POSTSCRIPT

In the ‘Atlantic’ for June 1882, Mr. John Fiske refers to the

often-quoted Darwin-and-Wallace ‘coincidence’:

‘I alluded, just now, to the “unforeseen circumstance” which led Mr.

Darwin in 1859 to break his long silence, and to write and publish the

“Origin of Species.” This circumstance served, no less than the

extraordinary success of his book, to show how ripe the minds of men had

become for entertaining such views as those which Mr. Darwin propounded.

In 1858 Mr. Wallace, who was then engaged in studying the natural

history of the Malay Archipelago, sent to Mr. Darwin (as to the man most

likely to understand him) a paper in which he sketched the outlines of a

theory identical with that upon which Mr. Darwin had so long been at

work. The same sequence of observed facts and inferences that had led

Mr. Darwin to the discovery of Natural Selection and its consequences

had led Mr. Wallace to the very threshold of the same discovery; but in

Mr. Wallace’s mind the theory had by no means been wrought out to the

same degree of completeness to which it had been wrought in the mind of

Mr. Darwin. In the preface to his charming book on Natural Selection,

Mr. Wallace, with rare modesty and candour, acknowledges that whatever

value his speculations may have had, they have been utterly surpassed in

richness and cogency of proof by those of Mr. Darwin. This is no doubt

true, and Mr. Wallace has done such good work in further illustration of

the theory that he can well afford to rest content with the second place

in the first announcement of it.

‘The coincidence, however, between Mr. Wallace’s conclusions and those

of Mr. Darwin was very remarkable. But, after all, coincidences of this

sort have not been uncommon in the history of scientific inquiry. Nor is

it at all surprising that they should occur now and then, when we

remember that a great and pregnant discovery must always be concerned

with some question which many of the foremost minds in the world are

busy thinking about. It was so with the discovery of the differential

calculus, and again with the discovery of the planet Neptune. It was so

with the interpretation of the Egyptian hieroglyphics, and with the

establishment of the undulatory theory of light. It was so, to a

considerable extent, with the introduction of the new chemistry, with

the discovery of the mechanical equivalent of heat, and the whole

doctrine of the correlation of forces. It was so with the invention of

the electric telegraph and with the discovery of spectrum analysis. And

it is not at all strange that it should have been so with the doctrine

of the origin of species through natural selection.’

He thinks these ‘coincidences’ were apt to happen because the matters

from which they sprang were matters which many of the foremost minds

in the world were busy thinking about. But perhaps one man in each

case did the telegraphing to the others. The aberrations which gave

Leverrier the idea that there must be a planet of such and such mass

and such and such an orbit hidden from sight out yonder in the remote

abysses of space were not new; they had been noticed by astronomers

for generations. Then why should it happen to occur to three people,

widely separated—Leverrier, Mrs. Somerville, and Adams—to suddenly go

to worrying about those aberrations all at the same time, and set

themselves to work to find out what caused them, and to measure and

weigh an invisible planet, and calculate its orbit, and hunt it down

and catch it?—a strange project which nobody but they had ever thought

of before. If one astronomer had invented that odd and happy project

fifty years before, don’t you think he would have telegraphed it to

several others without knowing it?

But now I come to a puzzler. How is it that _inanimate_ objects are able

to affect the mind? They seem to do that. However, I wish to throw in a

parenthesis first—just a reference to a thing everybody is familiar

with—the experience of receiving a clear and particular _answer_ to your

telegram before your telegram has reached the sender of the answer. That

is a case where your telegram has gone straight from your brain to the

man it was meant for, far outstripping the wire’s slow electricity, and

it is an exercise of mental telegraphy which is as common as dining. To

return to the influence of inanimate things. In the cases of

non-professional clairvoyance examined by the Psychical Society the

clairvoyant has usually been blindfolded, then some object which has

been touched or worn by a person is placed in his hand; the clairvoyant

immediately describes that person, and goes on and gives a history of

some event with which the text object has been connected. If the

inanimate object is able to affect and inform the clairvoyant’s mind,

maybe it can do the same when it is working in the interest of mental

telegraphy. Once a lady in the West wrote me that her son was coming to

New York to remain three weeks, and would pay me a visit if invited, and

she gave me his address. I mislaid the letter, and forgot all about the

matter till the three weeks were about up. Then a sudden and fiery

irruption of remorse burst up in my brain that illuminated all the

region round about, and I sat down at once and wrote to the lady and

asked for that lost address. But, upon reflection, I judged that the

stirring up of my recollection had not been an accident, so I added a

postscript to say, never mind, I should get a letter from her son before

night. And I did get it; for the letter was already in the town,

although not delivered yet. It had influenced me somehow. I have had so

many experiences of this sort—a dozen of them at least—that I am nearly

persuaded that inanimate objects do not confine their activities to

helping the clairvoyant, but do every now and then give the mental

telegraphist a lift.

