MARKTWAIN

THE WILLARD S. MORSE
COLLECTION

THE GIFT OF
WALTER FRANCIS FREAR
AND
MARY E. DILLINGHAM FREAR
1942

YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN—AND OUT AGAIN
ALL RIGHT.

SOME people are not particular about what sort of company they keep. I am one of that kind. Now for several days I have been visiting the Board of Brokers, and associating with brokers, and drinking with them, and swapping lies with them, and being as familiar and sociable with them as I would with the most respectable people in the world. I do this because I consider that a broker goes according to the instincts that are in him, and means no harm, and fulfils his mission according to his lights, and has a right to live, and be happy in a general way, and be protected by the law to some extent, just the same as a better man. I consider that brokers come into the world with souls—I am satisfied they do; and if they wear them out in the course of a long career of stock-jobbing, have they not a right to come in at the eleventh hour and get themselves half-soled, like old boots, and be saved at last? Certainly—the father of the tribe did that, and do we say anything against Barabbas for it to-day? No! we concede his right to do it; we admire his mature judgment in selling out of a worked-out mine of iniquity and investing in righteousness, and no man denies, or even doubts, the validity of the transaction. Other people may think as they please, and I suppose I am entitled to the same privilege; therefore, notwithstanding what others may believe, I am of the opinion that a broker can be saved. Mind, I do not say that a broker *will* be saved, or even that is uncommon likely that such a thing will happen—I only say that Lazarus was raised from the dead, the five thousand were fed with twelve loaves of bread, the water was turned into wine, the Israelites crossed the Red Sea dry-shod, and a broker *can* be saved.

True, the angel that accomplishes the task may require all
eternity to rest himself in, but has that got anything to do
with the establishment of the proposition? Does it invalu-
date it? does it detract from it? I think not. I am aware
that this enthusiastic and may-be highly-colored vindication of
the brokers may lay me open to suspicion of bribery, but I
care not; I am a native of Washoe, and I will stand by any-
body that stands by Washoe.

The place where stocks are daily bought and sold is called
by interested parties the Hall of the San Francisco Board of
Brokers, but by the impartial and disinterested the Den of
the Forty Thieves; the latter name is regarded as the most
poetic, but the former is considered the most polite. The
large room is well stocked with small desks, arranged in semi-
circular ranks like the seats of an amphitheatre, and behind
these sit the th—the brokers. The portly President, with his
gavel of office in his hand, an abundance of whiskers and
moustaches on his face, spectacles on nose, an expression of
energy and decision on his countenance and an open plaza on
his head, sits, with his three clerks, in a pulpit at the head of
the hall, flanked on either hand by two large cases, with glass
doors, containing mineralogical specimens from Washoe and
California mines—the emblems of the traffic. Facing the
President, at the opposite end of the hall, is a blackboard,
whereon is written in accusing capitals, “John Smith delin-
quent to John Jones, $1,550; William Brown delinquent to
Jonas White, $475!” You might think brokers wouldn’t
mind that, maybe, but they do; a delinquent loses caste, and
that touches his fine moral sensibilities—and he is suspended
from active membership for the time being, and even expelled
if his delinquency savors of blundering and ungraceful rascal-
ity—a thing which the Board cannot abide—and this inflicts
exquisite pain upon the delicate nerves and tissues of his
pocket, now when a seat in the Den is worth twelve or fifteen
hundred dollars, and in brisker times even three thousand.

The session of the Board being duly opened, the roll is rap-
idly called, the members present responding, and the absen-
tees being noted by the clerks for fines:

“Ackerman, (Here!) Adams, Atchison, (Here!) Babcock,
Bocock, (Here!) Badger, Blitzen, Bulger, Buncombe, (Here !)
Caxton, (Here!) Cobbler, Crowder, Clutterback, (Here !)
Dashaway, Dilson, Dodson, Dummy (Here!)”—and so on, the
place becoming lively and animated, and the members sharp-
ening their pencils, disposing their printed stock-lists before
them, and getting ready for a sowing of unrighteousness and a
harvest of sin.

