CHAPTER X_The $30,000 Bequest, and Other Stories

Was it Heaven? Or Hell?

A CURE FOR THE BLUES

By courtesy of Mr. Cable I came into possession of a singular book

eight or ten years ago. It is likely that mine is now the only copy in

existence. Its title-page, unabbreviated, reads as follows:

“The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant. By G. Ragsdale McClintock,

(1) author of 'An Address,' etc., delivered at Sunflower Hill, South

Carolina, and member of the Yale Law School. New Haven: published by T.

H. Pease, 83 Chapel Street, 1845.”

No one can take up this book and lay it down again unread. Whoever reads

one line of it is caught, is chained; he has become the contented slave

of its fascinations; and he will read and read, devour and devour, and

will not let it go out of his hand till it is finished to the last line,

though the house be on fire over his head. And after a first reading he

will not throw it aside, but will keep it by him, with his Shakespeare

and his Homer, and will take it up many and many a time, when the

world is dark and his spirits are low, and be straightway cheered and

refreshed. Yet this work has been allowed to lie wholly neglected,

unmentioned, and apparently unregretted, for nearly half a century.

The reader must not imagine that he is to find in it wisdom, brilliancy,

fertility of invention, ingenuity of construction, excellence of form,

purity of style, perfection of imagery, truth to nature, clearness of

statement, humanly possible situations, humanly possible people, fluent

narrative, connected sequence of events--or philosophy, or logic, or

sense. No; the rich, deep, beguiling charm of the book lies in the total

and miraculous _absence _from it of all these qualities--a charm which

is completed and perfected by the evident fact that the author, whose

naive innocence easily and surely wins our regard, and almost our

worship, does not know that they are absent, does not even suspect

that they are absent. When read by the light of these helps to an

understanding of the situation, the book is delicious--profoundly and

satisfyingly delicious.

I call it a book because the author calls it a book, I call it a work

because he calls it a work; but, in truth, it is merely a duodecimo

pamphlet of thirty-one pages. It was written for fame and money, as the

author very frankly--yes, and very hopefully, too, poor fellow--says

in his preface. The money never came--no penny of it ever came; and how

long, how pathetically long, the fame has been deferred--forty-seven

years! He was young then, it would have been so much to him then; but

will he care for it now?

As time is measured in America, McClintock's epoch is antiquity. In his

long-vanished day the Southern author had a passion for “eloquence”;

it was his pet, his darling. He would be eloquent, or perish. And he

recognized only one kind of eloquence--the lurid, the tempestuous, the

volcanic. He liked words--big words, fine words, grand words, rumbling,

thundering, reverberating words; with sense attaching if it could be got

in without marring the sound, but not otherwise. He loved to stand

up before a dazed world, and pour forth flame and smoke and lava and

pumice-stone into the skies, and work his subterranean thunders, and

shake himself with earthquakes, and stench himself with sulphur fumes.

If he consumed his own fields and vineyards, that was a pity, yes; but

he would have his eruption at any cost. Mr. McClintock's eloquence--and

he is always eloquent, his crater is always spouting--is of the pattern

common to his day, but he departs from the custom of the time in one

respect: his brethren allowed sense to intrude when it did not mar the

sound, but he does not allow it to intrude at all. For example, consider

this figure, which he used in the village “Address” referred to with

such candid complacency in the title-page above quoted--“like the

topmost topaz of an ancient tower.” Please read it again; contemplate

it; measure it; walk around it; climb up it; try to get at an

approximate realization of the size of it. Is the fellow to that to be

found in literature, ancient or modern, foreign or domestic, living or

dead, drunk or sober? One notices how fine and grand it sounds. We know

that if it was loftily uttered, it got a noble burst of applause from

the villagers; yet there isn't a ray of sense in it, or meaning to it.

McClintock finished his education at Yale in 1843, and came to Hartford

on a visit that same year. I have talked with men who at that time

talked with him, and felt of him, and knew he was real. One needs to

remember that fact and to keep fast hold of it; it is the only way to

keep McClintock's book from undermining one's faith in McClintock's

actuality.

