The $30,000 Bequest, and Other Stories Read online

  A CURE FOR THE BLUES

  By courtesy of Mr. Cable I came into possession of a singular bookeight or ten years ago. It is likely that mine is now the only copy inexistence. Its title-page, unabbreviated, reads as follows:

  "The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant. By G. Ragsdale McClintock,(1) author of 'An Address,' etc., delivered at Sunflower Hill, SouthCarolina, and member of the Yale Law School. New Haven: published by T.H. Pease, 83 Chapel Street, 1845."

  No one can take up this book and lay it down again unread. Whoever readsone line of it is caught, is chained; he has become the contented slaveof its fascinations; and he will read and read, devour and devour, andwill 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 hewill not throw it aside, but will keep it by him, with his Shakespeareand his Homer, and will take it up many and many a time, when theworld is dark and his spirits are low, and be straightway cheered andrefreshed. 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 ofstatement, humanly possible situations, humanly possible people, fluentnarrative, connected sequence of events--or philosophy, or logic, orsense. No; the rich, deep, beguiling charm of the book lies in the totaland miraculous _absence _from it of all these qualities--a charm whichis completed and perfected by the evident fact that the author, whosenaive innocence easily and surely wins our regard, and almost ourworship, does not know that they are absent, does not even suspectthat they are absent. When read by the light of these helps to anunderstanding of the situation, the book is delicious--profoundly andsatisfyingly delicious.

  I call it a book because the author calls it a book, I call it a workbecause he calls it a work; but, in truth, it is merely a duodecimopamphlet of thirty-one pages. It was written for fame and money, as theauthor very frankly--yes, and very hopefully, too, poor fellow--saysin his preface. The money never came--no penny of it ever came; and howlong, how pathetically long, the fame has been deferred--forty-sevenyears! He was young then, it would have been so much to him then; butwill he care for it now?

  As time is measured in America, McClintock's epoch is antiquity. In hislong-vanished day the Southern author had a passion for "eloquence";it was his pet, his darling. He would be eloquent, or perish. And herecognized only one kind of eloquence--the lurid, the tempestuous, thevolcanic. He liked words--big words, fine words, grand words, rumbling,thundering, reverberating words; with sense attaching if it could be gotin without marring the sound, but not otherwise. He loved to standup before a dazed world, and pour forth flame and smoke and lava andpumice-stone into the skies, and work his subterranean thunders, andshake himself with earthquakes, and stench himself with sulphur fumes.If he consumed his own fields and vineyards, that was a pity, yes; buthe would have his eruption at any cost. Mr. McClintock's eloquence--andhe is always eloquent, his crater is always spouting--is of the patterncommon to his day, but he departs from the custom of the time in onerespect: his brethren allowed sense to intrude when it did not mar thesound, but he does not allow it to intrude at all. For example, considerthis figure, which he used in the village "Address" referred to withsuch candid complacency in the title-page above quoted--"like thetopmost topaz of an ancient tower." Please read it again; contemplateit; measure it; walk around it; climb up it; try to get at anapproximate realization of the size of it. Is the fellow to that to befound in literature, ancient or modern, foreign or domestic, living ordead, drunk or sober? One notices how fine and grand it sounds. We knowthat if it was loftily uttered, it got a noble burst of applause fromthe 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 Hartfordon a visit that same year. I have talked with men who at that timetalked with him, and felt of him, and knew he was real. One needs toremember that fact and to keep fast hold of it; it is the only way tokeep McClintock's book from undermining one's faith in McClintock'sactuality.

  As to the book. The first four pages are devoted to an inflamedeulogy of Woman--simply Woman in general, or perhaps as anInstitution--wherein, among other compliments to her details, he pays aunique 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. Afterthe eulogy he takes up his real work and the novel begins. It begins inthe woods, near the village of Sunflower Hill.

