Sir--In regard to your request, I am as I ever have been, utterly

opposed to your marrying into my family; and if you have any regard for

yourself, or any gentlemanly feeling, I hope you will mention it to me

no more; but seek some other one who is not so far superior to you in

standing.

W. W. Valeer.

When Elfonzo read the above letter, he became so much depressed in

spirits that many of his friends thought it advisable to use other means

to bring about the happy union. “Strange,” said he, “that the contents

of this diminutive letter should cause me to have such depressed

feelings; but there is a nobler theme than this. I know not why my

_military title_ is not as great as that of _Squire Valeer_. For my life

I cannot see that my ancestors are inferior to those who are so bitterly

opposed to my marriage with Ambulinia. I know I have seen huge mountains

before me, yet, when I think that I know gentlemen will insult me upon

this delicate matter, should I become angry at fools and babblers, who

pride themselves in their impudence and ignorance? No. My equals! I

know not where to find them. My inferiors! I think it beneath me; and my

superiors! I think it presumption; therefore, if this youthful heart is

protected by any of the divine rights, I never will betray my trust.”

He was aware that Ambulinia had a confidence that was, indeed, as firm

and as resolute as she was beautiful and interesting. He hastened to the

cottage of Louisa, who received him in her usual mode of pleasantness,

and informed him that Ambulinia had just that moment left. “Is it

possible?” said Elfonzo. “Oh, murdered hours! Why did she not remain and

be the guardian of my secrets? But hasten and tell me how she has stood

this trying scene, and what are her future determinations.” “You know,”

said Louisa, “Major Elfonzo, that you have Ambulinia's first love, which

is of no small consequence. She came here about twilight, and shed many

precious tears in consequence of her own fate with yours. We walked

silently in yon little valley you see, where we spent a momentary

repose. She seemed to be quite as determined as ever, and before we left

that beautiful spot she offered up a prayer to Heaven for thee.” “I will

see her then,” replied Elfonzo, “though legions of enemies may oppose.

She is mine by foreordination--she is mine by prophesy--she is mine

by her own free will, and I will rescue her from the hands of her

oppressors. Will you not, Miss Louisa, assist me in my capture?”

“I will certainly, by the aid of Divine Providence,” answered Louisa,

“endeavor to break those slavish chains that bind the richest of prizes;

though allow me, Major, to entreat you to use no harsh means on this

important occasion; take a decided stand, and write freely to Ambulinia

upon this subject, and I will see that no intervening cause hinders its

passage to her. God alone will save a mourning people. Now is the day

and now is the hour to obey a command of such valuable worth.” The Major

felt himself grow stronger after this short interview with Louisa. He

felt as if he could whip his weight in wildcats--he knew he was master

of his own feelings, and could now write a letter that would bring this

litigation to _an issue._

Cumming, January 24, 1844.

Dear Ambulinia--

We have now reached the most trying moment of our lives; we are pledged

not to forsake our trust; we have waited for a favorable hour to

come, thinking your friends would settle the matter agreeably among

themselves, and finally be reconciled to our marriage; but as I have

waited in vain, and looked in vain, I have determined in my own mind to

make a proposition to you, though you may think it not in accord with

your station, or compatible with your rank; yet, “sub hoc signo

vinces.” You know I cannot resume my visits, in consequence of the utter

hostility that your father has to me; therefore the consummation of

our union will have to be sought for in a more sublime sphere, at the

residence of a respectable friend of this village. You cannot have

any scruples upon this mode of proceeding, if you will but remember it

emanates from one who loves you better than his own life--who is more

than anxious to bid you welcome to a new and happy home. Your warmest

associates say come; the talented, the learned, the wise, and the

experienced say come;--all these with their friends say, come. Viewing

these, with many other inducements, I flatter myself that you will come

to the embraces of your Elfonzo; for now is the time of your acceptance

of the day of your liberation. You cannot be ignorant, Ambulinia, that

thou art the desire of my heart; its thoughts are too noble, and too

pure, to conceal themselves from you. I shall wait for your answer to

this impatiently, expecting that you will set the time to make your

departure, and to be in readiness at a moment's warning to share the

joys of a more preferable life. This will be handed to you by Louisa,

who will take a pleasure in communicating anything to you that may

relieve your dejected spirits, and will assure you that I now stand

ready, willing, and waiting to make good my vows.

I am, dear Ambulinia, yours

truly, and forever,

J. I. Elfonzo.

Louisa made it convenient to visit Mr. Valeer's, though they did not

suspect her in the least the bearer of love epistles; consequently,

she was invited in the room to console Ambulinia, where they were left

alone. Ambulinia was seated by a small table--her head resting on her

hand--her brilliant eyes were bathed in tears. Louisa handed her the

letter of Elfonzo, when another spirit animated her features--the

spirit of renewed confidence that never fails to strengthen the

female character in an hour of grief and sorrow like this, and as she

pronounced the last accent of his name, she exclaimed, “And does he love

me yet! I never will forget your generosity, Louisa. Oh, unhappy and yet

blessed Louisa! may you never feel what I have felt--may you never know

the pangs of love. Had I never loved, I never would have been unhappy;

but I turn to Him who can save, and if His wisdom does not will my

expected union, I know He will give me strength to bear my lot. Amuse

yourself with this little book, and take it as an apology for my

silence,” said Ambulinia, “while I attempt to answer this volume of

consolation.” “Thank you,” said Louisa, “you are excusable upon this

occasion; but I pray you, Ambulinia, to be expert upon this momentous

subject, that there may be nothing mistrustful upon my part.” “I will,”

said Ambulinia, and immediately resumed her seat and addressed the

following to Elfonzo:

Cumming, Ga., January 28, 1844.

Devoted Elfonzo--

I hail your letter as a welcome messenger of faith, and can now say

truly and firmly that my feelings correspond with yours. Nothing shall

be wanting on my part to make my obedience your fidelity. Courage and

perseverance will accomplish success. Receive this as my oath, that

while I grasp your hand in my own imagination, we stand united before a

higher tribunal than any on earth. All the powers of my life, soul, and

body, I devote to thee. Whatever dangers may threaten me, I fear not to

encounter them. Perhaps I have determined upon my own destruction, by

leaving the house of the best of parents; be it so; I flee to you; I

share your destiny, faithful to the end. The day that I have concluded

upon for this task is _sabbath _next, when the family with the citizens

are generally at church. For Heaven's sake let not that day pass

unimproved: trust not till tomorrow, it is the cheat of life--the future

that never comes--the grave of many noble births--the cavern of ruined

enterprise: which like the lightning's flash is born, and dies, and

perishes, ere the voice of him who sees can cry, _behold! behold!!_ You

may trust to what I say, no power shall tempt me to betray confidence.

Suffer me to add one word more.

I will soothe thee, in all thy grief,

Beside the gloomy river;

And though thy love may yet be brief;

Mine is fixed forever.

Receive the deepest emotions of my heart for thy constant love, and

may the power of inspiration be thy guide, thy portion, and thy all. In

great haste,

Yours faithfully,

Ambulinia.

“I now take my leave of you, sweet girl,” said Louisa, “sincerely

wishing you success on Sabbath next.” When Ambulinia's letter was handed

to Elfonzo, he perused it without doubting its contents. Louisa charged

him to make but few confidants; but like most young men who happened to

win the heart of a beautiful girl, he was so elated with the idea that

he felt as a commanding general on parade, who had confidence in all,

consequently gave orders to all. The appointed Sabbath, with a delicious

breeze and cloudless sky, made its appearance. The people gathered in

crowds to the church--the streets were filled with neighboring citizens,

all marching to the house of worship. It is entirely useless for me

to attempt to describe the feelings of Elfonzo and Ambulinia, who were

silently watching the movements of the multitude, apparently counting

them as then entered the house of God, looking for the last one to

darken the door. The impatience and anxiety with which they waited,

and the bliss they anticipated on the eventful day, is altogether

indescribable. Those that have been so fortunate as to embark in such a

noble enterprise know all its realities; and those who have not had this

inestimable privilege will have to taste its sweets before they can tell

to others its joys, its comforts, and its Heaven-born worth. Immediately

after Ambulinia had assisted the family off to church, she took

advantage of that opportunity to make good her promises. She left a home

of enjoyment to be wedded to one whose love had been justifiable. A few

short steps brought her to the presence of Louisa, who urged her to make

good use of her time, and not to delay a moment, but to go with her to

her brother's house, where Elfonzo would forever make her happy. With

lively speed, and yet a graceful air, she entered the door and found

herself protected by the champion of her confidence. The necessary

arrangements were fast making to have the two lovers united--everything

was in readiness except the parson; and as they are generally very

sanctimonious on such occasions, the news got to the parents of

Ambulinia before the everlasting knot was tied, and they both came

running, with uplifted hands and injured feelings, to arrest their

daughter from an unguarded and hasty resolution. Elfonzo desired to

maintain his ground, but Ambulinia thought it best for him to leave, to

prepare for a greater contest. He accordingly obeyed, as it would have

been a vain endeavor for him to have battled against a man who was armed

with deadly weapons; and besides, he could not resist the request of

such a pure heart. Ambulinia concealed herself in the upper story of

the house, fearing the rebuke of her father; the door was locked, and no

chastisement was now expected. Esquire Valeer, whose pride was already

touched, resolved to preserve the dignity of his family. He entered

the house almost exhausted, looking wildly for Ambulinia. “Amazed and

astonished indeed I am,” said he, “at a people who call themselves

civilized, to allow such behavior as this. Ambulinia, Ambulinia!”

he cried, “come to the calls of your first, your best, and your only

friend. I appeal to you, sir,” turning to the gentleman of the house,

“to know where Ambulinia has gone, or where is she?” “Do you mean

to insult me, sir, in my own house?” inquired the gentleman. “I will

burst,” said Mr. V., “asunder every door in your dwelling, in search of

my daughter, if you do not speak quickly, and tell me where she is.