As to the book. The first four pages are devoted to an inflamed

eulogy of Woman--simply Woman in general, or perhaps as an

Institution--wherein, among other compliments to her details, he pays a

unique one to her voice. He says it “fills the breast with fond alarms,

echoed by every rill.” It sounds well enough, but it is not true. After

the eulogy he takes up his real work and the novel begins. It begins in

the woods, near the village of Sunflower Hill.

Brightening clouds seemed to rise from the mist of the fair

Chattahoochee, to spread their beauty over the thick forest, to guide

the hero whose bosom beats with aspirations to conquer the enemy that

would tarnish his name, and to win back the admiration of his long-tried

friend.

It seems a general remark, but it is not general; the hero mentioned is

the to-be hero of the book; and in this abrupt fashion, and without

name or description, he is shoveled into the tale. “With aspirations to

conquer the enemy that would tarnish his name” is merely a phrase flung

in for the sake of the sound--let it not mislead the reader. No one is

trying to tarnish this person; no one has thought of it. The rest of the

sentence is also merely a phrase; the man has no friend as yet, and

of course has had no chance to try him, or win back his admiration, or

disturb him in any other way.

The hero climbs up over “Sawney's Mountain,” and down the other side,

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

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

wonder and astonishment” the invisible structure, “which time has buried

in the dust, and thought to himself his happiness was not yet complete.”

One doesn't know why it wasn't, nor how near it came to being complete,

nor what was still wanting to round it up and make it so. Maybe it was

the Indian; but the book does not say. At this point we have an episode:

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 his winter-worn locks, and trample on his veneration, and deliver

him over to the cold charity of combat, and blot him out with his own

lighted torch. But the feeling does not last. The master takes again

in his hand that concord of sweet sounds of his, and one is reconciled,

pacified.

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 surprises--a sweetheart who is

sprung upon us without any preparation, along with a name for her which

is even a little more of a surprise than she herself is.

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 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 not rash in your resolution. It is better

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

would say. I know you have a costly gift for me--the noblest that man

can make--_your heart!_ You should not offer it to one so unworthy.

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

solitude, a home of silent obedience, which my parents say is more to

be admired than big names and high-sounding titles. Notwithstanding all

this, let me speak the emotions of an honest heart--allow me to say in

the fullness of my hopes that I anticipate better days. The bird may

stretch its wings toward the sun, which it can never reach; and flowers

of the field appear to ascend in the same direction, because they cannot

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

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

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

deceive not yourself.”

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 be seen together, lest trouble follow with the girl's

malignant father; we are made to understand that clearly. So the two sit

together in the orchestra, in the midst of the musicians. This does not

seem to be good art. In the first place, the girl would be in the way,

for orchestras are always packed closely together, and there is no room

to spare for people's girls; in the next place, one cannot conceal a

girl in an orchestra without everybody taking notice of it. There can be

no doubt, it seems to me, that this is bad art.

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 signifying nothing. Another elopement is planned; it is to

take place on Sunday, when everybody is at church. But the “hero” cannot

keep the secret; he tells everybody. Another author would have found

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

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

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 many 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 trait may unfold itself in her character, and as

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

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

adds an additional luster to what she already possesses. I mean that

disposition in woman which enables her, in sorrow, in grief, and in

distress, to bear all with enduring patience. This she has done, and

can and will do, amid the din of war and clash of arms. Scenes and

occurrences which, to every appearance, are calculated to rend the heart

with the profoundest emotions of trouble, do not fetter that exalted

principle imbued in her very nature. It is true, her tender and feeling

heart may often be moved (as she is thus constituted), but she is not

conquered, she has not given up to the harlequin of disappointments, her

energies have not become clouded in the last movement of misfortune, but

she is continually invigorated by the archetype of her affections. She

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

may promenade the delightful walks of some garden, decorated with all

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

stream, and there, as the silver waters uninterruptedly move forward,

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

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

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

that proclaims _victory _along the whole line and battlement of her

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

voice is one that bears everything calmly and dispassionately, amid the

most distressing scenes; when the fates are arrayed against her peace,

and apparently plotting for her destruction, still she is resigned.

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 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