The case of mental telegraphy which I am coming to now comes under I

don’t exactly know what head. I clipped it from one of our local papers

six or eight years ago. I know the details to be right and true, for the

story was told to me in the same form by one of the two persons

concerned (a clergyman of Hartford) at the time that the curious thing

happened:

‘A REMARKABLE COINCIDENCE.—Strange coincidences make the most

interesting of stories and most curious of studies. Nobody can quite say

how they come about, but everybody appreciates the fact when they do

come, and it is seldom that any more complete and curious coincidence is

recorded of minor importance than the following, which is absolutely

true and occurred in this city:

‘At the time of the building of one of the finest residences of

Hartford, which is still a very new house, a local firm supplied the

wall-paper for certain rooms, contracting both to furnish and to put on

the paper. It happened that they did not calculate the size of one room

exactly right, and the paper of the design selected for it fell short

just half a roll. They asked for delay enough to send on to the

manufacturers for what was needed, and were told that there was no

especial hurry. It happened that the manufacturers had none on hand, and

had destroyed the blocks from which it was printed. They wrote that they

had a full list of the dealers to whom they had sold that paper, and

that they would write to each of these, and get from some of them a

roll. It might involve a delay of a couple of weeks, but they would

surely get it.

‘In the course of time came a letter saying that, to their great

surprise, they could not find a single roll. Such a thing was very

unusual, but in this case it had so happened. Accordingly the local firm

asked for further time, saying they would write to their own customers

who had bought of that pattern, and would get the piece from them. But

to their surprise, this effort also failed. A long time had now elapsed,

and there was no use of delaying any longer. They had contracted to

paper the room, and their only course was to take off that which was

insufficient and put on some other of which there was enough to go

around. Accordingly, at length a man was sent out to remove the paper.

He got his apparatus ready, and was about to begin work, under the

direction of the owner of the building, when the latter was for the

moment called away. The house was large and very interesting, and so

many people had rambled about it that finally admission had been refused

by a sign at the door. On the occasion, however, when a gentleman had

knocked and asked for leave to look about, the owner, being on the

premises, had been sent for to reply to the request in person. That was

the call that for the moment delayed the final preparations. The

gentleman went to the door and admitted the stranger, saying he would

show him about the house, but first must return for a moment to that

room to finish his directions there, and he told the curious story about

the paper as they went on. They entered the room together, and the first

thing the stranger, who lived fifty miles away, said on looking about

was, “Why, I have that very paper on a room in my house, and I have an

extra roll of it laid away, which is at your service.” In a few days the

wall was papered according to the original contract. Had not the owner

been at the house, the stranger would not have been admitted; had he

called a day later, it would have been too late; had not the facts been

almost accidentally told to him, he would probably have said nothing of

the paper, and so on. The exact fitting of all the circumstances is

something very remarkable, and makes one of those stories that seem

hardly accidental in their nature.’

Something that happened the other day brought my hoary MS. to mind, and

that is how I came to dig it out from its dusty pigeon-hole grave for

publication. The thing that happened was a question. A lady asked it:

‘Have you ever had a vision—when awake?’ I was about to answer promptly,

when the last two words of the question began to grow and spread and

swell, and presently they attained to vast dimensions. She did not know

that they were important; and I did not at first, but I soon saw that

they were putting me on the track of the solution of a mystery which had

perplexed me a good deal. You will see what I mean when I get down to

it. Ever since the English Society for Psychical Research began its

searching investigations of ghost stories, haunted houses, and

apparitions of the living and the dead, I have read their pamphlets with

avidity as fast as they arrived. Now one of their commonest inquiries of

a dreamer or a vision-seer is, ‘Are you sure you were awake at the

time?’ If the man can’t say he is sure he was awake, a doubt falls upon

his tale right there. But if he is positive he was awake, and offers

reasonable evidence to substantiate it, the fact counts largely for the

credibility of his story. It does with the Society, and it did with me

until that lady asked me the above question the other day.