I care nothing about that outcast rubbish of creation, that mean,

low-lived Elfonzo, if I can but obtain Ambulinia. Are you not going to

open this door?” said he. “By the Eternal that made Heaven and earth!

I will go about the work instantly, if this is not done!” The confused

citizens gathered from all parts of the village, to know the cause of

this commotion. Some rushed into the house; the door that was locked

flew open, and there stood Ambulinia, weeping. “Father, be still,” said

she, “and I will follow thee home.” But the agitated man seized her, and

bore her off through the gazing multitude. “Father!” she exclaimed, “I

humbly beg your pardon--I will be dutiful--I will obey thy commands.

Let the sixteen years I have lived in obedience to thee be my future

security.” “I don't like to be always giving credit, when the old score

is not paid up, madam,” said the father. The mother followed almost in a

state of derangement, crying and imploring her to think beforehand, and

ask advice from experienced persons, and they would tell her it was a

rash undertaking. “Oh!” said she, “Ambulinia, my daughter, did you know

what I have suffered--did you know how many nights I have whiled away in

agony, in pain, and in fear, you would pity the sorrows of a heartbroken

mother.”

“Well, mother,” replied Ambulinia, “I know I have been disobedient; I

am aware that what I have done might have been done much better; but

oh! what shall I do with my honor? it is so dear to me; I am pledged

to Elfonzo. His high moral worth is certainly worth some attention;

moreover, my vows, I have no doubt, are recorded in the book of life,

and must I give these all up? must my fair hopes be forever blasted?

Forbid it, father; oh! forbid it, mother; forbid it, Heaven.” “I have

seen so many beautiful skies overclouded,” replied the mother, “so many

blossoms nipped by the frost, that I am afraid to trust you to the

care of those fair days, which may be interrupted by thundering and

tempestuous nights. You no doubt think as I did--life's devious ways

were strewn with sweet-scented flowers, but ah! how long they have

lingered around me and took their flight in the vivid hope that laughs

at the drooping victims it has murdered.” Elfonzo was moved at this

sight. The people followed on to see what was going to become of

Ambulinia, while he, with downcast looks, kept at a distance, until he

saw them enter the abode of the father, thrusting her, that was the sigh

of his soul, out of his presence into a solitary apartment, when she

exclaimed, “Elfonzo! Elfonzo! oh, Elfonzo! where art thou, with all thy

heroes? haste, oh! haste, come thou to my relief. Ride on the wings of

the wind! Turn thy force loose like a tempest, and roll on thy army like

a whirlwind, over this mountain of trouble and confusion. Oh, friends!

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

come to the relief of Ambulinia, who is guilty of nothing but innocent

love.” Elfonzo called out with a loud voice, “My God, can I stand this!

arise up, I beseech you, and put an end to this tyranny. Come, my brave

boys,” said he, “are you ready to go forth to your duty?” They stood

around him. “Who,” said he, “will call us to arms? Where are my

thunderbolts of war? Speak ye, the first who will meet the foe! Who will

go forward with me in this ocean of grievous temptation? If there is

one who desires to go, let him come and shake hands upon the altar of

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

like this, which calls aloud for a speedy remedy.” “Mine be the deed,”

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

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

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

victory? I love the sleep of the lover and the mighty; nor would I give

it over till the blood of my enemies should wreak with that of my own.

But God forbid that our fame should soar on the blood of the slumberer.”

Mr. Valeer stands at his door with the frown of a demon upon his brow,

with his dangerous weapon ready to strike the first man who should enter

his door. “Who will arise and go forward through blood and carnage

to the rescue of my Ambulinia?” said Elfonzo. “All,” exclaimed the

multitude; and onward they went, with their implements of battle.

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

result of the contest.

Elfonzo took the lead of his band. Night arose in clouds; darkness

concealed the heavens; but the blazing hopes that stimulated them

gleamed in every bosom. All approached the anxious spot; they rushed to

the front of the house and, with one exclamation, demanded Ambulinia.

“Away, begone, and disturb my peace no more,” said Mr. Valeer. “You are

a set of base, insolent, and infernal rascals. Go, the northern star

points your path through the dim twilight of the night; go, and vent

your spite upon the lonely hills; pour forth your love, you poor,

weak-minded wretch, upon your idleness and upon your guitar, and your

fiddle; they are fit subjects for your admiration, for let me assure

you, though this sword and iron lever are cankered, yet they frown in

sleep, and let one of you dare to enter my house this night and you

shall have the contents and the weight of these instruments.” “Never

yet did base dishonor blur my name,” said Elfonzo; “mine is a cause of

renown; here are my warriors; fear and tremble, for this night, though

hell itself should oppose, I will endeavor to avenge her whom thou hast

banished in solitude. The voice of Ambulinia shall be heard from that

dark dungeon.” At that moment Ambulinia appeared at the window above,

and with a tremulous voice said, “Live, Elfonzo! oh! live to raise my

stone of moss! why should such language enter your heart? why should

thy voice rend the air with such agitation? I bid thee live, once more

remembering these tears of mine are shed alone for thee, in this dark

and gloomy vault, and should I perish under this load of trouble, join

the song of thrilling accents with the raven above my grave, and lay

this tattered frame beside the banks of the Chattahoochee or the stream

of Sawney's brook; sweet will be the song of death to your Ambulinia. My

ghost shall visit you in the smiles of Paradise, and tell your high

fame to the minds of that region, which is far more preferable than this

lonely cell. My heart shall speak for thee till the latest hour; I know

faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow, yet our souls, Elfonzo, shall

hear the peaceful songs together. One bright name shall be ours on high,

if we are not permitted to be united here; bear in mind that I still

cherish my old sentiments, and the poet will mingle the names of Elfonzo

and Ambulinia in the tide of other days.” “Fly, Elfonzo,” said the

voices of his united band, “to the wounded heart of your beloved. All

enemies shall fall beneath thy sword. Fly through the clefts, and the

dim spark shall sleep in death.” Elfonzo rushes forward and strikes

his shield against the door, which was barricaded, to prevent any

intercourse. His brave sons throng around him. The people pour along

the streets, both male and female, to prevent or witness the melancholy

scene.

“To arms, to arms!” cried Elfonzo; “here is a victory to be won, a prize

to be gained that is more to me that the whole world beside.” “It

cannot be done tonight,” said Mr. Valeer. “I bear the clang of death; my

strength and armor shall prevail. My Ambulinia shall rest in this hall

until the break of another day, and if we fall, we fall together. If we

die, we die clinging to our tattered rights, and our blood alone shall

tell the mournful tale of a murdered daughter and a ruined father.” Sure

enough, he kept watch all night, and was successful in defending his

house and family. The bright morning gleamed upon the hills, night

vanished away, the Major and his associates felt somewhat ashamed that

they had not been as fortunate as they expected to have been; however,

they still leaned upon their arms in dispersed groups; some were walking

the streets, others were talking in the Major's behalf. Many of

the citizen suspended business, as the town presented nothing but

consternation. A novelty that might end in the destruction of some

worthy and respectable citizens. Mr. Valeer ventured in the streets,

though not without being well armed. Some of his friends congratulated

him on the decided stand he had taken, and hoped he would settle the

matter amicably with Elfonzo, without any serious injury. “Me,” he

replied, “what, me, condescend to fellowship with a coward, and a

low-lived, lazy, undermining villain? no, gentlemen, this cannot be; I

had rather be borne off, like the bubble upon the dark blue ocean, with

Ambulinia by my side, than to have him in the ascending or descending

line of relationship. Gentlemen,” continued he, “if Elfonzo is so much

of a distinguished character, and is so learned in the fine arts, why do

you not patronize such men? why not introduce him into your families, as

a gentleman of taste and of unequaled magnanimity? why are you so very

anxious that he should become a relative of mine? Oh, gentlemen, I fear

you yet are tainted with the curiosity of our first parents, who were

beguiled by the poisonous kiss of an old ugly serpent, and who, for

one _apple, damned_ all mankind. I wish to divest myself, as far as

possible, of that untutored custom. I have long since learned that the

perfection of wisdom, and the end of true philosophy, is to proportion

our wants to our possessions, our ambition to our capacities; we will

then be a happy and a virtuous people.” Ambulinia was sent off to

prepare for a long and tedious journey. Her new acquaintances had been

instructed by her father how to treat her, and in what manner, and to

keep the anticipated visit entirely secret. Elfonzo was watching the

movements of everybody; some friends had told him of the plot that was

laid to carry off Ambulinia. At night, he rallied some two or three of

his forces, and went silently along to the stately mansion; a faint and

glimmering light showed through the windows; lightly he steps to the

door; there were many voices rallying fresh in fancy's eye; he tapped

the shutter; it was opened instantly, and he beheld once more, seated

beside several ladies, the hope of all his toils; he rushed toward

her, she rose from her seat, rejoicing; he made one mighty grasp, when

Ambulinia exclaimed, “Huzza for Major Elfonzo! I will defend myself and

you, too, with this conquering instrument I hold in my hand; huzza, I

say, I now invoke time's broad wing to shed around us some dewdrops of

verdant spring.”

But the hour had not come for this joyous reunion; her friends struggled

with Elfonzo for some time, and finally succeeded in arresting her from

his hands. He dared not injure them, because they were matrons whose

courage needed no spur; she was snatched from the arms of Elfonzo, with

so much eagerness, and yet with such expressive signification, that he

calmly withdrew from this lovely enterprise, with an ardent hope that he

should be lulled to repose by the zephyrs which whispered peace to his

soul. Several long days and nights passed unmolested, all seemed to have

grounded their arms of rebellion, and no callidity appeared to be going

on with any of the parties. Other arrangements were made by Ambulinia;

she feigned herself to be entirely the votary of a mother's care, and

she, by her graceful smiles, that manhood might claim his stern dominion

in some other region, where such boisterous love was not so prevalent.