In a few moments the roll-call was finished, the pencils all
sharpened, and the brokers prepared for business—some with
a leg thrown negligently over the arms of their chairs, some
tilted back comfortably with their knees against their desks,
some sitting half upright and glaring at the President, hungry
for the contention to begin—but not a rascal of them tapping
his teeth with his pencil—only dreamy, absent-minded people
do that.

Then the President called “Ophir!” and after some bidding
and counter-bidding, “Gould and Curry!” and a Babel arose—
an infernal din and clatter of all kinds and tones of voices,
inextricably jumbled together like original chaos, and above

it all the following observation by the President pealed out
clearly and distinctly, and with a rapidity of enunciation that
was amazing:

“Fift'naitassfrwahn fift'nseftfive bifferwahn fift'naitfive
botherthy !”

4

I said I beneved I would go home. My broker friend who
had procured my admission to the Board asked why I wanted
to go so soon, and I was obliged to acknowledge to him that
I was very unfamiliar with the Kanaka language, and could
not understand it at all unless a man spoke it exceedingly slow
and deliberately.

"Oh," said he, "sit still; that isn't Kanaka; it's English,
but he talks fast and runs one word into another; it is easy
SOLD! to understand when you GIVE FIFTEEN-NINETY BUYER
TEN NO DEPOSIT! come to get used to it. He always talks so,
and sometimes he says THAT'S MINE! JIGGERS SOLD ON SLAD-
DERY'S BID! his words so fast that even some of the members
cannot comprehend them readily. Now what he said then
was NO SIR! I DIDN'T SAY BUYER THIRTY, I SAID REGULAR WAY!
'Fifteen-eighty, (meaning fifteen hundred and eighty dollars,)
asked for one, (one foot,) fifteen-seventy-five bid for one, fif-
teen-eighty-five buyer thirty,' (thirty days' time on the pay-
ment.) 'TWASN'T MY BID, IT WAS SWIGGINS TO BARCOCK! and he
was repeating the bids and offers of the members after them
as fast as they were made. I'LL TAKE IT, CASH!'"

I felt relieved, but not enlightened. My broker's explana-
tion had got so many strange and incomprehensible interpola-
tions sandwiched into it that I began to look around for a
suitable person to translate that for me also, when it occurred
to me that those interpolations were bids, offers, etc., which
he had been throwing out to the assembled brokers while he
was talking to me. It was all clear, then, so I have put his
side-remarks in small capitals so that they may be clear to the
reader likewise, and show that they have no connection with
the subject matter of my friend's discourse.

And all this time, the clatter of voices had been going on.
And while the storm of ejaculations hurtled about their heads,
these brokers sat calmly in their several easy attitudes, but
when a sale was made—when, in answer to some particularly
liberal bid, somebody sung out “SOLD!” down came legs
from the arms of chairs, down came knees propped against
desks, forward shot the heads of the whole tribe with one
accord, and away went the long ranks of pencils dancing over
the paper! The sale duly recorded by all, the heads, the legs
and the knees came up again, and the negligent attitudes were
resumed once more.

The din moderated now, somewhat, and for awhile only a
random and desultory fire was kept up as the President drifted
down the stock-list, calling at intervals, "Savage!" "Uncle
Sam!" "Chollar!" "Potosi!" "Hale and Norcross!" "Impe-
rial!" "Sierra Nevada!" "Daney!" the monotony being bro-
ken and the uncomfortable attitudes demolished, now and
then, by a lucky chance-shot that went to the mark and made
a sale. But when the old gentleman called "Burning Mos-
cow!" you should have seen the fiends wake up! you should
have heard the racket! you should have been there to behold the
metaphorical bull in the China shop! The President's voice
and his mallet went into active service, then, and mingled
their noise with the clamors of the mob. The members thus:

"Sell ten forty-five cash!" "Give forty-three for ten,
regular way!" "Give forty-one cash for any part fifty!"
"Twenty thirty-eight seller sixty!" "Give forty-four for ten
buyer thirty!" "SOLD!" (Down with your legs again, for-
ward with your heads, and out with your pencils!) "Sell ten
forty-three cash!" "Sold!" Then from every part of the
house a din like this: "Ten more!" "Sold!" "Ten more!"
"Sold!" "Ten more!" "Sold!" "Ten more!" "Sold!"
"Ten—"

*President* (rap with his gavel)—Silence! Orfuplease, (order if you please,) gentlemen! Higgins ten to Smithers—Dodson ten to Snodgrass—"

Billson—"No, sir! Billson ten to Snodgrass! It was me that sold 'em, sir!"