The question set me to considering, and brought me to the conclusion

that you can be asleep—at least wholly unconscious—for a time, and not

suspect that it has happened, and not have any way to prove that it

_has_ happened. A memorable case was in my mind. About a year ago I was

standing on the porch one day, when I saw a man coming up the walk. He

was a stranger, and I hoped he would ring and carry his business into

the house without stopping to argue with me; he would have to pass the

front door to get to me, and I hoped he wouldn’t take the trouble; to

help, I tried to look like a stranger myself—it often works. I was

looking straight at that man; he had got to within ten feet of the door

and within twenty-five feet of me—and suddenly he disappeared. It was as

astounding as if a church should vanish from before your face and leave

nothing behind it but a vacant lot. I was unspeakably delighted. I had

seen an apparition at last, with my own eyes, in broad daylight. I made

up my mind to write an account of it to the Society. I ran to where the

spectre had been, to make sure he was playing fair, then I ran to the

other end of the porch, scanning the open grounds as I went. No,

everything was perfect; he couldn’t have escaped without my seeing him;

he was an apparition, without the slightest doubt, and I would write him

up before he was cold. I ran, hot with excitement, and let myself in

with a latch-key. When I stepped into the hall my lungs collapsed and my

heart stood still. For there sat that same apparition in a chair, all

alone, and as quiet and reposeful as if he had come to stay a year! The

shock kept me dumb for a moment or two, then I said, ‘Did you come in at

that door?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did _you_ open it, or did you ring?’

‘I rang, and the coloured man opened it.’

I said to myself: ‘This is astonishing. It takes George all of two

minutes to answer the doorbell when he is in a hurry, and I have never

seen him in a hurry. How _did_ this man stand two minutes at that door,

within five steps of me, and I did not see him?’

I should have gone to my grave puzzling over that riddle but for that

lady’s chance question last week: ‘Have you ever had a vision—when

awake?’ It stands explained now. During at least sixty seconds that day

I was asleep, or at least totally unconscious, without suspecting it. In

that interval the man came to my immediate vicinity, rang, stood there

and waited, then entered and closed the door, and I did not see him and

did not hear the door slam.

If he had slipped around the house in that interval and gone into the

cellar—he had time enough—I should have written him up for the Society,

and magnified him, and gloated over him, and hurrahed about him, and

thirty yoke of oxen could not have pulled the belief out of me that I

was of the favoured ones of the earth, and had seen a vision—while wide

awake.

Now, how are you to tell when you are awake? What are you to go by?

People bite their fingers to find out. Why, you can do that in a dream.

_A CURE FOR THE BLUES_

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

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

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

‘The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant. By G. Ragsdale McClintock,[3]

author of “An Address,” etc., delivered at Sunflower Hill, South

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

H. Pease, 83 Chapel Street, 1845.’

Footnote 3:

The name here given is a substitute for the one actually attached to

the pamphlet.

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

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

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

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

line, though the house be on fire over his head. And after a first

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

statement, humanly possible situations, humanly possible people, fluent

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

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

and miraculous absence from it of all these qualities—a charm which is

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

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

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

absent. When read by the light of these helps to an understanding of the

situation, the book is delicious—profoundly and satisfyingly delicious.

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

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

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

author very frankly—yes, and very hopefully, too, poor fellow—says in

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

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

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

will he care for it now?

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

long-vanished day the Southern author had a passion for ‘eloquence’; it

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

recognised only one kind of eloquence, the lurid, the tempestuous, the

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

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

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

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

pumicestone, into the skies, and work his subterranean thunders, and

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

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

he would have his eruption at any cost. Mr. McClintock’s eloquence—and

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

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

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

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

this figure, which he uses in the village ‘Address’ referred to with

such candid complacency in the title-page above quoted—‘like the topmost

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

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

realisation of the size of it. Is the fellow to that to be found in

literature, ancient or modern, foreign or domestic, living or dead,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

actuality.

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

of Woman—simply Woman in general, or perhaps as an Institution—wherein,

among other compliments to her details, he pays a unique one to her

voice. He says it ‘fills the breast with fond alarms, echoed by every

rill.’ It sounds well enough, but it is not true. After the eulogy he

takes up his real work, and the novel begins. It begins in the woods,

near the village of Sunflower Hill.

‘Brightening clouds seemed to rise from the mist of the fair

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

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

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

friend.’

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

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

or description, he is shovelled into the tale. ‘With aspirations to

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

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

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

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

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

disturb him in any other way.

The hero climbs up over ‘Sawney’s Mountain,’ and down the other side,

making for an old Indian ‘castle’—which becomes ‘the red man’s hut’ in

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

wonder and astonishment’ the invisible structure, ‘which time had buried

in the dust; and thought to himself his happiness was not yet complete.’