This gave the parents a confidence that yielded some hours of sober joy;

they believed that Ambulinia would now cease to love Elfonzo, and that

her stolen affections would now expire with her misguided opinions. They

therefore declined the idea of sending her to a distant land. But oh!

they dreamed not of the rapture that dazzled the fancy of Ambulinia, who

would say, when alone, youth should not fly away on his rosy pinions,

and leave her to grapple in the conflict with unknown admirers.

No frowning age shall control

The constant current of my soul,

Nor a tear from pity's eye

Shall check my sympathetic sigh.

With this resolution fixed in her mind, one dark and dreary night, when

the winds whistled and the tempest roared, she received intelligence

that Elfonzo was then waiting, and every preparation was then ready, at

the residence of Dr. Tully, and for her to make a quick escape while

the family was reposing. Accordingly she gathered her books, went the

wardrobe supplied with a variety of ornamental dressing, and ventured

alone in the streets to make her way to Elfonzo, who was near at hand,

impatiently looking and watching her arrival. “What forms,” said she,

“are those rising before me? What is that dark spot on the clouds? I do

wonder what frightful ghost that is, gleaming on the red tempest? Oh,

be merciful and tell me what region you are from. Oh, tell me, ye strong

spirits, or ye dark and fleeting clouds, that I yet have a friend.” “A

friend,” said a low, whispering voice. “I am thy unchanging, thy aged,

and thy disappointed mother. Why brandish in that hand of thine a

javelin of pointed steel? Why suffer that lip I have kissed a thousand

times to equivocate? My daughter, let these tears sink deep into thy

soul, and no longer persist in that which may be your destruction and

ruin. Come, my dear child, retract your steps, and bear me company to

your welcome home.” Without one retorting word, or frown from her brow,

she yielded to the entreaties of her mother, and with all the mildness

of her former character she went along with the silver lamp of age, to

the home of candor and benevolence. Her father received her cold and

formal politeness--“Where has Ambulinia been, this blustering evening,

Mrs. Valeer?” inquired he. “Oh, she and I have been taking a solitary

walk,” said the mother; “all things, I presume, are now working for the

best.”

Elfonzo heard this news shortly after it happened. “What,” said he,

“has heaven and earth turned against me? I have been disappointed times

without number. Shall I despair?--must I give it over? Heaven's decrees

will not fade; I will write again--I will try again; and if it traverses

a gory field, I pray forgiveness at the altar of justice.”

Desolate Hill, Cumming, Geo., 1844.

Unconquered and Beloved Ambulinia-- I have only time to say to you, not

to despair; thy fame shall not perish; my visions are brightening before

me. The whirlwind's rage is past, and we now shall subdue our enemies

without doubt. On Monday morning, when your friends are at breakfast,

they will not suspect your departure, or even mistrust me being in town,

as it has been reported advantageously that I have left for the west.

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

with a lightning steed, elegantly equipped to bear you off where we

shall be joined in wedlock with the first connubial rights. Fail not

to do this--think not of the tedious relations of our wrongs--be

invincible. You alone occupy all my ambition, and I alone will make you

my happy spouse, with the same unimpeached veracity. I remain, forever,

your devoted friend and admirer, J. I. Elfonzo.

The appointed day ushered in undisturbed by any clouds; nothing

disturbed Ambulinia's soft beauty. With serenity and loveliness she

obeys the request of Elfonzo. The moment the family seated themselves

at the table--“Excuse my absence for a short time,” said she, “while I

attend to the placing of those flowers, which should have been done

a week ago.” And away she ran to the sacred grove, surrounded with

glittering pearls, that indicated her coming. Elfonzo hails her with

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

brightens--Elfonzo leads up his winged steed. “Mount,” said he, “ye

true-hearted, ye fearless soul--the day is ours.” She sprang upon the

back of the young thunder bolt, a brilliant star sparkles upon her head,

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

olive branch. “Lend thy aid, ye strong winds,” they exclaimed, “ye moon,

ye sun, and all ye fair host of heaven, witness the enemy conquered.”

“Hold,” said Elfonzo, “thy dashing steed.” “Ride on,” said Ambulinia,

“the voice of thunder is behind us.” And onward they went, with such

rapidity that they very soon arrived at Rural Retreat, where they

dismounted, and were united with all the solemnities that usually attend

such divine operations. They passed the day in thanksgiving and great

rejoicing, and on that evening they visited their uncle, where many of

their friends and acquaintances had gathered to congratulate them in the

field of untainted bliss. The kind old gentleman met them in the yard:

“Well,” said he, “I wish I may die, Elfonzo, if you and Ambulinia

haven't tied a knot with your tongue that you can't untie with your

teeth. But come in, come in, never mind, all is right--the world still

moves on, and no one has fallen in this great battle.”

Happy now is their lot! Unmoved by misfortune, they live among the fair

beauties of the South. Heaven spreads their peace and fame upon the arch

of the rainbow, and smiles propitiously at their triumph, _through the

tears of the storm._

THE CALIFORNIAN'S TALE

Thirty-five years ago I was out prospecting on the Stanislaus, tramping

all day long with pick and pan and horn, and washing a hatful of dirt

here and there, always expecting to make a rich strike, and never doing

it. It was a lovely region, woodsy, balmy, delicious, and had once been

populous, long years before, but now the people had vanished and the

charming paradise was a solitude. They went away when the surface

diggings gave out. In one place, where a busy little city with banks

and newspapers and fire companies and a mayor and aldermen had been, was

nothing but a wide expanse of emerald turf, with not even the faintest

sign that human life had ever been present there. This was down toward

Tuttletown. In the country neighborhood thereabouts, along the dusty

roads, one found at intervals the prettiest little cottage homes, snug

and cozy, and so cobwebbed with vines snowed thick with roses that the

doors and windows were wholly hidden from sight--sign that these were

deserted homes, forsaken years ago by defeated and disappointed families

who could neither sell them nor give them away. Now and then, half an

hour apart, one came across solitary log cabins of the earliest

mining days, built by the first gold-miners, the predecessors of the

cottage-builders. In some few cases these cabins were still occupied;

and when this was so, you could depend upon it that the occupant was the

very pioneer who had built the cabin; and you could depend on another

thing, too--that he was there because he had once had his opportunity

to go home to the States rich, and had not done it; had rather lost

his wealth, and had then in his humiliation resolved to sever all

communication with his home relatives and friends, and be to them

thenceforth as one dead. Round about California in that day were

scattered a host of these living dead men--pride-smitten poor fellows,

grizzled and old at forty, whose secret thoughts were made all of

regrets and longings--regrets for their wasted lives, and longings to be

out of the struggle and done with it all.

It was a lonesome land! Not a sound in all those peaceful expanses of

grass and woods but the drowsy hum of insects; no glimpse of man or

beast; nothing to keep up your spirits and make you glad to be alive.

And so, at last, in the early part of the afternoon, when I caught sight

of a human creature, I felt a most grateful uplift. This person was a

man about forty-five years old, and he was standing at the gate of one

of those cozy little rose-clad cottages of the sort already referred to.

However, this one hadn't a deserted look; it had the look of being lived

in and petted and cared for and looked after; and so had its front yard,

which was a garden of flowers, abundant, gay, and flourishing. I was

invited in, of course, and required to make myself at home--it was the

custom of the country.

It was delightful to be in such a place, after long weeks of daily and

nightly familiarity with miners' cabins--with all which this implies of

dirt floor, never-made beds, tin plates and cups, bacon and beans and

black coffee, and nothing of ornament but war pictures from the

Eastern illustrated papers tacked to the log walls. That was all hard,

cheerless, materialistic desolation, but here was a nest which had

aspects to rest the tired eye and refresh that something in one's nature

which, after long fasting, recognizes, when confronted by the

belongings of art, howsoever cheap and modest they may be, that it has

unconsciously been famishing and now has found nourishment. I could not

have believed that a rag carpet could feast me so, and so content me;

or that there could be such solace to the soul in wall-paper and framed

lithographs, and bright-colored tidies and lamp-mats, and Windsor

chairs, and varnished what-nots, with sea-shells and books and china

vases on them, and the score of little unclassifiable tricks and touches

that a woman's hand distributes about a home, which one sees without

knowing he sees them, yet would miss in a moment if they were taken

away. The delight that was in my heart showed in my face, and the man

saw it and was pleased; saw it so plainly that he answered it as if it

had been spoken.

“All her work,” he said, caressingly; “she did it all herself--every

bit,” and he took the room in with a glance which was full of

affectionate worship. One of those soft Japanese fabrics with which

women drape with careful negligence the upper part of a picture-frame

was out of adjustment. He noticed it, and rearranged it with cautious

pains, stepping back several times to gauge the effect before he got it

to suit him. Then he gave it a light finishing pat or two with his hand,

and said: “She always does that. You can't tell just what it lacks, but

it does lack something until you've done that--you can see it yourself

after it's done, but that is all you know; you can't find out the law of

it. It's like the finishing pats a mother gives the child's hair after

she's got it combed and brushed, I reckon. I've seen her fix all these

things so much that I can do them all just her way, though I don't know

the law of any of them. But she knows the law. She knows the why and the

how both; but I don't know the why; I only know the how.”

He took me into a bedroom so that I might wash my hands; such a bedroom

as I had not seen for years: white counterpane, white pillows, carpeted

floor, papered walls, pictures, dressing-table, with mirror and

pin-cushion and dainty toilet things; and in the corner a wash-stand,

with real china-ware bowl and pitcher, and with soap in a china dish,

and on a rack more than a dozen towels--towels too clean and white for

one out of practice to use without some vague sense of profanation. So

my face spoke again, and he answered with gratified words:

“All her work; she did it all herself--every bit. Nothing here that

hasn't felt the touch of her hand. Now you would think--But I mustn't

talk so much.”

