The nervous, dapper, “peart” young man took the chair I offered him, and
said he was connected with the Daily Thunderstorm, and added:
“Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you.”
“Come to what?”
“Interview you.”
“Ah! I see. Yes--yes. Um! Yes--yes.”
I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit
under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been
looking six or seven minutes I found I was obliged to refer to the young
man. I said:--
“How do you spell it?”
“Spell what?”
“Interview.”
“Oh, my goodness! what do you want to spell it for?”
“I don't want to spell it; I want to see what it means.”
“Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you what it means, if
you--if you--”
“Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too.”
“In, in, ter, ter, inter--”
“Then you spell it with an I?”
“Why certainly!”
“Oh, that is what took me so long.”
“Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with?”
“Well, I--I--hardly know. I had the Unabridged, and I was ciphering
around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But
it's a very old edition.”
“Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it in even the latest
e---- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world, but
you do not look as--as--intelligent as I had expected you would. No
harm--I mean no harm at all.”
“Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would
not flatter and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite
remarkable in that way. Yes--yes; they always speak of it with rapture.”
“I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the
custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious.”
“Indeed, I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What
do you do it with?”
“Ah, well--well--well--this is disheartening. It ought to be done with
a club in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer
asking questions and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage
now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out
the salient points of your public and private history?”
“Oh, with pleasure--with pleasure. I have a very bad memory, but I
hope you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an irregular
memory--singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then
again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a
great grief to me.”
“Oh, it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can.”
“I will. I will put my whole mind on it.”
“Thanks. Are you ready to begin?”
“Ready.”
Q. How old are you?
A. Nineteen, in June.
Q. Indeed. I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were
you born?
A. In Missouri.
Q. When did you begin to write?
A. In 1836.
Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now?
A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.
Q. It does, indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you
ever met?
A. Aaron Burr.
Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen
years!--
A. Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?
Q. Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to
meet Burr?
A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day, and he asked me to
make less noise, and--
Q. But, good heavens! if you were at his funeral, he must have been
dead, and if he was dead how could he care whether you made a noise or
not?
A. I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.
Q. Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and
that he was dead.
A. I didn't say he was dead.
Q. But wasn't he dead?
A. Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't.
Q. What did you think?
A. Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral.
Q. Did you--However, we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask
about something else. What was the date of your birth?
A. Monday, October 31, 1693.
Q. What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old.
How do you account for that?
A. I don't account for it at all.
Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make
yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.
A. Why, have you noticed that? (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has
seemed to me like a discrepancy, but somehow I couldn't make up my mind.
How quick you notice a thing!
Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have
you, any brothers or sisters?
A. Eh! I--I--I think so--yes--but I don't remember.
Q. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard!
A. Why, what makes you think that?
Q. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of
on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours?
A. Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it; that was a brother of
mine. That's William--Bill we called him. Poor old Bill!
Q. Why? Is he dead, then?
A. Ah! well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great
mystery about it.
Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then?