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

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

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

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

twenty, who seemed to be reading some favourite book, and who had a

remarkably noble countenance—eyes which betrayed more than a common

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

friends in whatever condition of life he might be placed. The traveller

observed that he was a well-built figure which showed strength and grace

in every movement. He accordingly addressed him in quite a gentlemanly

manner, and inquired of him the way to the village. After he had

received the desired information, and was about taking his leave, the

youth said, “Are you not Major Elfonzo, the great musician[4]—the

champion of a noble cause—the modern Achilles, who gained so many

victories in the Florida War?” “I bear that name,” said the Major, “and

those titles, trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will

carry me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,”

continued the Major, “you, sir, are the patroniser of noble deeds, I

should like to make you my confidant, and learn your address.” The youth

looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment, and began: “My

name is Roswell. I have been recently admitted to the bar, and can only

give a faint outline of my future success in that honourable profession;

but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall look down from lofty rocks

upon the dwellings of man, and shall ever be ready to give you any

assistance in my official capacity, and whatever this muscular arm of

mine can do, whenever it shall be called from its buried greatness.” The

Major grasped him by the hand, and exclaimed: “O! thou exalted spirit of

inspiration—thou flame of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed

blaze be the glare of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems

to impede your progress!”’

Footnote 4:

Further on it will be seen that he is a country expert on the fiddle,

and has a three-township fame.

There is a strange sort of originality about McClintock; he imitates

other people’s styles, but nobody can imitate his, not even an idiot.

Other people can be windy, but McClintock blows a gale; other people can

blubber sentiment, but McClintock spews it; other people can mishandle

metaphors, but only McClintock knows how to make a business of it.

McClintock is always McClintock, he is always consistent, his style is

always his own style. He does not make the mistake of being relevant on

one page and irrelevant on another; he is irrelevant on all of them. He

does not make the mistake of being lucid in one place and obscure in

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

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

work; he always uses names that exactly and fantastically fit his

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

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

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

mistaken for anybody else’s.

Uncredited quotations from other writers often leave a reader in doubt

as to their authorship, but McClintock is safe from that accident; an

uncredited quotation from him would always be recognisable. When a boy

nineteen years old, who had just been admitted to the bar, says, ‘I

trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the

dwellings of man,’ we know who is speaking through that boy; we should

recognise that note anywhere. There be myriads of instruments in this

world’s literary orchestra, and a multitudinous confusion of sounds that

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

sort of drum mistaken for another sort; but whensoever the brazen note

of the McClintockian trombone breaks through that fog of music, that

note is recognisable, and about it there can be no blur of doubt.

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

father. When McClintock wrote this interview, he probably believed it

was pathetic.

‘The road which led to the town presented many attractions. Elfonzo had

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

to the dreaming spot of his fondness. The south winds whistled through

the woods, as the waters dashed against the banks, as rapid fire in the

pent furnace roars. This brought him to remember while alone that he

quietly left behind the hospitality of a father’s house, and gladly

entered the world, with higher hopes than are often realised. But as he

journeyed onward he was mindful of the advice of his father, who had

often looked sadly on the ground, when tears of cruelly deceived hope

moistened his eyes. Elfonzo had been somewhat of a dutiful son, yet fond

of the amusements of life—had been in distant lands, had enjoyed the

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

boyhood almost destitute of many of the comforts of life. In this

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

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

looks? Will you not favour me with the sound of your voice? If I have

trampled upon your veneration, or have spread a humid veil of darkness

around your expectations, send me back into the world, where no heart

beats for me—where the foot of man has never yet trod; but give me at

least one kind word—allow me to come into the presence sometimes of thy

winter-worn locks.” “Forbid it, Heaven, that I should be angry with

thee,” answered the father, “my son, and yet I send thee back to the

children of the world—to the cold charity of the combat, and to a land

of victory. I read another destiny in thy countenance—I learn thy

inclinations from the flame that has already kindled in my soul a

strange sensation. It will seek thee, my dear Elfonzo, it will find

thee—thou canst not escape that lighted torch, which shall blot out from

the remembrance of men a long train of prophecies which they have

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

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

Elfonzo, return to thy worldly occupation—take again in thy hand that

chord of sweet sounds—struggle with the civilised world, and with your

own heart; fly swiftly to the enchanted ground—let the night-owl send

forth its screams from the stubborn oak—let the sea sport upon the

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

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

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

a Higher will.”

‘Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately

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

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

they are not pleasant ones, they jar upon the feelings. His closing

sentence in the last quotation is of that sort. It brings one down out

of the tinted clouds in too sudden and collapsed a fashion. It incenses

one against the author for a moment. It makes the reader want to take

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

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

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

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

pacified.

‘His steps became quicker and quicker—he hastened through the piny

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

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

His close attention to every important object—his modest questions about

whatever was new to him—his reverence for wise old age, and his ardent

desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought him into respectable

notice.

‘One mild winter day, as he walked along the streets towards the

Academy, which stood upon a small eminence, surrounded by native

growth—some venerable in its appearance, others young and prosperous—all

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

for genius to spend its research beneath its spreading shades. He

entered its classic walls in the usual mode of Southern manners.’