By this time I was wiping my hands and glancing from detail to detail

of the room's belongings, as one is apt to do when he is in a new place,

where everything he sees is a comfort to his eye and his spirit; and

I became conscious, in one of those unaccountable ways, you know, that

there was something there somewhere that the man wanted me to discover

for myself. I knew it perfectly, and I knew he was trying to help me by

furtive indications with his eye, so I tried hard to get on the right

track, being eager to gratify him. I failed several times, as I could

see out of the corner of my eye without being told; but at last I knew I

must be looking straight at the thing--knew it from the pleasure issuing

in invisible waves from him. He broke into a happy laugh, and rubbed his

hands together, and cried out:

“That's it! You've found it. I knew you would. It's her picture.”

I went to the little black-walnut bracket on the farther wall, and

did find there what I had not yet noticed--a daguerreotype-case. It

contained the sweetest girlish face, and the most beautiful, as it

seemed to me, that I had ever seen. The man drank the admiration from my

face, and was fully satisfied.

“Nineteen her last birthday,” he said, as he put the picture back; “and

that was the day we were married. When you see her--ah, just wait till

you see her!”

“Where is she? When will she be in?”

“Oh, she's away now. She's gone to see her people. They live forty or

fifty miles from here. She's been gone two weeks today.”

“When do you expect her back?”

“This is Wednesday. She'll be back Saturday, in the evening--about nine

o'clock, likely.”

I felt a sharp sense of disappointment.

“I'm sorry, because I'll be gone then,” I said, regretfully.

“Gone? No--why should you go? Don't go. She'll be disappointed.”

She would be disappointed--that beautiful creature! If she had said the

words herself they could hardly have blessed me more. I was feeling

a deep, strong longing to see her--a longing so supplicating, so

insistent, that it made me afraid. I said to myself: “I will go straight

away from this place, for my peace of mind's sake.”

“You see, she likes to have people come and stop with us--people who

know things, and can talk--people like you. She delights in it; for she

knows--oh, she knows nearly everything herself, and can talk, oh, like

a bird--and the books she reads, why, you would be astonished. Don't go;

it's only a little while, you know, and she'll be so disappointed.”

I heard the words, but hardly noticed them, I was so deep in my

thinkings and strugglings. He left me, but I didn't know. Presently he

was back, with the picture case in his hand, and he held it open before

me and said:

“There, now, tell her to her face you could have stayed to see her, and

you wouldn't.”

That second glimpse broke down my good resolution. I would stay and take

the risk. That night we smoked the tranquil pipe, and talked till late

about various things, but mainly about her; and certainly I had had no

such pleasant and restful time for many a day. The Thursday followed and

slipped comfortably away. Toward twilight a big miner from three miles

away came--one of the grizzled, stranded pioneers--and gave us warm

salutation, clothed in grave and sober speech. Then he said:

“I only just dropped over to ask about the little madam, and when is she

coming home. Any news from her?”

“Oh, yes, a letter. Would you like to hear it, Tom?”

“Well, I should think I would, if you don't mind, Henry!”

Henry got the letter out of his wallet, and said he would skip some of

the private phrases, if we were willing; then he went on and read the

bulk of it--a loving, sedate, and altogether charming and gracious

piece of handiwork, with a postscript full of affectionate regards

and messages to Tom, and Joe, and Charley, and other close friends and

neighbors.

As the reader finished, he glanced at Tom, and cried out:

“Oho, you're at it again! Take your hands away, and let me see your

eyes. You always do that when I read a letter from her. I will write and

tell her.”

“Oh no, you mustn't, Henry. I'm getting old, you know, and any little

disappointment makes me want to cry. I thought she'd be here herself,

and now you've got only a letter.”

“Well, now, what put that in your head? I thought everybody knew she

wasn't coming till Saturday.”

“Saturday! Why, come to think, I did know it. I wonder what's the matter

with me lately? Certainly I knew it. Ain't we all getting ready for her?

Well, I must be going now. But I'll be on hand when she comes, old man!”

Late Friday afternoon another gray veteran tramped over from his cabin a

mile or so away, and said the boys wanted to have a little gaiety and

a good time Saturday night, if Henry thought she wouldn't be too tired

after her journey to be kept up.

“Tired? She tired! Oh, hear the man! Joe, _you _know she'd sit up six

weeks to please any one of you!”

When Joe heard that there was a letter, he asked to have it read, and

the loving messages in it for him broke the old fellow all up; but he

said he was such an old wreck that _that _would happen to him if she

only just mentioned his name. “Lord, we miss her so!” he said.

Saturday afternoon I found I was taking out my watch pretty often. Henry

noticed it, and said, with a startled look:

“You don't think she ought to be here soon, do you?”

I felt caught, and a little embarrassed; but I laughed, and said it was

a habit of mine when I was in a state of expenctancy. But he didn't seem

quite satisfied; and from that time on he began to show uneasiness. Four

times he walked me up the road to a point whence we could see a long

distance; and there he would stand, shading his eyes with his hand, and

looking. Several times he said:

“I'm getting worried, I'm getting right down worried. I know she's not

due till about nine o'clock, and yet something seems to be trying

to warn me that something's happened. You don't think anything has

happened, do you?”

I began to get pretty thoroughly ashamed of him for his childishness;

and at last, when he repeated that imploring question still another

time, I lost my patience for the moment, and spoke pretty brutally to

him. It seemed to shrivel him up and cow him; and he looked so wounded

and so humble after that, that I detested myself for having done the

cruel and unnecessary thing. And so I was glad when Charley, another

veteran, arrived toward the edge of the evening, and nestled up to

Henry to hear the letter read, and talked over the preparations for the

welcome. Charley fetched out one hearty speech after another, and did

his best to drive away his friend's bodings and apprehensions.

“Anything _happened _to her? Henry, that's pure nonsense. There isn't

anything going to happen to her; just make your mind easy as to that.

What did the letter say? Said she was well, didn't it? And said she'd

be here by nine o'clock, didn't it? Did you ever know her to fail of her

word? Why, you know you never did. Well, then, don't you fret; she'll_

be_ here, and that's absolutely certain, and as sure as you are born.

Come, now, let's get to decorating--not much time left.”

Pretty soon Tom and Joe arrived, and then all hands set about adorning

the house with flowers. Toward nine the three miners said that as they

had brought their instruments they might as well tune up, for the

boys and girls would soon be arriving now, and hungry for a good,

old-fashioned break-down. A fiddle, a banjo, and a clarinet--these were

the instruments. The trio took their places side by side, and began to

play some rattling dance-music, and beat time with their big boots.

It was getting very close to nine. Henry was standing in the door with

his eyes directed up the road, his body swaying to the torture of his

mental distress. He had been made to drink his wife's health and safety

several times, and now Tom shouted:

“All hands stand by! One more drink, and she's here!”

Joe brought the glasses on a waiter, and served the party. I reached for

one of the two remaining glasses, but Joe growled under his breath:

“Drop that! Take the other.”

Which I did. Henry was served last. He had hardly swallowed his drink

when the clock began to strike. He listened till it finished, his face

growing pale and paler; then he said:

“Boys, I'm sick with fear. Help me--I want to lie down!”

They helped him to the sofa. He began to nestle and drowse, but

presently spoke like one talking in his sleep, and said: “Did I hear

horses' feet? Have they come?”

One of the veterans answered, close to his ear: “It was Jimmy Parish

come to say the party got delayed, but they're right up the road a

piece, and coming along. Her horse is lame, but she'll be here in half

an hour.”

“Oh, I'm_ so_ thankful nothing has happened!”

He was asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth. In a moment

those handy men had his clothes off, and had tucked him into his bed in

the chamber where I had washed my hands. They closed the door and came

back. Then they seemed preparing to leave; but I said: “Please don't go,

gentlemen. She won't know me; I am a stranger.”

They glanced at each other. Then Joe said:

“She? Poor thing, she's been dead nineteen years!”

“Dead?”

“That or worse. She went to see her folks half a year after she was

married, and on her way back, on a Saturday evening, the Indians

captured her within five miles of this place, and she's never been heard

of since.”

“And he lost his mind in consequence?”

“Never has been sane an hour since. But he only gets bad when that time

of year comes round. Then we begin to drop in here, three days before

she's due, to encourage him up, and ask if he's heard from her,

and Saturday we all come and fix up the house with flowers, and get

everything ready for a dance. We've done it every year for nineteen

years. The first Saturday there was twenty-seven of us, without counting

the girls; there's only three of us now, and the girls are gone. We

drug him to sleep, or he would go wild; then he's all right for another

year--thinks she's with him till the last three or four days come round;

then he begins to look for her, and gets out his poor old letter, and we

come and ask him to read it to us. Lord, she was a darling!”

A HELPLESS SITUATION

Once or twice a year I get a letter of a certain pattern, a pattern that

never materially changes, in form and substance, yet I cannot get used

to that letter--it always astonishes me. It affects me as the locomotive

always affects me: I say to myself, “I have seen you a thousand times,

you always look the same way, yet you are always a wonder, and you are

always impossible; to contrive you is clearly beyond human genius--you

can't exist, you don't exist, yet here you are!”

I have a letter of that kind by me, a very old one. I yearn to print it,

and where is the harm? The writer of it is dead years ago, no doubt, and

if I conceal her name and address--her this-world address--I am sure

her shade will not mind. And with it I wish to print the answer which

I wrote at the time but probably did not send. If it went--which is not

likely--it went in the form of a copy, for I find the original still

here, pigeonholed with the said letter. To that kind of letters we all

write answers which we do not send, fearing to hurt where we have no

desire to hurt; I have done it many a time, and this is doubtless a case

of the sort.

THE LETTER

X------, California, JUNE 3, 1879.

Mr. S. L. Clemens, HARTFORD, CONN.:

Dear Sir,--You will doubtless be surprised to know who has presumed to

write and ask a favor of you. Let your memory go back to your days in

the Humboldt mines--'62-'63. You will remember, you and Clagett and

Oliver and the old blacksmith Tillou lived in a lean-to which was

half-way up the gulch, and there were six log cabins in the camp--strung

pretty well separated up the gulch from its mouth at the desert to where

the last claim was, at the divide. The lean-to you lived in was the one

with a canvas roof that the cow fell down through one night, as told

about by you in _Roughing It_--my uncle Simmons remembers it very well.