  Brightening clouds seemed to rise from the mist of the fairChattahoochee, to spread their beauty over the thick forest, to guidethe hero whose bosom beats with aspirations to conquer the enemy thatwould tarnish his name, and to win back the admiration of his long-triedfriend.

  It seems a general remark, but it is not general; the hero mentioned isthe to-be hero of the book; and in this abrupt fashion, and withoutname or description, he is shoveled into the tale. "With aspirations toconquer the enemy that would tarnish his name" is merely a phrase flungin for the sake of the sound--let it not mislead the reader. No one istrying to tarnish this person; no one has thought of it. The rest of thesentence is also merely a phrase; the man has no friend as yet, andof course has had no chance to try him, or win back his admiration, ordisturb 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 withwonder and astonishment" the invisible structure, "which time has buriedin 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 wasthe Indian; but the book does not say. At this point we have an episode:

  Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man, about eighteen or twenty,who seemed to be reading some favorite book, and who had a remarkablynoble countenance--eyes which betrayed more than a common mind. Thisof course made the youth a welcome guest, and gained him friends inwhatever condition of his life he might be placed. The traveler observedthat he was a well-built figure which showed strength and grace in everymovement. He accordingly addressed him in quite a gentlemanly manner,and inquired of him the way to the village. After he had received thedesired information, and was about taking his leave, the youth said,"Are you not Major Elfonzo, the great musician (2)--the champion of anoble cause--the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in theFlorida War?" "I bear that name," said the Major, "and those titles,trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry metriumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if," continuedthe Major, "you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds, I should liketo make you my confidant and learn your address." The youth lookedsomewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment, and began: "My name isRoswell. I have been recently admitted to the bar, and can only give afaint outline of my future success in that honorable profession; but Itrust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall look down from the lofty rocks uponthe dwellings of man, and shall ever be ready to give you any assistancein my official capacity, and whatever this muscular arm of mine cando, whenever it shall be called from its buried _greatness_." The Majorgrasped him by the hand, and exclaimed: "O! thou exalted spirit ofinspiration--thou flame of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directedblaze be the glare of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seemsto impede your progress!"

  There is a strange sort of originality about McClintock; he imitatesother people's styles, but nobody can imitate his, not even an idiot.Other people can be windy, but McClintock blows a gale; other people canblubber sentiment, but McClintock spews it; other people can mishandlemetaphors, but only McClintock knows how to make a business of it.McClintock is always McClintock, he is always consistent, his style isalways his own
style. He does not make the mistake of being relevant onone 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 obscurein another; he is obscure all the time. He does not make the mistakeof slipping in a name here and there that is out of character withhis work; he always uses names that exactly and fantastically fit hislunatics. In the matter of undeviating consistency he stands alone inauthorship. It is this that makes his style unique, and entitles it toa name of its own--McClintockian. It is this that protects it from beingmistaken for anybody else's. Uncredited quotations from other writersoften leave a reader in doubt as to their authorship, but McClintock issafe from that accident; an uncredited quotation from him would alwaysbe recognizable. When a boy nineteen years old, who had just beenadmitted to the bar, says, "I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shalllook down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man," we know who isspeaking through that boy; we should recognize that note anywhere. Therebe myriads of instruments in this world's literary orchestra, and amultitudinous confusion of sounds that they make, wherein fiddlesare drowned, and guitars smothered, and one sort of drum mistakenfor another sort; but whensoever the brazen note of the McClintockiantrombone breaks through that fog of music, that note is recognizable,and about it there can be no blur of doubt.

  The novel now arrives at the point where the Major goes home to see hisfather. When McClintock wrote this interview he probably believed it waspathetic.