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

curiosity of the reader—and how to disappoint it. He raises the hope,

here, that he is going to tell all about how one enters a classic wall

in the usual mode of Southern manners; but does he? No; he smiles in his

sleeve, and turns aside to other matters.

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

the recitations that were going on. He accordingly obeyed the request,

and seemed to be much pleased. After the school was dismissed, and the

young hearts regained their freedom, with the songs of the evening,

laughing at the anticipated pleasures of a happy home, while others

tittered at the actions of the past day, he addressed the teacher in a

tone that indicated a resolution—with an undaunted mind. He said he had

determined to become a student, if he could meet with his approbation.

“Sir,” said he, “I have spent much time in the world. I have travelled

among the uncivilised inhabitants of America. I have met with friends,

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

what is to be my destiny. I see the learned world have an influence with

the voice of the people themselves. The despoilers of the remotest

kingdoms of the earth refer their differences to this class of persons.

This the illiterate and inexperienced little dream of; and now, if you

will receive me as I am, with these deficiencies—with all my misguided

opinions, I will give you my honour, sir, that I will never disgrace the

Institution or those who have placed you in this honourable station.”

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

for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities of an

unfeeling community. He looked at him earnestly, and said: “Be of good

cheer—look forward, sir, to the high destination you may attain.

Remember, the more elevated the mark at which you aim, the more sure,

the more glorious, the more magnificent the prize.” From wonder to

wonder, his encouragement led the impatient listener. A strange nature

bloomed before him—giant streams promised him success—gardens of hidden

treasures opened to his view. All this, so vividly described, seemed to

gain a new witchery from his glowing fancy.’

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

not been attempted before. Military celebrities have been disguised and

set at lowly occupations for dramatic effect, but I think McClintock is

the first to send one of them to school. Thus, in this book, you pass

from wonder to wonder, through gardens of hidden treasure, where giant

streams bloom before you, and behind you, and all around, and you feel

as happy, and groggy, and satisfied, with your quart of mixed metaphor

aboard, as you would if it had been mixed in a sample-room, and

delivered from a jug.

Now we come upon some more McClintockian surprises—a sweetheart who is

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

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

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

and Latin departments. Indeed, he continued advancing with such rapidity

that he was like to become the first in his class, and made such

unexpected progress, and was so studious, that he had almost forgotten

the pictured saint of his affections. The fresh wreaths of the pine and

cypress had waited anxiously to drop once more the dews of Heaven upon

the heads of those who had so often poured forth the tender emotions of

their souls under its boughs. He was aware of the pleasure that he had

seen there. So one evening, as he was returning from his reading, he

concluded he would pay a visit to this enchanting spot. Little did he

think of witnessing a shadow of his former happiness, though no doubt he

wished it might be so. He continued sauntering by the road-side,

meditating on the past. The nearer he approached the spot, the more

anxious he became. At that moment a tall female figure flitted across

his path, with a bunch of roses in her hand; her countenance showed

uncommon vivacity, with a resolute spirit; her ivory teeth already

appeared as she smiled beautifully, promenading, while her ringlets of

hair dangled unconsciously around her snowy neck. Nothing was wanting to

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

cheek; the charms of sensibility and tenderness were always her

associates. In Ambulinia’s bosom dwelt a noble soul—one that never

faded—one that never was conquered.’

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

Ambulinia Valeer. Marriage will presently round it out and perfect it.

Then it will be Mrs. Ambulinia Valeer Elfonzo. It takes the chromo.

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

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

bound, because he sought the hand of no other. Elfonzo was roused from

his apparent reverie. His books no longer were his inseparable

companions—his thoughts arrayed themselves to encourage him to the field

of victory. He endeavoured to speak to his supposed Ambulinia, but his

speech appeared not in words. No, his effort was a stream of fire that

kindled his soul into a flame of admiration and carried his senses away

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

duty. As she walked speedily away through the piny woods she calmly

echoed: “O! Elfonzo, thou wilt now look from thy sunbeams. Thou shalt

now walk in a new path—perhaps thy way leads through darkness; but fear

not, the stars foretell happiness.”’

To McClintock that jingling jumble of fine words meant something, no

doubt, or seemed to mean something; but it is useless for us to try to

divine what it was. Ambulinia comes—we don’t know whence nor why; she

mysteriously intimates—we don’t know what; and then she goes echoing

away—we don’t know whither; and down comes the curtain. McClintock’s art

is subtle; McClintock’s art is deep.