He lived in the principal cabin, half-way up the divide, along with

Dixon and Parker and Smith. It had two rooms, one for kitchen and the

other for bunks, and was the only one that had. You and your party

were there on the great night, the time they had dried-apple-pie, Uncle

Simmons often speaks of it. It seems curious that dried-apple-pie

should have seemed such a great thing, but it was, and it shows how far

Humboldt was out of the world and difficult to get to, and how slim the

regular bill of fare was. Sixteen years ago--it is a long time. I was a

little girl then, only fourteen. I never saw you, I lived in Washoe. But

Uncle Simmons ran across you every now and then, all during those weeks

that you and party were there working your claim which was like the

rest. The camp played out long and long ago, there wasn't silver enough

in it to make a button. You never saw my husband, but he was there after

you left, _and lived in that very lean-to_, a bachelor then but married

to me now. He often wishes there had been a photographer there in

those days, he would have taken the lean-to. He got hurt in the old Hal

Clayton claim that was abandoned like the others, putting in a blast and

not climbing out quick enough, though he scrambled the best he could.

It landed him clear down on the train and hit a Piute. For weeks they

thought he would not get over it but he did, and is all right, now. Has

been ever since. This is a long introduction but it is the only way

I can make myself known. The favor I ask I feel assured your generous

heart will grant: Give me some advice about a book I have written. I do

not claim anything for it only it is mostly true and as interesting as

most of the books of the times. I am unknown in the literary world and

you know what that means unless one has some one of influence (like

yourself) to help you by speaking a good word for you. I would like to

place the book on royalty basis plan with any one you would suggest.

This is a secret from my husband and family. I intend it as a surprise

in case I get it published.

Feeling you will take an interest in this and if possible write me a

letter to some publisher, or, better still, if you could see them for me

and then let me hear.

I appeal to you to grant me this favor. With deepest gratitude I think

you for your attention.

One knows, without inquiring, that the twin of that embarrassing letter

is forever and ever flying in this and that and the other direction

across the continent in the mails, daily, nightly, hourly, unceasingly,

unrestingly. It goes to every well-known merchant, and railway official,

and manufacturer, and capitalist, and Mayor, and Congressman, and

Governor, and editor, and publisher, and author, and broker, and

banker--in a word, to every person who is supposed to have “influence.”

It always follows the one pattern: “You do not know me, _but you once

knew a relative of mine,_” etc., etc. We should all like to help the

applicants, we should all be glad to do it, we should all like to return

the sort of answer that is desired, but--Well, there is not a thing we

can do that would be a help, for not in any instance does that latter

ever come from anyone who _can _be helped. The struggler whom you _could

_help does his own helping; it would not occur to him to apply to you,

stranger. He has talent and knows it, and he goes into his fight eagerly

and with energy and determination--all alone, preferring to be alone.

That pathetic letter which comes to you from the incapable, the

unhelpable--how do you who are familiar with it answer it? What do you

find to say? You do not want to inflict a wound; you hunt ways to avoid

that. What do you find? How do you get out of your hard place with a

content conscience? Do you try to explain? The old reply of mine to such

a letter shows that I tried that once. Was I satisfied with the result?

Possibly; and possibly not; probably not; almost certainly not. I have

long ago forgotten all about it. But, anyway, I append my effort:

THE REPLY

I know Mr. H., and I will go to him, dear madam, if upon reflection you

find you still desire it. There will be a conversation. I know the form

it will take. It will be like this:

MR. H. How do her books strike you?

MR. CLEMENS. I am not acquainted with them.

H. Who has been her publisher?

C. I don't know.

H. She _has _one, I suppose?

C. I--I think not.

H. Ah. You think this is her first book?

C. Yes--I suppose so. I think so.

H. What is it about? What is the character of it?

C. I believe I do not know.

H. Have you seen it?

C. Well--no, I haven't.

H. Ah-h. How long have you known her?

C. I don't know her.

H. Don't know her?

C. No.

H. Ah-h. How did you come to be interested in her book, then?

C. Well, she--she wrote and asked me to find a publisher for her, and

mentioned you.

H. Why should she apply to you instead of me?

C. She wished me to use my influence.

H. Dear me, what has _influence _to do with such a matter?

C. Well, I think she thought you would be more likely to examine her

book if you were influenced.

H. Why, what we are here _for _is to examine books--anybody's book

that comes along. It's our _business_. Why should we turn away a book

unexamined because it's a stranger's? It would be foolish. No publisher

does it. On what ground did she request your influence, since you do not

know her? She must have thought you knew her literature and could speak

for it. Is that it?

C. No; she knew I didn't.

H. Well, what then? She had a reason of _some _sort for believing you

competent to recommend her literature, and also under obligations to do

it?

C. Yes, I--I knew her uncle.

H. Knew her _uncle_?

C. Yes.

H. Upon my word! So, you knew her uncle; her uncle knows her literature;

he endorses it to you; the chain is complete, nothing further needed;

you are satisfied, and therefore--

C._ No_, that isn't all, there are other ties. I know the cabin her

uncle lived in, in the mines; I knew his partners, too; also I came

near knowing her husband before she married him, and I _did _know the

abandoned shaft where a premature blast went off and he went flying

through the air and clear down to the trail and hit an Indian in the

back with almost fatal consequences.

H. To _him_, or to the Indian?

C. She didn't say which it was.

H. (_With a sigh_). It certainly beats the band! You don't know _her_,

you don't know her literature, you don't know who got hurt when the

blast went off, you don't know a single thing for us to build an

estimate of her book upon, so far as I--

C. I knew her uncle. You are forgetting her uncle.

H. Oh, what use is_ he_? Did you know him long? How long was it?

C. Well, I don't know that I really knew him, but I must have met him,

anyway. I think it was that way; you can't tell about these things, you

know, except when they are recent.

H. Recent? When was all this?

C. Sixteen years ago.

H. What a basis to judge a book upon! As first you said you knew him,

and now you don't know whether you did or not.

C. Oh yes, I know him; anyway, I think I thought I did; I'm perfectly

certain of it.

H. What makes you think you thought you knew him?

C. Why, she says I did, herself.

H._ She_ says so!

C. Yes, she does, and I _did _know him, too, though I don't remember it

now.

H. Come--how can you know it when you don't remember it.

C. _I_ don't know. That is, I don't know the process, but I_ do_ know

lots of things that I don't remember, and remember lots of things that I

don't know. It's so with every educated person.

H. (_After a pause_). Is your time valuable?

C. No--well, not very.

H. Mine is.

So I came away then, because he was looking tired. Overwork, I reckon; I

never do that; I have seen the evil effects of it. My mother was always

afraid I would overwork myself, but I never did.

Dear madam, you see how it would happen if I went there. He would ask

me those questions, and I would try to answer them to suit him, and he

would hunt me here and there and yonder and get me embarrassed more

and more all the time, and at last he would look tired on account of

overwork, and there it would end and nothing done. I wish I could be

useful to you, but, you see, they do not care for uncles or any of those

things; it doesn't move them, it doesn't have the least effect, they

don't care for anything but the literature itself, and they as good as

despise influence. But they do care for books, and are eager to get them

and examine them, no matter whence they come, nor from whose pen. If you

will send yours to a publisher--any publisher--he will certainly examine

it, I can assure you of that.

A TELEPHONIC CONVERSATION

Consider that a conversation by telephone--when you are simply sitting

by and not taking any part in that conversation--is one of the solemnest

curiosities of modern life. Yesterday I was writing a deep article on a

sublime philosophical subject while such a conversation was going on

in the room. I notice that one can always write best when somebody is

talking through a telephone close by. Well, the thing began in this way.

A member of our household came in and asked me to have our house put

into communication with Mr. Bagley's downtown. I have observed, in many

cities, that the sex always shrink from calling up the central office

themselves. I don't know why, but they do. So I touched the bell, and

this talk ensued:

_Central Office. (Gruffly.)_ Hello!

I. Is it the Central Office?

C. O. Of course it is. What do you want?

I. Will you switch me on to the Bagleys, please?

C. O. All right. Just keep your ear to the telephone.

Then I heard _k-look, k-look, k'look--klook-klook-klook-look-look!_ then a

horrible “gritting” of teeth, and finally a piping female voice: Y-e-s?

(_Rising inflection._) Did you wish to speak to me?

Without answering, I handed the telephone to the applicant, and sat

down. Then followed that queerest of all the queer things in this

world--a conversation with only one end to it. You hear questions asked;

you don't hear the answer. You hear invitations given; you hear no

thanks in return. You have listening pauses of dead silence, followed by

apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations of glad surprise or

sorrow or dismay. You can't make head or tail of the talk, because you

never hear anything that the person at the other end of the wire says.

Well, I heard the following remarkable series of observations, all from

the one tongue, and all shouted--for you can't ever persuade the sex to

speak gently into a telephone:

Yes? Why, how did _that _happen?

Pause.

What did you say?

Pause.

Oh no, I don't think it was.

Pause.

_ No_! Oh no, I didn't mean _that_. I meant, put it in while it is still

boiling--or just before it _comes _to a boil.

Pause.

_What_?

Pause.

I turned it over with a backstitch on the selvage edge.

Pause.

Yes, I like that way, too; but I think it's better to baste it on with

Valenciennes or bombazine, or something of that sort. It gives it such

an air--and attracts so much noise.

Pause.

It's forty-ninth Deuteronomy, sixty-forth to ninety-seventh inclusive. I

think we ought all to read it often.

Pause.

Perhaps so; I generally use a hair pin.

Pause.

What did you say? (_Aside_.) Children, do be quiet!

Pause

_Oh!_ B _flat!_ Dear me, I thought you said it was the cat!

Pause.

Since _when_?

Pause.

Why, _I_ never heard of it.

Pause.