  The road which led to the town presented many attractions Elfonzo hadbid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was now wending his wayto the dreaming spot of his fondness. The south winds whistled throughthe woods, as the waters dashed against the banks, as rapid fire in thepent furnace roars. This brought him to remember while alone, that hequietly left behind the hospitality of a father's house, and gladlyentered the world, with higher hopes than are often realized. But as hejourneyed onward, he was mindful of the advice of his father, who hadoften looked sadly on the ground, when tears of cruelly deceived hopemoistened his eyes. Elfonzo had been somewhat a dutiful son; yet fondof the amusements of life--had been in distant lands--had enjoyed thepleasure of the world, and had frequently returned to the scenes ofhis boyhood, almost destitute of many of the comforts of life. In thiscondition, he would frequently say to his father, "Have I offended you,that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon me with stinginglooks? Will you not favor me with the sound of your voice? If I havetrampled upon your veneration, or have spread a humid veil of darknessaround your expectations, send me back into the world, where no heartbeats for me--where the foot of man had never yet trod; but give me atleast one kind word--allow me to come into the presence sometimes ofthy winter-worn locks." "Forbid it, Heaven, that I should be angry withthee," answered the father, "my son, and yet I send thee back to thechildren of the world--to the cold charity of the combat, and to aland of victory. I read another destiny in thy countenance--I learnthy inclinations from the flame that has already kindled in my soul astrange sensation. It will seek thee, my dear _Elfonzo_, it will findthee--thou canst not escape that lighted torch, which shall blot outfrom the remembrance of men a long train of prophecies which they haveforetold against thee. I once thought not so. Once, I was blind; butnow 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 thatchord of sweet sounds--struggle with the civilized world and with yourown heart; fly swiftly to the enchanted ground--let the night-_owl_ sendforth its screams from the stubborn oak--let the sea sport upon thebeach, and the stars sing together; but learn of these, Elfonzo, thydoom, 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 themto a Higher will."

  Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediatelyurged by the recollection of his father's family to keep moving.

  McClintock has a fine gift in the matter of surprises; but as a rulethey are not pleasant ones, they jar upon the feelings. His closingsentence in the last quotation is of that sort. It brings one down outof the tinted clouds in too sudden and collapsed a fashion. It incensesone against the author for a moment. It makes the reader want to takehim by his winter-worn locks, and trample on his veneration, and deliverhim over to the cold charity of combat, and blot him out with his ownlighted torch. But the feeling does not last. The master takes againin 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 thelittle village of repose, in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry.His close attention to every important object--his modest questionsabout whatever was new to him--his reverence for wise old age, and hisardent desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought him intorespectable notice.

  One mild winter day, as he walked along the streets toward the Academy,which stood upon a small eminence, surrounded by native growth--somevenerable in its appearance, others young and prosperous--all seemedinviting, and seemed to be the very place for learning as well as forgenius to spend its research beneath its spreading shades. He enteredits classic walls in the usual mode of southern manners.

  The artfulness of this man! None knows so well as he how to pique thecuriosity 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 wallin the usual mode of Southern manners; but does he? No; he smiles in hissleeve, and turns aside to other matters.

  The principal of the Institution begged him to be seated and listen tothe recitations that were going on. He accordingly obeyed the request,and seemed to be much pleased. After the school was dismissed, and theyoung hearts regained their freedom, with the songs of the evening,laughing at the anticipated pleasures of a happy home, while otherstittered at the actions of the past day, he addressed the teacher in atone that indicated a resolution--with an undaunted mind. He said he haddetermined to become a student, if he could meet with his approbation."Sir," said he, "I have spent much time in the world. I have traveledamong the uncivilized inhabitants of America. I have met with friends,and combated with foes; but none of these gratify my ambition, or decidewhat is to be my destiny. I see the learned world have an influencewith the voice of the people themselves. The despoilers of the remotestkingdoms of the earth refer their differences to this class of persons.This the illiterate and inexperienced little dream of; and now if youwill receive me as I am, with these deficiencies--with all my misguidedopinions, I will give you my honor, sir, that I will never disgrace theInstitution, or those who have placed you in this honorable station."The instructor, who had met with many disappointments, knew how tofeel for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities of anunfeeling community. He looked at him earnestly, and said: "Be ofgood 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 towonder, his encouragement led the impatient listener. A strange naturebloomed before him--giant streams promised him success--gardens ofhidden 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 hasnot been attempted before. Military celebrities have been disguised andset at lowly occupations for dramatic effect, but I think McClintock isthe first to send one of them to school. Thus, in this book, you passfrom wonder to wonder, through gardens of hidden treasure, where giantstreams bloom before you, and behind you, and all around, and you feelas happy, and groggy, and satisfied with your quart of mixed metaphoraboard as you would if it had been mixed in a sample-room and deliveredfrom a jug.