‘Not many days afterwards, as surrounded by fragrant flowers, she sat

one evening at twilight to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered notes of

melody along the distant groves, the little birds perched on every side,

as if to watch the movements of their new visitor. The bells were

tolling, when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild wood flowers,

holding in his hand his favourite instrument of music—his eye

continually searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed to perceive him

as she played carelessly with the songsters that hopped from branch to

branch. Nothing could be more striking than the difference between the

two. Nature seemed to have given the more tender soul to Elfonzo, and

the stronger and more courageous to Ambulinia. A deep feeling spoke from

the eyes of Elfonzo—such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who

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

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

had turned a little into her seventeenth. He had almost grown up in the

Cherokee country, with the same equal proportions as one of the natives.

But little intimacy had existed between them until the year

forty-one—because the youth felt that the character of such a lovely

girl was too exalted to inspire any other feeling than that of quiet

reverence. But as lovers will not always be insulted, at all times and

under all circumstances, by the frowns and cold looks of crabbed old

age, which should continually reflect dignity upon those around, and

treat the unfortunate as well as the fortunate with a graceful mien, he

continued to use diligence and perseverance.

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

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

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

embarrassment, and return where he had before only worshipped.’

At last we begin to get the Major’s measure. We are able to put this and

that casual fact together, and build the man up before our eyes, and

look at him. And after we have got him built, we find him worth the

trouble. By the above comparison between his age and Ambulinia’s, we

guess the war-worn veteran to be twenty-two; and the other facts stand

thus: he had grown up in the Cherokee country with the same equal

proportions as one of the natives—how flowing and graceful the language,

and yet how tantalising as to meaning!—he had been turned adrift by his

father, to whom he had been ‘somewhat of a dutiful son’; he wandered in

distant lands; came back frequently ‘to the scenes of his boyhood,

almost destitute of many of the comforts of life,’ in order to get into

the presence of his father’s winter-worn locks, and spread a humid veil

of darkness around his expectations; but he was always promptly sent

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

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

wild tribes; he had philosophised about the despoilers of the kingdoms

of the earth, and found out—the cunning creature—that they refer their

differences to the learned for settlement; he had achieved a vast fame

as a military chieftain, the Achilles of the Florida campaigns, and then

had got him a spelling-book and started to school; he had fallen in love

with Ambulinia Valeer while she was teething, but had kept it to himself

awhile, out of the reverential awe which he felt for the child; but now

at last, like the unyielding deity who follows the storm to check its

rage in the forest, he resolves to shake off his embarrassment, and to

return where before he had only worshipped. The Major, indeed, has made

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

_he_ can’t do that thing himself. This is not clear. But no matter about

that: there stands the hero, compact and visible; and he is no mean

structure, considering that his creator had never created anything

before, and hadn’t anything but rags and wind to build with this time.

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

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

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

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

would now be poor.

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

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

that has merit, peculiar literary merit. See how Achilles wooes. Dwell

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

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

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

it is his habit; it is a part of his genius; he cannot help it; he never

interrupts the rush of his narrative to make introductions:

‘It could not escape Ambulinia’s penetrating eye that he sought an

interview with her, which she as anxiously avoided, and assumed a more

distant calmness than before, seemingly to destroy all hope. After many

efforts and struggles with his own person, with timid steps the Major

approached the damsel, with the same caution as he would have done in a

field of battle. “Lady Ambulinia,” said he, trembling, “I have long

desired a moment like this. I dare not let it escape. I fear the

consequences; yet I hope your indulgence will at least hear my petition.

Can you not anticipate what I would say, and what I am about to express?

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

release me from thy winding chains or cure me——” “Say no more, Elfonzo,”

answered Ambulinia, with a serious look, raising her hand as if she

intended to swear eternal hatred against the whole world; “another lady

in my place would have perhaps answered your question in bitter

coldness. I know not the little arts of my sex. I care but little for

the vanity of those who would chide me, and am unwilling as well as

ashamed to be guilty of anything that would lead you to think ‘all is

not gold that glitters’; so be not rash in your resolution. It is better

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

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

make—your heart! You should not offer it to one so unworthy. Heaven, you

know, has allowed my father’s house to be made a house of solitude, a

home of silent obedience, which my parents say is more to be admired

than big names and high-sounding titles. Notwithstanding all this, let

me speak the emotions of an honest heart—allow me to say in the fulness

of my hopes that I anticipate better days. The bird may stretch its

wings towards the sun which it can never reach; and flowers of the field

appear to ascend in the same direction, because they cannot do

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

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

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

deceive not yourself.”

‘Elfonzo replied, “Pardon me, my dear madam, for my frankness. I have

loved you from my earliest days—everything grand and beautiful hath

borne the image of Ambulinia: while precipices on every hand surrounded

me, your guardian angel stood and beckoned me away from the deep abyss.