Dodson—"I didn't sell, sir, I bought—Jiggers ten to Dodson!"

President—"Billson ten to Snodgrass—Jiggers ten to Dodson—Snobhuster ten to Bladders—Simpson ten to Blivens—Guttersnipe ten to Hogwash—aw-right! go on!"

And they did go on, hotter and heavier than ever. And as they yelled their terms, the President repeated after them— the words flowing in a continuous stream from his mouth with inconceivable rapidity, and melting and mingling together like bottle-glass and cinders after a conflagration:

"Fortwahnasscash fortray bidbortenn fortsix botherty fortsevnoffsetherty fortfourbiffertenn—(smash ! with the gavel) whasthat?—aw right! fortsive offranparfortbotherty nodeposit fortfivenaf botherty bid fortsix biglerway!"

Which, translated, means: "Forty-one asked, cash; forty-three bid, buyer ten; forty-six, buyer thirty; forty-seven offered, seller thirty; forty-four bid for ten—(pause)—What's that? All right—forty-five offered for any part of forty, buyer thirty, no deposit; forty-five and a half, buyer thirty, bid; forty-six bid, regular way!"

And I found out that a "Bull" is a broker who raises the market-price of a stock by every means in his power, and a "Bear" is one who depresses it; that "cash" means that the stock must be delivered and paid for immediately—that is, before the banks close; that "regular way" means that delivery of the stock and payment must be made within two days that it is the seller who "offers" stock, and the buyer who "bids" for it; that "buyer ten, thirty," or whatever the specified number may be, signifies the number of days the purchaser is allowed in which to call for the stock, receive it and pay for it, and it implies also that he must deposit in somebody's hands a fifth part of the price of the stock purchased, to be forfeited to the seller in case the full payment is not made within the time set—full payment must be made, though, notwithstanding the forfeit, or the broker loses his seat if the seller makes complaint to the Board within forty-eight hours after the occurrence of the delinquency; that when the words "no deposit" are added to "buyer thirty," they imply that the twenty per cent. deposit is not to be made, of course; that "seller thirty" means that any time the seller chooses, during the thirty days, he can present the stock to the buyer and demand payment—the seller generally selling at a figure below the market rate, in the hope that before his time is up a depression may occur that will enable him to pick up the stock at half price and deliver it—and the buyer taking chances on a great advance, within the month, that will accrue to his profit. Think of one of these adventurous "seller thirty's" "selling short," at thirty dollars a foot, several feet of a stock that was all corralled and withdrawn from the market within a fortnight and went to about fifteen hundred! It is not worth while to mention names—I suppose you remember the circumstance.

But I digress. Sometimes on the "second call" of stocks—that is, after the list has been gone through with in regular order, and the members are privileged to call up any stock they please—strategy is driven to the utmost limit by the friends of some pet wildcat or other, to effect sales of it to disinterested parties. The seller "offers" at a high figure, and the "bidder" responds with a low one; then the former comes warily down a dollar at a time, and the latter approaches him from below at about the same rate; they come nearer and nearer, skirmish a little in close proximity, get to a point where another bid or another offer would com-

mit the parties to a sale, and then in the imminence of the impending event, the seller hesitates a second and is silent. But behold! as has been said of Woman, "The Broker that hesitates is lost!" The nervous and impatient President can brook no silence, no delay, and calls out: "Awstock?" (Any other stock?) Somebody yells "Burning Moscow!" and the tender wildcat, almost born, miscarries. Or perhaps the skirmishers fight shyly up to each other, counter and crosscounter, feint and parry, back and fill, and finally clinch a sale in the centre—the bidder is bitten, a smile flits from face to face, down come the legs, forward the ranks of heads, the pencils charge on the stock-lists, and the neat transaction is recorded with a rare gusto.