  Now we come upon some more McClintockian surprises--a sweetheart who issprung upon us without any preparation, along with a name for her whichis even a little more of a surprise than she herself is.


  In 1842 he entered the class, and made rapid progress in the Englishand Latin departments. Indeed, he continued advancing with such rapiditythat he was like to become the first in his class, and made suchunexpected progress, and was so studious, that he had almost forgottenthe pictured saint of his affections. The fresh wreaths of the pine andcypress had waited anxiously to drop once more the dews of Heaven uponthe heads of those who had so often poured forth the tender emotions oftheir souls under its boughs. He was aware of the pleasure that he hadseen there. So one evening, as he was returning from his reading, heconcluded he would pay a visit to this enchanting spot. Little did hethink of witnessing a shadow of his former happiness, though no doubthe wished it might be so. He continued sauntering by the roadside,meditating on the past. The nearer he approached the spot, the moreanxious he became. At that moment a tall female figure flitted acrosshis path, with a bunch of roses in her hand; her countenance showeduncommon vivacity, with a resolute spirit; her ivory teeth alreadyappeared as she smiled beautifully, promenading--while her ringlets ofhair dangled unconsciously around her snowy neck. Nothing was wantingto complete her beauty. The tinge of the rose was in full bloom uponher cheek; the charms of sensibility and tenderness were always herassociates. In Ambulinia's bosom dwelt a noble soul--one that neverfaded--one that never was conquered.

  Ambulinia! It can hardly be matched in fiction. The full name isAmbulinia 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 shegazed with intense delight, and to whom she felt herself more closelybound, because he sought the hand of no other. Elfonzo was rousedfrom his apparent reverie. His books no longer were his inseparablecompanions--his thoughts arrayed themselves to encourage him to thefield of victory. He endeavored to speak to his supposed Ambulinia, buthis 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 sensesaway captive. Ambulinia had disappeared, to make him more mindful ofhis duty. As she walked speedily away through the piny woods, she calmlyechoed: "O! Elfonzo, thou wilt now look from thy sunbeams. Thou shaltnow walk in a new path--perhaps thy way leads through darkness; but fearnot, the stars foretell happiness."

  To McClintock that jingling jumble of fine words meant something, nodoubt, or seemed to mean something; but it is useless for us to try todivine what it was. Ambulinia comes--we don't know whence nor why; shemysteriously intimates--we don't know what; and then she goes echoingaway--we don't know whither; and down comes the curtain. McClintock'sart is subtle; McClintock's art is deep.

