“Jack,” said Alice, “every time I read this letter of poor Dory’s, I
find it harder to understand how General Sheridan has so high a
reputation in the North as a soldier. Can you explain it?”
“I cannot,” I replied, thumping the table fiercely with my fist; for
every Whacker molecule in me stood on end.
“I can,” put in Charley, in his dry way.
I turned and fixed my eyes on that philosopher. His were fixed upon the
ceiling. His head rested upon the back of his chair, his legs (they are
stoutish now) were stretched across another.
“The deuse you can!” for my sturdy Saxon atoms were in arms.
Charley removed his solid limbs from the chair in front of him, with the
effort and grunt of incipient obesity [incipient obesity indeed! and
from _you_! whe-e-_ew_! _Alice_], and, walking up to the mantel-piece,
rested both arms upon it at full length; then, tilting his short pipe at
an angle of forty-five degrees, he surveyed me with a smile of amiable
derision. “Yes, I can,” said he, at last. And with each word the short
pipe nodded conviction.
“Do it, then,” said I.
“I will,” said he. And diving down into his pocket, he drew forth a
manuscript; and striking an attitude, and placing his glasses (_eheu,
fugaces, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni_) upon his oratorical nose, he
unfolded the paper. Clearing his throat:
“HANNIBAL!” began he, in thunder-tones; then, dropping suddenly into his
usual soft voice, and letting fall his right hand containing the paper
to the level of his knee,—“this,” he added, peering gravely at us over
his spectacles, “is my Essay on Military Glory!”
Alice made herself comfortable, and spread out her fan; for laughing
makes her warm nowadays.
Had she any right to look for humor in an essay by her husband? Look at
her own chapter on the loves of Mary and the Don. A more sentimental
performance I never read. Show me a trace therein, if you can, of witty,
sparkling Alice of the merry-glancing hazel eyes! Look, for the matter
of that, at this book of mine. Why, the other day, glancing over the
proofs[1] of a certain chapter, and forgetting for the moment, as I read
the printed page, that I had written it, would you believe it, my eyes
filled with tears? (And a big one rolled down so softly that I started
when it struck the paper.) Is this, cried I, the jolly book that my
friends expect of me? Alas, fair reader, fellow-pilgrim, through this
valley of shadows, I trust full many a sun-streak may fall across your
path. As for me,—I can only sing the song that is given me.
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[1] Mr. Whacker must mean that he _intended_ “glancing over the
proofs.”—_Ed._