You astound me! It seems utterly impossible!

Pause.

_Who _did?

Pause.

Good-ness gracious!

Pause.

Well, what_ is_ this world coming to? Was it right in _church_?

Pause.

And was her _mother _there?

Pause.

Why, Mrs. Bagley, I should have died of humiliation! What did they_ do_?

Long pause.

I can't be perfectly sure, because I haven't the notes by me; but

I think it goes something like this: te-rolly-loll-loll, loll

lolly-loll-loll, O tolly-loll-loll-_lee-ly-li_-i-do! And then _repeat_,

you know.

Pause.

Yes, I think it_ is_ very sweet--and very solemn and impressive, if you

get the andantino and the pianissimo right.

Pause.

Oh, gum-drops, gum-drops! But I never allow them to eat striped candy.

And of course they _can't_, till they get their teeth, anyway.

Pause.

_What_?

Pause.

Oh, not in the least--go right on. He's here writing--it doesn't bother

_him_.

Pause.

Very well, I'll come if I canI'll come if I can. (_Aside_.) Dear me, how it does tire a

person's arm to hold this thing up so long! I wish she'd--

Pause.

Oh no, not at all; I _like _to talk--but I'm afraid I'm keeping you from

your affairs.

Pause.

Visitors?

Pause.

No, we never use butter on them.

Pause.

Yes, that is a very good way; but all the cook-books say they are very

unhealthy when they are out of season. And_ he_ doesn't like them,

anyway--especially canned.

Pause.

Oh, I think that is too high for them; we have never paid over fifty

cents a bunch.

Pause.

_Must _you go? Well, _good_-by.

Pause.

Yes, I think so. _good_-by.

Pause.

Four o'clock, then--I'll be ready. _good_-by.

Pause.

Thank you ever so much. _good_-by.

Pause.

Oh, not at all!--just as fresh--_which_? Oh, I'm glad to hear you say

that. _Good_-by.

(Hangs up the telephone and says, “Oh, it _does _tire a person's arm

so!”)

A man delivers a single brutal “Good-by,” and that is the end of it.

Not so with the gentle sex--I say it in their praise; they cannot abide

abruptness.

EDWARD MILLS AND GEORGE BENTON: A TALE

These two were distantly related to each other--seventh cousins, or

something of that sort. While still babies they became orphans, and were

adopted by the Brants, a childless couple, who quickly grew very fond

of them. The Brants were always saying: “Be pure, honest, sober,

industrious, and considerate of others, and success in life is assured.”

The children heard this repeated some thousands of times before they

understood it; they could repeat it themselves long before they could

say the Lord's Prayer; it was painted over the nursery door, and was

about the first thing they learned to read. It was destined to be the

unswerving rule of Edward Mills's life. Sometimes the Brants changed

the wording a little, and said: “Be pure, honest, sober, industrious,

considerate, and you will never lack friends.”

Baby Mills was a comfort to everybody about him. When he wanted candy

and could not have it, he listened to reason, and contented himself

without it. When Baby Benton wanted candy, he cried for it until he got

it. Baby Mills took care of his toys; Baby Benton always destroyed his

in a very brief time, and then made himself so insistently disagreeable

that, in order to have peace in the house, little Edward was persuaded

to yield up his play-things to him.

When the children were a little older, Georgie became a heavy expense

in one respect: he took no care of his clothes; consequently, he shone

frequently in new ones, which was not the case with Eddie. The boys

grew apace. Eddie was an increasing comfort, Georgie an increasing

solicitude. It was always sufficient to say, in answer to Eddie's

petitions, “I would rather you would not do it”--meaning swimming,

skating, picnicking, berrying, circusing, and all sorts of things which

boys delight in. But_ no_ answer was sufficient for Georgie; he had

to be humored in his desires, or he would carry them with a high hand.

Naturally, no boy got more swimming skating, berrying, and so forth than

he; no body ever had a better time. The good Brants did not allow the

boys to play out after nine in summer evenings; they were sent to bed at

that hour; Eddie honorably remained, but Georgie usually slipped out

of the window toward ten, and enjoyed himself until midnight. It seemed

impossible to break Georgie of this bad habit, but the Brants managed

it at last by hiring him, with apples and marbles, to stay in. The good

Brants gave all their time and attention to vain endeavors to regulate

Georgie; they said, with grateful tears in their eyes, that Eddie needed

no efforts of theirs, he was so good, so considerate, and in all ways so

perfect.

By and by the boys were big enough to work, so they were apprenticed to

a trade: Edward went voluntarily; George was coaxed and bribed. Edward

worked hard and faithfully, and ceased to be an expense to the good

Brants; they praised him, so did his master; but George ran away, and it

cost Mr. Brant both money and trouble to hunt him up and get him back.

By and by he ran away again--more money and more trouble. He ran away

a third time--and stole a few things to carry with him. Trouble and

expense for Mr. Brant once more; and, besides, it was with the greatest

difficulty that he succeeded in persuading the master to let the youth

go unprosecuted for the theft.

Edward worked steadily along, and in time became a full partner in his

master's business. George did not improve; he kept the loving hearts of

his aged benefactors full of trouble, and their hands full of inventive

activities to protect him from ruin. Edward, as a boy, had interested

himself in Sunday-schools, debating societies, penny missionary affairs,

anti-tobacco organizations, anti-profanity associations, and all such

things; as a man, he was a quiet but steady and reliable helper in the

church, the temperance societies, and in all movements looking to

the aiding and uplifting of men. This excited no remark, attracted no

attention--for it was his “natural bent.”

Finally, the old people died. The will testified their loving pride in

Edward, and left their little property to George--because he “needed

it”; whereas, “owing to a bountiful Providence,” such was not the case

with Edward. The property was left to George conditionally: he must

buy out Edward's partner with it; else it must go to a benevolent

organization called the Prisoner's Friend Society. The old people left

a letter, in which they begged their dear son Edward to take their place

and watch over George, and help and shield him as they had done.

Edward dutifully acquiesced, and George became his partner in the

business. He was not a valuable partner: he had been meddling with drink

before; he soon developed into a constant tippler now, and his flesh and

eyes showed the fact unpleasantly. Edward had been courting a sweet

and kindly spirited girl for some time. They loved each other dearly,

and--But about this period George began to haunt her tearfully and

imploringly, and at last she went crying to Edward, and said her high

and holy duty was plain before her--she must not let her own selfish

desires interfere with it: she must marry “poor George” and “reform

him.” It would break her heart, she knew it would, and so on; but duty

was duty. So she married George, and Edward's heart came very near

breaking, as well as her own. However, Edward recovered, and married

another girl--a very excellent one she was, too.

Children came to both families. Mary did her honest best to reform her

husband, but the contract was too large. George went on drinking, and by

and by he fell to misusing her and the little ones sadly. A great many

good people strove with George--they were always at it, in fact--but he

calmly took such efforts as his due and their duty, and did not mend his

ways. He added a vice, presently--that of secret gambling. He got deeply

in debt; he borrowed money on the firm's credit, as quietly as he could,

and carried this system so far and so successfully that one morning the

sheriff took possession of the establishment, and the two cousins found

themselves penniless.

Times were hard, now, and they grew worse. Edward moved his family into

a garret, and walked the streets day and night, seeking work. He begged

for it, but it was really not to be had. He was astonished to see how

soon his face became unwelcome; he was astonished and hurt to see how

quickly the ancient interest which people had had in him faded out and

disappeared. Still, he _must _get work; so he swallowed his chagrin, and

toiled on in search of it. At last he got a job of carrying bricks up a

ladder in a hod, and was a grateful man in consequence; but after that

_nobody _knew him or cared anything about him. He was not able to keep

up his dues in the various moral organizations to which he belonged,

and had to endure the sharp pain of seeing himself brought under the

disgrace of suspension.

But the faster Edward died out of public knowledge and interest, the

faster George rose in them. He was found lying, ragged and drunk, in the

gutter one morning. A member of the Ladies' Temperance Refuge fished him

out, took him in hand, got up a subscription for him, kept him sober

a whole week, then got a situation for him. An account of it was

published.

General attention was thus drawn to the poor fellow, and a great many

people came forward and helped him toward reform with their countenance

and encouragement. He did not drink a drop for two months, and meantime

was the pet of the good. Then he fell--in the gutter; and there was

general sorrow and lamentation. But the noble sisterhood rescued him

again. They cleaned him up, they fed him, they listened to the mournful

music of his repentances, they got him his situation again. An account

of this, also, was published, and the town was drowned in happy tears

over the re-restoration of the poor beast and struggling victim of

the fatal bowl. A grand temperance revival was got up, and after some

rousing speeches had been made the chairman said, impressively: “We are

not about to call for signers; and I think there is a spectacle in

store for you which not many in this house will be able to view with dry

eyes.” There was an eloquent pause, and then George Benton, escorted

by a red-sashed detachment of the Ladies of the Refuge, stepped forward

upon the platform and signed the pledge. The air was rent with applause,

and everybody cried for joy. Everybody wrung the hand of the new convert

when the meeting was over; his salary was enlarged next day; he was the

talk of the town, and its hero. An account of it was published.

George Benton fell, regularly, every three months, but was faithfully

rescued and wrought with, every time, and good situations were found for

him. Finally, he was taken around the country lecturing, as a reformed

drunkard, and he had great houses and did an immense amount of good.

He was so popular at home, and so trusted--during his sober

intervals--that he was enabled to use the name of a principal citizen,

and get a large sum of money at the bank. A mighty pressure was brought

to bear to save him from the consequences of his forgery, and it was

partially successful--he was “sent up” for only two years. When, at the

end of a year, the tireless efforts of the benevolent were crowned

with success, and he emerged from the penitentiary with a pardon in

his pocket, the Prisoner's Friend Society met him at the door with a

situation and a comfortable salary, and all the other benevolent people

came forward and gave him advice, encouragement and help. Edward Mills

had once applied to the Prisoner's Friend Society for a situation, when

in dire need, but the question, “Have you been a prisoner?” made brief

work of his case.

