The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1883-06-14
THE RoRusTuous TILnFN.

the tablet OF memory. Such was the meet
ing of the returning conqueror Jephthah and
his noble and beautiful daughter; such the
weeping of Alexander when the stock of
worlds ran short; such the meeting OF
Cyrus and Croesus, and such the lamenta-
ton of King David over the gifted but
cratic Absalom. Similar to the last, yet
with the characters reversed, was the recent
meeting of the warlike Watterson and the
sage Samuel of Gramercy Park. Filled with
the gloomiest forebodings and with heart
surchsrged with sympathetic sorrow War
rior Watterson set out for the chamber of
the dying old man. With roll of sack
cloth under his arm, a pocketful of ashes,
and his face shrouded, he started forth.
1t is easy to picture the scene.
His proud head is bowed in
sorrow; his finely .modeled form is convulsed
with grief that he cannot restrain; the we'll
known stage stride, that comes only from
overwhelming sorrow and long practice, is
there, and his toe drags heavily over the in
sensate earth. The gloom of night is begin
ming to spread like pail over the landscape
or it may be it is morning, gray with heavy
clouds and damp with drops that fall like
tears. On, on he goes-slowly, as one who
has travelled far and is aweary. Yet not so.
The mighty Watterson is still an Atlas The
majesty of his strength is not abated, and
the Courier Journal confdentially reveals
A. F. A.
mistake At length the well-remembered
mansion comes into view. The travellers APP
prehensions increase as he approaches the
threshold, and he fain would turn
back to his lair among the noun
tains back of Louisville. His breath
comes quickly as though a cyclone
of sympathetic passion swept over his soul;
his teeth are hard set, and his hands are
cienched, as though the agony about to be
endured were too much for even his heroic
nature He recalls the parting of but one
short year before, when Sam uel was so far
advanced toward dissolution that he never
expected to see him again" 1t was sight
to make the gods weep, and the goddesses to
| speculate on the best form OF mourning.
Urged by that wonderful filial love that he
feels for the good old man, the youthful
| soldier hesitates no longer he advances to
the portcullis and sounds the tocsn; or in
other words approaches the front door and
pulls the bell. Not loud, joyful pull, but
a soft, muffled mournful pull, in conso-
nance with his delicate mission. But pleas
| ing surprise is in store for Warrior Waiter
son. AS he stands there depressed by
his chin wabbling despite his desperate de-
termination to be calm and resigned, the
door is opened, and a glorious vision bursts
upon his astonished eyes, at is he! it is he!'
and sobbirg outright. Mr. Tlden, for it was
none other than that gentleman, spit once
or twice to conceal his unfeigned emo
ton, and invited the Louisville man in.
| Warrior Watterson strobe in. His amaze
ment was unbounded-it was useless to at
tempt to dissemble. The metamorphosis
that twelve months had wrought was simply
miraculous. In the gifted Watterson's own
words
1.-THE days of rs, '76 and IT seemed to have
| come back-his low voice was found again;
his eyes were bright and his cheeks rosy; mis-
intellect as sinewy and clear, and his wit as
incisive as they were when he made nothing
| of riding Blackstone to Harlem and back, or
driving the Kentucky bays from Gramercy
Park to Greystone."
Dear! dear! How strange it all seemed.
How delightful And them when
the affeotionate greetings at length
were ended, Mr.. Tilden led his
delighted visitor over the house. Tripping
up and down the stairways, singing blithely
as lark all the while, the youthful Tilden
actually tuckered the Kentucky man right
out. Smiling encouragement, and asking
tenderly if he were going too rapidly, the
Sage gaily ran from the parlor floor to
tine ninth story with as much ease as
though it cost no effort at all. Warrior Wat
terson had at last met his match and, with
tears in his lustrous eyes, pleaded with Mr..
| Tilden to give over and take him back.
Then Mr.. Tilden Smiled, and in his dry,
| Henry was dry, too,) half plying, half sar-
castle way, replied: III you are tired, we wi 10
go down stairs" Mr.. Watterson was awful
tired, so he said and Mr.. Tilden graciously
gave over his contemplated visit to the attic.
where he keeps a den of fierce Numidian
lions, to which he daily feeds raw meat
from his naked hands. With youthful
esprit de corpse he then flung
himself astrde the banister, and