In every trial—in every misfortune, I have met with your helping hand;

yet I never dreamed or dared to cherish thy love, till a voice impaired

with age encouraged the cause, and declared they who acquired thy favour

should win a victory. I saw how Leos worshipped thee. I felt my own

unworthiness. I began to know jealousy, a strong guest indeed, in my

bosom, yet I could see if I gained your admiration, Leos was to be my

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

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

and regular tranquillity; yet I have determined by your permission to

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

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

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

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

forget his dashing steed; yet I am assured that it is only to arm me

with divine weapons, which will enable me to complete my long-tried

intention.” “Return to yourself, Elfonzo,” said Ambulinia, pleasantly,

“a dream of vision has disturbed your intellect—you are above the

atmosphere, dwelling in the celestial regions, nothing is there that

urges or hinders, nothing that brings discord into our present

litigation. I entreat you to condescend a little, and be a man, and

forget it all. When Homer describes the battle of the gods and noble

men, fighting with giants and dragons, they represent under this image

our struggles with the delusions of our passions. You have exalted me,

an unhappy girl, to the skies; you have called me a saint, and portrayed

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

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

will consider a share in your esteem as her highest treasure. Think not

that I would allure you from the path in which your conscience leads

you; for you know I respect the conscience of others, as I would die for

my own. Elfonzo, if I am worthy of thy love, let such conversation never

again pass between us. Go, seek a nobler theme! we will seek it in the

stream of time as the sunset in the Tigris.” As she spake these words

she grasped the hand of Elfonzo, saying at the same time—“Peace and

prosperity attend you, my hero: be up and doing.” Closing her remarks

with this expression, she walked slowly away, leaving Elfonzo astonished

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

alone, gazing at the stars—confounded as he was, here he stood.’

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

of this delirious story has now been delivered to the reader. It seems a

pity to reduce the other half to a cold synopsis. Pity! it is more than

a pity, it is a crime; for, to synopsise McClintock is to reduce a

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

splendour to ragged poverty. McClintock never wrote a line that was not

precious; he never wrote one that could be spared; he never framed one

from which a word could be removed without damage. Every sentence that

this master has produced may be likened to a perfect set of teeth—white,

uniform, beautiful. If you pull one, the charm is gone. Still, it is now

necessary to begin to pull, and to keep it up; for lack of space

requires us to synopsise.

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

the girl’s speech. No; we ourselves should have been amazed at it, of

course, for none of us has ever heard anything resembling it: but

Elfonzo was used to speeches made up of noise and vacancy, and could

listen to them with undaunted mind like the ‘topmost topaz of an ancient

tower’; he was used to making them himself; he—but let it go, it cannot

be guessed out; we shall never know what it was that astonished him. He

stood there awhile; then he said, ‘Alas! am I now Grief’s disappointed

son at last.’ He did not stop to examine his mind, and to try to find

out what he probably meant by that, because, for one reason, ‘a mixture

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

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

reasonably progressed in his education.’ His heart was heavy, but he

went into society, and sought surcease of sorrow in its light

distractions. He made himself popular with his violin, ‘which seemed to

have a thousand chords—more symphonious than the Muses of Apollo, and

more enchanting than the ghost of the Hills.’ This is obscure, but let

it go.

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

‘choked by his undertaking,’ he desisted.

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

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

door herself. To my surprise—for Ambulinia’s heart had still seemed free

at the time of their last interview—love beamed from the girl’s eyes.

One sees that Elfonzo was surprised, too; for when he caught that light

‘a halloo of smothered shouts ran through every vein.’ A neat figure—a

very neat figure, indeed! Then he kissed her. ‘The scene was

overwhelming.’ They went into the parlour. The girl said it was safe,

for her parents were abed and would never know. Then we have this fine

picture—flung upon the canvas with hardly an effort, as you will notice.

‘Advancing towards him she gave a bright display of her rosy neck, and

from her head the ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance; her robe

hung waving to his view, while she stood like a goddess confessed before

him.’

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

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

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

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

merely wants a pretext to drag in a plagiarism of his upon a scene or

two in ‘Othello.’

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

Ambulinia must not be seen together, lest trouble follow with the girl’s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

is the maddening spectacle of Ambulinia ‘leaning upon Elfonzo’s chair.’

This poor girl does not seem to understand even the rudiments of

concealment. But she is ‘in her seventeenth,’ as the author phrases it,

and that is her justification.