While all these things were going on, Edward Mills had been quietly

making head against adversity. He was still poor, but was in receipt of

a steady and sufficient salary, as the respected and trusted cashier

of a bank. George Benton never came near him, and was never heard to

inquire about him. George got to indulging in long absences from the

town; there were ill reports about him, but nothing definite.

One winter's night some masked burglars forced their way into the bank,

and found Edward Mills there alone. They commanded him to reveal the

“combination,” so that they could get into the safe. He refused. They

threatened his life. He said his employers trusted him, and he could not

be traitor to that trust. He could die, if he must, but while he lived

he would be faithful; he would not yield up the “combination.” The

burglars killed him.

The detectives hunted down the criminals; the chief one proved to be

George Benton. A wide sympathy was felt for the widow and orphans of the

dead man, and all the newspapers in the land begged that all the banks

in the land would testify their appreciation of the fidelity and heroism

of the murdered cashier by coming forward with a generous contribution

of money in aid of his family, now bereft of support. The result was

a mass of solid cash amounting to upward of five hundred dollars--an

average of nearly three-eights of a cent for each bank in the Union. The

cashier's own bank testified its gratitude by endeavoring to show (but

humiliatingly failed in it) that the peerless servant's accounts were

not square, and that he himself had knocked his brains out with a

bludgeon to escape detection and punishment.

George Benton was arraigned for trial. Then everybody seemed to forget

the widow and orphans in their solicitude for poor George. Everything

that money and influence could do was done to save him, but it all

failed; he was sentenced to death. Straightway the Governor was besieged

with petitions for commutation or pardon; they were brought by tearful

young girls; by sorrowful old maids; by deputations of pathetic widows;

by shoals of impressive orphans. But no, the Governor--for once--would

not yield.

Now George Benton experienced religion. The glad news flew all around.

From that time forth his cell was always full of girls and women and

fresh flowers; all the day long there was prayer, and hymn-singing,

and thanksgiving, and homilies, and tears, with never an interruption,

except an occasional five-minute intermission for refreshments.

This sort of thing continued up to the very gallows, and George Benton

went proudly home, in the black cap, before a wailing audience of the

sweetest and best that the region could produce. His grave had fresh

flowers on it every day, for a while, and the head-stone bore these

words, under a hand pointing aloft: “He has fought the good fight.”

The brave cashier's head-stone has this inscription: “Be pure, honest,

sober, industrious, considerate, and you will never--”

Nobody knows who gave the order to leave it that way, but it was so

given.

The cashier's family are in stringent circumstances, now, it is said;

but no matter; a lot of appreciative people, who were not willing that

an act so brave and true as his should go unrewarded, have collected

forty-two thousand dollars--and built a Memorial Church with it.

THE FIVE BOONS OF LIFE

Chapter I

In the morning of life came a good fairy with her basket, and said:

“Here are gifts. Take one, leave the others. And be wary, choose wisely;

oh, choose wisely! for only one of them is valuable.”

The gifts were five: Fame, Love, Riches, Pleasure, Death. The youth

said, eagerly:

“There is no need to consider”; and he chose Pleasure.

He went out into the world and sought out the pleasures that youth

delights in. But each in its turn was short-lived and disappointing,

vain and empty; and each, departing, mocked him. In the end he said:

“These years I have wasted. If I could but choose again, I would choose

wisely.”

Chapter II

The fairy appeared, and said:

“Four of the gifts remain. Choose once more; and oh, remember--time is

flying, and only one of them is precious.”

The man considered long, then chose Love; and did not mark the tears

that rose in the fairy's eyes.

After many, many years the man sat by a coffin, in an empty home. And he

communed with himself, saying: “One by one they have gone away and left

me; and now she lies here, the dearest and the last. Desolation after

desolation has swept over me; for each hour of happiness the treacherous

trader, Love, has sold me I have paid a thousand hours of grief. Out of

my heart of hearts I curse him.”

Chapter III

“Choose again.” It was the fairy speaking.

“The years have taught you wisdom--surely it must be so. Three gifts

remain. Only one of them has any worth--remember it, and choose warily.”

The man reflected long, then chose Fame; and the fairy, sighing, went

her way.

Years went by and she came again, and stood behind the man where he sat

solitary in the fading day, thinking. And she knew his thought:

“My name filled the world, and its praises were on every tongue, and it

seemed well with me for a little while. How little a while it was! Then

came envy; then detraction; then calumny; then hate; then persecution.

Then derision, which is the beginning of the end. And last of all came

pity, which is the funeral of fame. Oh, the bitterness and misery of

renown! target for mud in its prime, for contempt and compassion in its

decay.”

Chapter IV

“Chose yet again.” It was the fairy's voice.

“Two gifts remain. And do not despair. In the beginning there was but

one that was precious, and it is still here.”

“Wealth--which is power! How blind I was!” said the man. “Now, at last,

life will be worth the living. I will spend, squander, dazzle. These

mockers and despisers will crawl in the dirt before me, and I will feed

my hungry heart with their envy. I will have all luxuries, all joys, all

enchantments of the spirit, all contentments of the body that man holds

dear. I will buy, buy, buy! deference, respect, esteem, worship--every

pinchbeck grace of life the market of a trivial world can furnish forth.

I have lost much time, and chosen badly heretofore, but let that pass; I

was ignorant then, and could but take for best what seemed so.”

Three short years went by, and a day came when the man sat shivering in

a mean garret; and he was gaunt and wan and hollow-eyed, and clothed in

rags; and he was gnawing a dry crust and mumbling:

“Curse all the world's gifts, for mockeries and gilded lies! And

miscalled, every one. They are not gifts, but merely lendings. Pleasure,

Love, Fame, Riches: they are but temporary disguises for lasting

realities--Pain, Grief, Shame, Poverty. The fairy said true; in all her

store there was but one gift which was precious, only one that was not

valueless. How poor and cheap and mean I know those others now to be,

compared with that inestimable one, that dear and sweet and kindly one,

that steeps in dreamless and enduring sleep the pains that persecute the

body, and the shames and griefs that eat the mind and heart. Bring it! I

am weary, I would rest.”

Chapter V

The fairy came, bringing again four of the gifts, but Death was wanting.

She said:

“I gave it to a mother's pet, a little child. It was ignorant, but

trusted me, asking me to choose for it. You did not ask me to choose.”

“Oh, miserable me! What is left for me?”

“What not even you have deserved: the wanton insult of Old Age.”

THE FIRST WRITING-MACHINES

From My Unpublished Autobiography

Some days ago a correspondent sent in an old typewritten sheet, faded by

age, containing the following letter over the signature of Mark Twain:

“Hartford, March 10, 1875.

“Please do not use my name in any way. Please do not even divulge that

fact that I own a machine. I have entirely stopped using the typewriter,

for the reason that I never could write a letter with it to anybody

without receiving a request by return mail that I would not only

describe the machine, but state what progress I had made in the use of

it, etc., etc. I don't like to write letters, and so I don't want people

to know I own this curiosity-breeding little joker.”

A note was sent to Mr. Clemens asking him if the letter was genuine

and whether he really had a typewriter as long ago as that. Mr.

Clemens replied that his best answer is the following chapter from his

unpublished autobiography:

1904. VILLA QUARTO, FLORENCE, JANUARY.

Dictating autobiography to a typewriter is a new experience for me, but

it goes very well, and is going to save time and “language”--the kind of

language that soothes vexation.

I have dictated to a typewriter before--but not autobiography. Between

that experience and the present one there lies a mighty gap--more than

thirty years! It is a sort of lifetime. In that wide interval much

has happened--to the type-machine as well as to the rest of us. At the

beginning of that interval a type-machine was a curiosity. The person

who owned one was a curiosity, too. But now it is the other way about:

the person who _doesn't_ own one is a curiosity. I saw a type-machine

for the first time in--what year? I suppose it was 1873--because

Nasby was with me at the time, and it was in Boston. We must have been

lecturing, or we could not have been in Boston, I take it. I quitted the

platform that season.

But never mind about that, it is no matter. Nasby and I saw the machine

through a window, and went in to look at it. The salesman explained it

to us, showed us samples of its work, and said it could do fifty-seven

words a minute--a statement which we frankly confessed that we did not

believe. So he put his type-girl to work, and we timed her by the

watch. She actually did the fifty-seven in sixty seconds. We were partly

convinced, but said it probably couldn't happen again. But it did. We

timed the girl over and over again--with the same result always: she won

out. She did her work on narrow slips of paper, and we pocketed them as

fast as she turned them out, to show as curiosities. The price of the

machine was one hundred and twenty-five dollars. I bought one, and we

went away very much excited.

At the hotel we got out our slips and were a little disappointed to find

that they contained the same words. The girl had economized time

and labor by using a formula which she knew by heart. However, we

argued--safely enough--that the _first _type-girl must naturally take

rank with the first billiard-player: neither of them could be expected

to get out of the game any more than a third or a half of what was in

it. If the machine survived--_if_ it survived--experts would come to the

front, by and by, who would double the girl's output without a doubt.

They would do one hundred words a minute--my talking speed on the

platform. That score has long ago been beaten.

At home I played with the toy, repeating and repeating and repeating

“The Boy stood on the Burning Deck,” until I could turn that boy's

adventure out at the rate of twelve words a minute; then I resumed the

pen, for business, and only worked the machine to astonish inquiring

visitors. They carried off many reams of the boy and his burning deck.

By and by I hired a young woman, and did my first dictating (letters,

merely), and my last until now. The machine did not do both capitals and

lower case (as now), but only capitals. Gothic capitals they were, and

sufficiently ugly. I remember the first letter I dictated, it was to

Edward Bok, who was a boy then. I was not acquainted with him at that

time. His present enterprising spirit is not new--he had it in that

early day. He was accumulating autographs, and was not content with mere

signatures, he wanted a whole autograph _letter_. I furnished it--in

type-written capitals, _signature and all._ It was long; it was a

sermon; it contained advice; also reproaches. I said writing was my

_trade_, my bread-and-butter; I said it was not fair to ask a man

to give away samples of his trade; would he ask the blacksmith for a

horseshoe? would he ask the doctor for a corpse?