  Not many days afterward, as surrounded by fragrant flowers she sat oneevening at twilight, to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered notes ofmelody along the distant groves, the little birds perched on everyside, as if to watch the movements of their new visitor. The bells weretolling, when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild wood flowers,holding in his hand his favorite instrument of music--his eyecontinually searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed to perceive him,as she played carelessly with the songsters that hopped from branch tobranch. Nothing could be more striking than the difference between thetwo. Nature seemed to have given the more tender soul to Elfonzo, andthe stronger and more courageous to Ambulinia. A deep feeling spoke fromthe eyes of Elfonzo--such a feeling as can only be expressed by thosewho are blessed as admirers, and by those who are able to return thesame with sincerity of heart. He was a few years older than Ambulinia:she had turned a little into her seventeenth. He had almost grown upin the Cherokee country, with the same equal proportions as one of thenatives. But little intimacy had existed between them until the yearforty-one--because the youth felt that the character of such a lovelygirl was too exalted to inspire any other feeling than that of quietreverence. But as lovers will not always be insulted, at all times andunder all circumstances, by the frowns and cold looks of crabbed oldage, which should continually reflect dignity upon those around, andtreat the unfortunate as well as the fortunate with a graceful mien, hecontinued to use diligence and perseverance. All this lighted a sparkin his heart that changed his whole character, and like the unyieldingDeity that follows the storm to check its rage in the forest, heresolves for the first time to shake off his embarrassment and returnwhere he had before only worshiped.

  At last we begin to get the Major's measure. We are able to put thisand 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 thetrouble. By the above comparison between his age and Ambulinia's, weguess the war-worn veteran to be twenty-two; and the other facts standthus: he had grown up in the Cherokee country with the same equalproportions as one of the natives--how flowing and graceful thelanguage, and yet how tantalizing as to meaning!--he had been turnedadrift 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 hisboyhood, almost destitute of many of the comforts of life," in order toget into the presence of his father's winter-worn locks, and spreada humid veil of darkness around his expectations; but he was alwayspromptly sent back to the cold charity of the combat again; he learnedto play the fiddle, and made a name for himself in that line; he haddwelt among the wild tribes; he had philosophized about the despoilersof the kingdoms of the earth, and found out--the cunning creature--thatthey refer their differences to the learned for settlement; he hadachieved a vast fame as a military chieftain, the Achilles of theFlorida campaigns, and then had got him a spelling-book and startedto school; he had fallen in love with Ambulinia Valeer while she wasteething, but had kept it to himself awhile, out of the reverential awewhich he felt for the child; but now at last, like the unyielding Deitywho follows the storm to check its rage in the forest, he resolves toshake off his embarrassment, and to return where before he had onlyworshiped. The Major, indeed, has made up his mind to rise up and shakehis 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 hiscreator had never created anything before, and hadn't anything butrags and wind to build with this time. It seems to me that no one cancontemplate this odd creature, this quaint and curious blatherskite,without admiring McClintock, or, at any rate, loving him and feelinggrateful to him; for McClintock made him, he gave him to us; withoutMcClintock we could not have had him, and would now be poor.

  But we must come to the feast again. Here is a courtship scene, downthere in the romantic glades among the raccoons, alligators, and things,that has merit, peculiar literary merit. See how Achilles woos.Dwell upon the second sentence (particularly the close of it) and thebeginning of the third. Never mind the new personage, Leos, who isintruded 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 neverinterrupts the rush of his narrative to make introductions.

  It could not escape Ambulinia's penetrating eye that he sought aninterview with her, which she as anxiously avoided, and assumed a moredistant calmness than before, seemingly to destroy all hope. After manyefforts and struggles with his own person, with timid steps the Majorapproached the damsel, with the same caution as he would have done ina field of battle. "Lady Ambulinia," said he, trembling, "I havelong desired a moment like this. I dare not let it escape. I fear theconsequences; yet I hope your indulgence will at least hear my petition.Can you not anticipate what I would say, and what I am about to express?Will not you, like Minerva, who sprung from the brain of Jupiter,release me from thy winding chains or cure me--" "Say no more, Elfonzo,"answered Ambulinia, with a serious look, raising her hand as if sheintended to swear eternal hatred against the whole world; "anotherlady in my place would have perhaps answered your question in bittercoldness. I know not the little arts of my sex. I care but little forthe 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 isnot gold that glitters'; so be not rash in your resolution. It is betterto repent now, than to do it in a more solemn hour. Yes, I know what youwould say. I know you have a costly gift for me--the noblest that mancan 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 ofsolitude, a home of silent obedience, which my parents say is more tobe admired than big names and high-sounding titles. Notwithstanding allthis, let me speak the emotions of an honest heart--allow me to say inthe fullness of my hopes that I anticipate better days. The bird maystretch its wings toward the sun, which it can never reach; and flowersof the field appear to ascend in the same direction, because they cannotdo otherwise; but man confides his complaints to the saints in whom hebelieves; for in their abodes of light they know no more sorrow. Fromyour confession and indicative looks, I must be that person; if sodeceive not yourself."