Leos meditates, constructs a plan—with personal violence as a basis, of

course. It was their way, down there. It is a good plain plan, without

any imagination in it. He will go out and stand at the front door, and

when these two come out he will ‘arrest Ambulinia from the hands of the

insolent Elfonzo,’ and thus make for himself a ‘more prosperous field of

immortality than ever was decreed by Omnipotence, or ever pencil drew,

or artist imagined.’ But, dear me, while he is waiting there the couple

climb out at the back window and scurry home! This is romantic enough,

but there is a lack of dignity in the situation.

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

skip.

Some correspondence follows now. The bitter father and the distressed

lovers write the letters. Elopements are attempted. They are idiotically

planned, and they fail. Then we have several pages of romantic powwow

and confusion signifying nothing. Another elopement is planned; it is to

take place on Sunday, when everybody is at church. But the ‘hero’ cannot

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

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

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

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

a neighbour’s house. Her father drags her home. The villagers gather,

attracted by the racket.

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

going to become of Ambulinia, while he, with downcast looks, kept at a

distance, until he saw them enter the abode of the father, thrusting

her, that was the sigh of his soul, out of his presence into a solitary

apartment, when she exclaimed, “Elfonzo! Elfonzo! oh! Elfonzo! where art

thou, with all thy heroes? haste, oh! haste, come thou to my relief.

Ride on the wings of the wind! Turn thy force loose like a tempest, and

roll on thy army like a whirlwind, over this mountain of trouble and

confusion. Oh, friends! if any pity me, let your last efforts throng

upon the green hills, and come to the relief of Ambulinia, who is guilty

of nothing but innocent love.” Elfonzo called out with a loud voice, “My

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

tyranny. Come, my brave boys,” said he, “are you ready to go forth to

your duty?” They stood around him. “Who,” said he, “will call us to

arms? Where are my thunderbolts of war? Speak ye, the first who will

meet the foe! Who will go forth 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[5] 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.’

Footnote 5:

It is a crowbar.

It will hardly be believed that after all this thunder and lightning not

a drop of rain fell; but such is the fact. Elfonzo and his gang stood up

and blackguarded Mr. Valeer with vigour all night, getting their outlay

back with interest; then in the early morning the army and its general

retired from the field, leaving the victory with their solitary

adversary and his crowbar. This is the first time this has happened in

romantic literature. The invention is original. Everything in this book

is original; there is nothing hackneyed about it anywhere. Always, in

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

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

thing which seems inevitable and unavoidable never happens; it is

circumvented by the art of the author every time.

Another elopement was attempted. It failed.

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

thinks it is; but it isn’t. One day Elfonzo sends Ambulinia another

note—a note proposing elopement No. 16. This time the plan is admirable;

admirable, sagacious, ingenious, imaginative, deep—oh, everything, and

perfectly easy. One wonders why it was never thought of before. This is

the scheme. Ambulinia is to leave the breakfast table, ostensibly to

‘attend to the placing of those flowers, which ought to have been done a

week ago’—artificial ones, of course; the others wouldn’t keep so

long—and then, instead of fixing the flowers, she is to walk out to the

grove, and go off with Elfonzo. The invention of this plan overstrained

the author, that is plain, for he straightway shows failing powers. The

details of the plan are not many or elaborate. The author shall state

them himself—this good soul, whose intentions are always better than his

English:

‘“You walk carelessly towards the academy grove, where you will find me

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

shall be joined in wedlock with the first connubial rights.”’

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

smarten up and make acceptable to his spectacular heart by introducing

some new properties—silver bow, golden harp, olive branch,—things that

can all come good in an elopement, no doubt, yet are not to be compared

to an umbrella for real handiness and reliability in an excursion of

that kind.

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

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

and his golden harp. They meet—Ambulinia’s countenance brightens—Elfonzo

leads up his winged steed. “Mount,” said he, “ye true-hearted, ye

fearless soul—the day is ours.” She sprang upon the back of the young

thunderbolt; a brilliant star sparkles upon her head, with one hand she

grasps the reins, and with the other she holds an olive branch. “Lend

thy aid, ye strong winds,” they exclaimed, “ye moon, ye sun, and all ye

fair host of heaven, witness the enemy conquered.” “Hold,” said Elfonzo,

“thy dashing steed.” “Ride on,” said Ambulinia, “the voice of thunder is

behind us.” And onward they went with such rapidity that they very soon

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

all the solemnities that usually attend such divine operations.’

There is but one Homer, there was but one Shakspeare, there is but one

McClintock—and his immortal book is before you. Homer could not have

written this book, Shakspeare could not have written it, I could not

have done it myself. There is nothing just like it in the literature of

any country or of any epoch. It stands alone, it is monumental. It adds

G. Ragsdale McClintock’s to the sum of the republic’s imperishable

names.

THE

CURIOUS BOOK