arms, with all the gentleness

and softness of her sex. Here, then, is seen her disposition,

beautifully arrayed. Woman, thou art more to be admired than the spicy

gales of Arabia, and more sought for than the gold of Golconda.

We believe that Woman should associate freely with man, and we believe

that it is for the preservation of her rights. She should become

acquainted with the metaphysical designs of those who condescended

to sing the siren song of flattery. This, we think, should be

according to the unwritten law of decorum, which is stamped upon

every innocent heart. The precepts of prudery are often steeped

in the guilt of contamination, which blasts the expectations of

better moments. Truth, and beautiful dreams--loveliness, and delicacy

of character, with cherished affections of the ideal woman

--gentle hopes and aspirations, are enough to uphold her in the storms

of darkness, without the transferred colorings of a stained sufferer.

How often have we seen it in our public prints, that woman occupies

a false station in the world! and some have gone so far as to say it

was an unnatural one. So long has she been regarded a weak creature,

by the rabble and illiterate--they have looked upon her as an

insufficient actress on the great stage of human life--a mere puppet,

to fill up the drama of human existence--a thoughtless, inactive being

--that she has too often come to the same conclusion herself, and has

sometimes forgotten her high destination, in the meridian of her glory.

We have but little sympathy or patience for those who treat her as

a mere Rosy Melindi--who are always fishing for pretty complements

--who are satisfied by the gossamer of Romance, and who can be

allured by the verbosity of high-flown words, rich in language,

but poor and barren in sentiment. Beset, as she has been, by the

intellectual vulgar, the selfish, the designing, the cunning, the hidden,

and the artful--no wonder she has sometimes folded her wings in despair,

and forgotten her HEAVENLY mission in the delirium of imagination;

no wonder she searches out some wild desert, to find a peaceful home.

But this cannot always continue. A new era is moving gently onward,

old things are rapidly passing away; old superstitions, old prejudices,

and old notions are now bidding farewell to their old associates

and companions, and giving way to one whose wings are plumed

with the light of heaven and tinged by the dews of the morning.

There is a remnant of blessedness that clings to her in spite of all

evil influence, there is enough of the Divine Master left to accomplish

the noblest work ever achieved under the canopy of the vaulted skies;

and that time is fast approaching, when the picture of the true

woman will shine from its frame of glory, to captivate, to win back,

to restore, and to call into being once more, THE OBJECT OF HER MISSION.

Star of the brave! thy glory shed,

O'er all the earth, thy army led--

Bold meteor of immortal birth!

Why come from Heaven to dwell on Earth?

Mighty and glorious are the days of youth; happy the moments

of the LOVER, mingled with smiles and tears of his devoted,

and long to be remembered are the achievements which he gains with a

palpitating heart and a trembling hand. A bright and lovely dawn,

the harbinger of a fair and prosperous day, had arisen over the

beautiful little village of Cumming, which is surrounded by the

most romantic scenery in the Cherokee country. Brightening clouds

seemed to rise from the mist of the fair Chattahoochee, to spread

their beauty over the the thick forest, to guide the hero whose

bosom beats with aspirations to conquer the enemy that would tarnish

his name, and to win back the admiration of his long-tried friend.

He endeavored to make his way through Sawney's Mountain, where many meet

to catch the gales that are continually blowing for the refreshment

of the stranger and the traveler. Surrounded as he was by hills

on every side, naked rocks dared the efforts of his energies.

Soon the sky became overcast, the sun buried itself in the clouds,

and the fair day gave place to gloomy twilight, which lay heavily

on the Indian Plains. He remembered an old Indian Castle,

that once stood at the foot of the mountain. He thought if he could

make his way to this, he would rest contented for a short time.

The mountain air breathed fragrance--a rosy tinge rested on the glassy

waters that murmured at its base. His resolution soon brought him

to the remains of the red man's hut: he surveyed with wonder and

astonishment the decayed building, which time had buried in the dust,

and thought to himself, his happiness was not yet complete.

Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man, about eighteen or twenty,

who seemed to be reading some favorite book, and who had a remarkably

noble countenance--eyes which betrayed more than a common mind.

This of course made the youth a welcome guest, and gained him

friends in whatever condition of life he might be placed.

The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure, which showed

strength and grace in every movement. He accordingly addressed

him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way

to the village. After he had received the desired information,

and was about taking his leave, the youth said, "Are you not

Major Elfonzo, the great musician--the champion of a noble cause

--the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?"

"I bear that name," said the Major, "and those titles,

trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry

me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,"

continued the Major, "you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds,

I should like to make you my confidant and learn your address."

The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment,

and began: "My name is Roswell. I have been recently admitted

to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success

in that honorable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle,

I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall

ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity,

and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be

called from its buried GREATNESS." The Major grasped him by the hand,

and exclaimed: "O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration--thou flame

of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare

of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede

your progress!"

The road which led to the town presented many attractions.

Elfonzo had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was

not wending his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness.

The south winds whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed

against the banks, as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars.

This brought him to remember while alone, that he quietly left behind

the hospitality of a father's house, and gladly entered the world,

with higher hopes than are often realized. But as he journeyed onward,

he was mindful of the advice of his father, who had often looked

sadly on the ground when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened

his eye. Elfonzo had been somewhat of a dutiful son; yet fond

of the amusements of life--had been in distant lands--had enjoyed

the pleasure of the world and had frequently returned to the scenes

of his boyhood, almost destitute of many of the comforts of life.

In this condition, he would frequently say to his father, "Have I

offended you, that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon

me with stinging looks? Will you not favor me with the sound of

your voice? If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread

a humid veil of darkness around your expectations, send me back into

the world where no heart beats for me--where the foot of man has

never yet trod; but give me at least one kind word--allow me to come

into the presence sometimes of thy winter-worn locks." "Forbid it,

Heaven, that I should be angry with thee," answered the father,

"my son, and yet I send thee back to the children of the world

--to the cold charity of the combat, and to a land of victory. I read

another destiny in thy countenance--I learn thy inclinations from

the flame that has already kindled in my soul a stranger sensation.

It will seek thee, my dear ELFONZO, it will find thee--thou canst

not escape that lighted torch, which shall blot out from the

remembrance of men a long train of prophecies which they have

foretold against thee. I once thought not so. Once, I was blind;

but now the path of life is plain before me, and my sight is clear;

yet Elfonzo, return to thy worldly occupation--take again in thy

hand that chord of sweet sounds--struggle with the civilized world,

and with your own heart; fly swiftly to the enchanted ground

--let the night-OWL send forth its screams from the stubborn oak

--let the sea sport upon the beach, and the stars sing together;

but learn of these, Elfonzo, thy doom, and thy hiding-place. Our most

innocent as well as our most lawful DESIRES must often be denied us,

that we may learn to sacrifice them to a Higher will."

Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately

urged by the recollection of his father's family to keep moving.

His steps became quicker and quicker--he hastened through the PINY woods,

dark as the forest was, and with joy he very soon reached the little

village or repose, in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry.

His close attention to every important object--his modest questions

about whatever was new to him--his reverence for wise old age,

and his ardent desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought him

into respectable notice.

One mild winter day as he walked along the streets toward the Academy,