  Elfonzo replied, "Pardon me, my dear madam, for my frankness. I haveloved you from my earliest days--everything grand and beautiful hathborne the image of Ambulinia; while precipices on every hand surroundedme, your _guardian angel_ stood and beckoned me away from the deepabyss. In every trial, in every misfortune, I have met with your helpinghand; yet I never dreamed or dared to cherish thy love, till a voiceimpaired with age encouraged the cause, and declared they who acquiredthy favor should win a victory. I saw how Leos worshiped thee. I felt myown unworthiness. I began to _know jealously_, a strong guest--indeed,in my bosom,--yet I could see if I gained your admiration Leos was to bemy rival. I was aware that he had the influence of your parents, and thewealth of a deceased relative, which is too often mistaken for permanentand regular tranquillity; yet I have determined by your permissionto beg an interest in your prayers--to ask you to animate my droopingspirits by your smiles and your winning looks; for if you but speak Ishall be conqueror, my enemies shall stagger like Olympus shakes. Andthough earth and sea may tremble, and the charioteer of the sun mayforget his dashing steed, yet I am assured that it is only to arm mewith divine weapons which will enable me to complete my long-triedintention."

  "Return to yourself, Elfonzo," said Ambulinia, pleasantly: "a dreamof vision has disturbed your intellect; you are above the atmosphere,dwelling in the celestial regions; nothing is there that urges orhinders, nothing that brings discord into our present litigation. Ientreat 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 withgiants and dragons, they represent under this image our struggles withthe delusions of our passions. You have exalted me, an unhappy girl, tothe skies; you have called me a saint, and portrayed in your imaginationan angel in human form. Let her remain such to you, let her continue tobe as you have supposed, and be assured that she will consider a sharein your esteem as her highest treasure. Think not that I would allureyou from the path in which your conscience leads you; for you know Irespect the conscience of others, as I would die for my own. Elfonzo, ifI am worthy of thy love, let such conversation never again pass betweenus. Go, seek a nobler theme! we will seek it in the stream of time, asthe sun set in the Tigris." As she spake these words she grasped thehand of Elfonzo, saying at the same time--"Peace and prosperityattend you, my hero; be up and doing!" Closing her remarks with thisexpression, she walked slowly away, leaving Elfonzo astonished andamazed. 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 halfof this delirious story has now been delivered to the reader. It seems apity to reduce the other half to a cold synopsis. Pity! it is morethan a pity, it is a crime; for to synopsize McClintock is to reducea sky-flushing conflagration to dull embers, it is to reduce barbaricsplendor to ragged poverty. McClintock never wrote a line that was notprecious; he never wrote one that could be spared; he never framed onefrom which a word could be removed without damage. Every sentence thatthis 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 lackof space requires us to synopsize.