Now I come to an important matter--as I regard it. In the year '74

the young woman copied a considerable part of a book of mine _on the

machine_. In a previous chapter of this Autobiography I have claimed

that I was the first person in the world that ever had a telephone

in the house for practical purposes; I will now claim--until

dispossessed--that I was the first person in the world to _apply the

type-machine to literature_. That book must have been _The Adventures Of

Tom Sawyer._ I wrote the first half of it in '72, the rest of it in '74.

My machinist type-copied a book for me in '74, so I concluded it was

that one.

That early machine was full of caprices, full of defects--devilish ones.

It had as many immoralities as the machine of today has virtues. After

a year or two I found that it was degrading my character, so I thought

I would give it to Howells. He was reluctant, for he was suspicious of

novelties and unfriendly toward them, and he remains so to this day. But

I persuaded him. He had great confidence in me, and I got him to believe

things about the machine that I did not believe myself. He took it home

to Boston, and my morals began to improve, but his have never recovered.

He kept it six months, and then returned it to me. I gave it away twice

after that, but it wouldn't stay; it came back. Then I gave it to our

coachman, Patrick McAleer, who was very grateful, because he did not

know the animal, and thought I was trying to make him wiser and better.

As soon as he got wiser and better he traded it to a heretic for a

side-saddle which he could not use, and there my knowledge of its

history ends.

ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER

It is almost a fortnight now that I am domiciled in a medieval villa in

the country, a mile or two from Florence. I cannot speak the language;

I am too old now to learn how, also too busy when I am busy, and too

indolent when I am not; wherefore some will imagine that I am having a

dull time of it. But it is not so. The “help” are all natives; they talk

Italian to me, I answer in English; I do not understand them, they

do not understand me, consequently no harm is done, and everybody is

satisfied. In order to be just and fair, I throw in an Italian word when

I have one, and this has a good influence. I get the word out of the

morning paper. I have to use it while it is fresh, for I find that

Italian words do not keep in this climate. They fade toward night, and

next morning they are gone. But it is no matter; I get a new one out of

the paper before breakfast, and thrill the domestics with it while it

lasts. I have no dictionary, and I do not want one; I can select words

by the sound, or by orthographic aspect. Many of them have French or

German or English look, and these are the ones I enslave for the day's

service. That is, as a rule. Not always. If I find a learnable phrase

that has an imposing look and warbles musically along I do not care to

know the meaning of it; I pay it out to the first applicant, knowing

that if I pronounce it carefully_ he_ will understand it, and that's

enough.

Yesterday's word was _avanti_. It sounds Shakespearian, and probably

means Avaunt and quit my sight. Today I have a whole phrase: _sono

dispiacentissimo_. I do not know what it means, but it seems to fit

in everywhere and give satisfaction. Although as a rule my words and

phrases are good for one day and train only, I have several that stay by

me all the time, for some unknown reason, and these come very handy

when I get into a long conversation and need things to fire up with

in monotonous stretches. One of the best ones is _dov è il gatto_. It

nearly always produces a pleasant surprise, therefore I save it up for

places where I want to express applause or admiration. The fourth word

has a French sound, and I think the phrase means “that takes the cake.”

During my first week in the deep and dreamy stillness of this woodsy

and flowery place I was without news of the outside world, and was well

content without it. It had been four weeks since I had seen a newspaper,

and this lack seemed to give life a new charm and grace, and to saturate

it with a feeling verging upon actual delight. Then came a change that

was to be expected: the appetite for news began to rise again, after

this invigorating rest. I had to feed it, but I was not willing to let

it make me its helpless slave again; I determined to put it on a diet,

and a strict and limited one. So I examined an Italian paper, with

the idea of feeding it on that, and on that exclusively. On that

exclusively, and without help of a dictionary. In this way I should

surely be well protected against overloading and indigestion.

A glance at the telegraphic page filled me with encouragement. There

were no scare-heads. That was good--supremely good. But there were

headings--one-liners and two-liners--and that was good too; for without

these, one must do as one does with a German paper--pay out precious

time in finding out what an article is about, only to discover, in many

cases, that there is nothing in it of interest to you. The headline is a

valuable thing.

Necessarily we are all fond of murders, scandals, swindles, robberies,

explosions, collisions, and all such things, when we know the people,

and when they are neighbors and friends, but when they are strangers we

do not get any great pleasure out of them, as a rule. Now the trouble

with an American paper is that it has no discrimination; it rakes the

whole earth for blood and garbage, and the result is that you are daily

overfed and suffer a surfeit. By habit you stow this muck every day, but

you come by and by to take no vital interest in it--indeed, you

almost get tired of it. As a rule, forty-nine-fiftieths of it concerns

strangers only--people away off yonder, a thousand miles, two thousand

miles, ten thousand miles from where you are. Why, when you come to

think of it, who cares what becomes of those people? I would not give

the assassination of one personal friend for a whole massacre of those

others. And, to my mind, one relative or neighbor mixed up in a scandal

is more interesting than a whole Sodom and Gomorrah of outlanders gone

rotten. Give me the home product every time.

Very well. I saw at a glance that the Florentine paper would suit me:

five out of six of its scandals and tragedies were local; they were

adventures of one's very neighbors, one might almost say one's friends.

In the matter of world news there was not too much, but just about

enough. I subscribed. I have had no occasion to regret it. Every morning

I get all the news I need for the day; sometimes from the headlines,

sometimes from the text. I have never had to call for a dictionary yet.

I read the paper with ease. Often I do not quite understand, often some

of the details escape me, but no matter, I get the idea. I will cut out

a passage or two, then you see how limpid the language is:

Il ritorno dei Beati d'Italia

Elargizione del Re all' Ospedale italiano

The first line means that the Italian sovereigns are coming back--they

have been to England. The second line seems to mean that they enlarged

the King at the Italian hospital. With a banquet, I suppose. An English

banquet has that effect. Further:

_Il ritorno dei sovrani_

a Roma

ROMA, 24, ore 22,50.--_I Sovrani e le Principessine Reali si attendono a

Roma domani alle ore_ 15,51.

Return of the sovereigns to Rome, you see. Date of the telegram, Rome,

November 24, ten minutes before twenty-three o'clock. The telegram seems

to say, “The Sovereigns and the Royal Children expect themselves at Rome

tomorrow at fifty-one minutes after fifteen o'clock.”

I do not know about Italian time, but I judge it begins at midnight

and runs through the twenty-four hours without breaking bulk. In the

following ad, the theaters open at half-past twenty. If these are not

matinees, 20.30 must mean 8.30 P.M., by my reckoning.

Spettacolli del di 25

TEATRO DELLA PERGOLA--(Ore 20,30)--Opera. BOHEME. TEATRO

ALFIERI.--Compagnia drammatica Drago--(Ore 20,30)--LA LEGGE.

ALHAMBRA--(Ore 20,30)--Spettacolo variato. SALA EDISON--Grandioso

spettacolo Cinematografico: QUO-VADIS?--Inaugurazione della

Chiesa Russa -- In coda al Direttissimo -- Vedute di Firenze con gran

movimeno -- America: Transporto tronchi giganteschi--I ladri in casa del

Diavolo -- Scene comiche. CINEMATOGRAFO -- Via Brunelleschi n. 4.--Programma

straordinario, DON CHISCIOTTE -- Prezzi populari.

The whole of that is intelligible to me--and sane and rational,

too--except the remark about the Inauguration of a Russian Cheese. That

one oversizes my hand. Gimme me five cards.

This is a four-page paper; and as it is set in long primer leaded

and has a page of advertisements, there is no room for the crimes,

disasters, and general sweepings of the outside world--thanks be! Today

I find only a single importation of the off-color sort:

Una Principessa

che fugge con un cocchiere

PARIGI, 24.--Il MATIN ha da Berlino che la principessa

Schovenbare-Waldenbure scomparve il 9 novembre. Sarebbe partita col suo

cocchiere.

La Principassa ha 27 anni.

Twenty-seven years old, and scomparve--scampered--on the 9th November.

You see by the added detail that she departed with her coachman. I hope

Sarebbe has not made a mistake, but I am afraid the chances are that she

has. _Sono dispiacentissimo_.

There are several fires: also a couple of accidents. This is one of

them:

Grave disgrazia sul Ponte Vecchio

Stammattina, circe le 7,30, mentre Giuseppe Sciatti, di anni 55, di

Casellina e Torri, passava dal Ponte Vecchio, stando seduto sopra un

barroccio carico di verdura, perse l' equilibrio e cadde al suolo,

rimanendo con la gamba destra sotto una ruota del veicolo.

Lo Sciatti fu subito raccolto da alcuni cittadini, che, per mezzo della

pubblica vettura n. 365, lo transporto a San Giovanni di Dio.

Ivi il medico di guardia gli riscontro la frattura della gamba destra

e alcune lievi escoriazioni giudicandolo guaribile in 50 giorni salvo

complicazioni.

What it seems to say is this: “Serious Disgrace on the Old Old Bridge.

This morning about 7.30, Mr. Joseph Sciatti, aged 55, of Casellina and

Torri, while standing up in a sitting posture on top of a carico barrow

of vedure (foliage? hay? vegetables?), lost his equilibrium and fell

on himself, arriving with his left leg under one of the wheels of the

vehicle.

“Said Sciatti was suddenly harvested (gathered in?) by several citizens,

who by means of public cab No. 365 transported him to St. John of God.”

Paragraph No. 3 is a little obscure, but I think it says that the medico

set the broken left leg--right enough, since there was nothing the

matter with the other one--and that several are encouraged to hope that

fifty days well fetch him around in quite giudicandolo-guaribile way, if

no complications intervene.