  We left Elfonzo standing there amazed. At what, we do not know. Not atthe girl's speech. No; we ourselves should have been amazed at it,of course, for none of us has ever heard anything resembling it; butElfonzo was used to speeches made up of noise and vacancy, and couldlisten to them with undaunted mind like the "topmost topaz of an ancienttower"; he was used to making them himself; he--but let it go, it cannotbe guessed out; we shall never know what it was that astonished him. Hestood there awhile; then he said, "Alas! am I now Grief's disappointedson at last?" He did not stop to examine his mind, and to try to findout what he probably meant by that, because, for one reason, "a mixtureof ambition and greatness of soul moved upon his young heart," andstarted him for the village. He resumed his bench in school, "andreasonably progressed in his education." His heart was heavy, buthe went into society, and sought surcease of sorrow in its lightdistractions. He made himself popular with his violin, "which seemed tohave a thousand chords--more symphonious than the Muses of Apollo, andmore enchanting than the ghost of the Hills." This is obscure, but letit 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 andnew-built village." He goes to the house of his beloved; she opens thedoor herself. To my surprise--for Ambulinia's heart had still seemedfree at the time of their last interview--love beamed from the girl'seyes. One sees that Elfonzo was surprised, too; for when he caught thatlight, "a halloo of smothered shouts ran through every vein." A neatfigure--a very neat figure, indeed! Then he kissed her. "The scene wasoverwhelming." They went into the parlor. The girl said it was safe,for her parents were abed, and would never know. Then we have thisfine picture--flung upon the canvas with hardly an effort, as you willnotice.

  Advancing toward him, she gave a bright display of her rosy neck, andfrom her head the ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance; her robehung waving to his view, while she stood like a goddess confessed beforehim.

  There is nothing of interest in the couple's interview. Now at thispoint the girl invites Elfonzo to a village show, where jealousy is themotive of the play, for she wants to teach him a wholesome lesson, if heis a jealous person. But this is a sham, and pretty shallow. McClintockmerely wants a pretext to drag in a plagiarism of his upon a scene ortwo in "Othello."

  The lovers went to the play. Elfonzo was one of the fiddlers. He andAmbulinia must not be seen together, lest trouble follow with the girl'smalignant father; we are made to understand that clearly. So the two sittogether in the orchestra, in the midst of the musicians. This does notseem 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 roomto spare for people's girls; in the next place, one cannot conceal agirl in an orchestra without everybody taking notice of it. There can beno doubt, it seems to me, that this is bad art.

  Leos is present. Of course, one of the first things that catches his eyeis the maddening spectacle of Ambulinia "leaning upon Elfonzo's chair."This poor girl does not seem to understand even the rudiments ofconcealment. 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, withoutany imagination in it. He will go out and stand at the front door, andwhen these two come out he will "arrest Ambulinia from the hands of theinsolent Elfonzo," and thus make for himself a "more prosperous field ofimmortality than ever was decreed by Omnipotence, or ever pencil drewor artist imagined." But, dear me, while he is waiting there the coupleclimb 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 weskip.

  Some correspondence follows now. The bitter father and the distressedlovers write the letters. Elopements are attempted. They are idioticallyplanned, and they fail. Then we have several pages of romantic powwowand confusion signifying nothing. Another elopement is planned; it is totake place on Sunday, when everybody is at church. But the "hero" cannotkeep the secret; he tells everybody. Another author would have foundanother instrument when he decided to defeat this elopement; but that isnot McClintock's way. He uses the person that is nearest at hand.

  The evasion failed, of course. Ambulinia, in her flight, takes refugein a neighbor's house. Her father drags her home. The villagers gather,attracted by the racket.

  Elfonzo was moved at this sight. The people followed on to see what wasgoing to become of Ambulinia, while he, with downcast looks, kept ata distance, until he saw them enter the abode of the father, thrustingher, that was the sigh of his soul, out of his presence into a solitaryapartment, when she exclaimed, "Elfonzo! Elfonzo! oh, Elfonzo! whereart 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, androll on thy army like a whirlwind, over this mountain of trouble andconfusion. Oh friends! if any pity me, let your last efforts throng uponthe green hills, and come to the relief of Ambulinia, who is guilty ofnothing but innocent love." Elfonzo called out with a loud voice, "MyGod, can I stand this! arouse up, I beseech you, and put an end to thistyranny. Come, my brave boys," said he, "are you ready to go forth toyour duty?" They stood around him. "Who," said he, "will call us toarms? Where are my thunderbolts of war? Speak ye, the first who willmeet the foe! Who will go forward with me in this ocean of grievoustemptation? If there is one who desires to go, let him come and shakehands 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 aloneshall quit her station before I will forsake one jot or tittle of mypromise 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 themighty; nor would I give it over till the blood of my enemies shouldwreak with that of my own. But God forbid that our fame should soaron the blood of the slumberer." Mr. Valeer stands at his door with thefrown of a demon upon his brow, with his dangerous weapon (3) ready tostrike the first man who should enter his door. "Who will arise and goforward through blood and carnage to the rescue of my Ambulinia?" saidElfonzo. "All," exclaimed the multitude; and onward they went, withtheir implements of battle. Others, of a more timid nature, stood amongthe distant hills to see the result of the contest.

  It will hardly be believed that after all this thunder and lightning nota drop of rain fell; but such is the fact. Elfonzo and his gang stood upand black-guarded Mr. Valeer with vigor all night, getting their outlayback with interest; then in the early morning the army and its generalretired from the field, leaving the victory with their solitaryadversary and his crowbar. This is the first time this has happened inromantic literature. The invention is original. Everything in this bookis original; there is nothing hackneyed about it anywhere. Always, inother romances, when you find the author leading up to a climax, youknow what is going to happen. But in this book it is different; thething which seems inevitable and unavoidable never happens; it iscircumvented 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. McClintockthinks it is; but it isn't. One day Elfonzo sent Ambulinia anothernote--a note proposing elopement No. 16. This time the plan isadmirable; admirable, sagacious, ingenious, imaginative, deep--oh,everything, and perfectly easy. One wonders why it was never thought ofbefore. This is the scheme. Ambulinia is to leave the breakfast-table,ostensibly to "attend to the placing of those flowers, which should havebeen done a week ago"--artificial ones, of course; the others wouldn'tkeep so long--and then, instead of fixing the flowers, she is to walkout to the grove, and go off with Elfonzo. The invention of this planoverstrained the author that is plain, for he straightway shows failingpowers. The details of the plan are not many or elaborate. The authorshall state them himself--this good soul, whose intentions are alwaysbetter than his English:

  "You walk carelessly toward the academy grove, where you will find mewith a lightning steed, elegantly equipped to bear you off where weshall be joined in wedlock with the first connubial rights."

  Last scene of all, which the author, now much enfeebled, tries tosmarten up and make acceptable to his spectacular heart by introducingsome new properties--silver bow, golden harp, olive branch--things thatcan all come good in an elopement, no doubt, yet are not to be comparedto an umbrella for real handiness and reliability in an excursion ofthat 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 hisgolden harp. They meet--Ambulinia's countenance brightens--Elfonzo leadsup the winged steed. "Mount," said he, "ye true-hearted, ye fearlesssoul--the day is ours." She sprang upon the back of the youngthunderbolt, a brilliant star sparkles upon her head, with one hand shegrasps the reins, and with the other she holds an olive branch. "Lendthy aid, ye strong winds," they exclaimed, "ye moon, ye sun, and all yefair host of heaven, witness the enemy conquered." "Hold," said Elfonzo,"thy dashing steed." "Ride on," said Ambulinia, "the voice of thunder isbehind us." And onward they went, with such rapidity that they very soonarrived at Rural Retreat, where they dismounted, and were united withall the solemnities that usually attended such divine operations.

  There is but one Homer, there is but one Shakespeare, there is but oneMcClintock--and his immortal book is before you. Homer could not havewritten this book, Shakespeare could not have written it, I could nothave done it myself. There is nothing just like it in the literature ofany country or of any epoch. It stands alone; it is monumental. Itadds G. Ragsdale McClintock's to the sum of the republic's imperishablenames.

  1. The name here given is a substitute for the one actually attached tothe pamphlet.

  2. Further on it will be seen that he is a country expert on the fiddle,and has a three-township fame.

  3. It is a crowbar.