But twelve pages of foolscap are warning me to cut this thrilling sketch short, notwithstanding it is only half finished. However, I cannot leave the subject without saying I was agreeably disappointed in those brokers; I expected to see a set of villains with the signs of total depravity hung out all over them, but now I am satisfied there is some good in them; that they are not entirely and irredeemably bad; and I have been told by a friend, whose judgment I respect, that they are not any more unprincipled than they look. This was said by a man who would scorn to stoop to flattery. At the same time, though, as I scanned the faces assembled in that hall, I could not help imagining I could see old St. Peter admitting that band of Bulls and Bears into Paradise—see him standing by the half-open gate with his ponderous key pressed thoughtfully against his nose, and his head canted critically to one side, as he looks after them tramping down the gold-paved avenue, and mutters to himself: "Well, you're a nice lot, any way!" Humph! I think you'll find it sort of lonesome in heaven, for if my judgment is sound, you'll not find a good many of your stripe in there!"

MARK TWAIN.

A FULL AND RELIABLE ACCOUNT OF THE EXTRAORDINARY METEORIC SHOWER OF LAST SATURDAY NIGHT.

I FOUND the following paragraph in the morning papers of the 11th inst.:

VIRGINIA, November 10.—Astronomers anticipate a recurrence this year of the November meteoric shower of 1833. The mornings from the 11th to the 15th are all likely to show an unusual number of meteors, especially from the 12th to the 14th. The best time of observation is from half-past one o'clock, A. M., onward. The radiant point is the constellation Leo. Observers in California, Nevada and the Pacific Coast generally, are requested to report their observations to Professor Silliman, Jr., San Francisco, for the American Journal of Science, where they will be published for the good of science.

B. SILLIMAN, Jr.

PROF. B. SILLIMAN, JR.—Dear Sir: In accordance with the above request, which you so politely extended to all "observers," I took copious notes of the amazing meteoric phenomena of last Saturday night, and I now hasten to make my report to you for publication in the American Journal of Science "for the good of science."

I began my observations early in the evening, previously providing myself with the very best apparatus I could find wherewith to facilitate my labors. I got a telescopic glass tumbler, and two costly decanters, (containing eau de vie and Veuve Cliquot to wash out the instrument with whenever it should become clouded,) and seated myself in my window, very nearly under the constellation Leo. I then poured about a gill of liquid from each decanter into the telescope tumbler and slowly elevated it to an angle of about ninety degrees. I did not see anything. The second trial was also a failure, but I had faith in that wash, and I washed out the instrument again. And just here let me suggest to you, Professor, that you can always depend on that mixture; rightly compounded,

I expect it is the most powerful aid to human eyesight ever invented; assisted by it I have known a man to see two drinks on the counter before him when in reality there was but one—and so strong was the deception that I have known that man to get drunk on thirteen of these duplicate drinks when he was naturally gauged for twenty-six.

Very well; after I had washed out my glass the third time, three or four stars, of about the nineteenth magnitude I should judge, shot from the zenith and fell in the general direction of Oakland. During the fourth wash, and while I had one eye sighted on Venus and the other one closed in blissful repose, that planet fell upon the roof of the Russ House and bounced off into Bush street; immediately afterward, Jupiter fell and knocked a watchman's eye out—at least I think it was that star, because I saw the watchman clap his hand to his eye and say "By Jupiter!" The assertion was positive, and made without hesitation, as if he had the most perfect confidence in the accuracy of his judgment; but at the same time it is possible that he might have been mistaken, and that the damage was not done by Jupiter after all. I maintain, though, that the chances are all in favor of his being correct, because I have noticed that policemen usually know as much about stars as anybody, and take more interest in them than most people.

Up to this time the wind had been north by northeast half west, and I noticed an uncommon dryness in the atmosphere, but it was less marked after I applied the fifth wash. My barometer never having had any experience in falling stars, got hopelessly tangled in trying to get the run of things, and after waltzing frantically between "stormy" and "falling weather" for awhile without being able to make up its mind, it finally became thoroughly demoralized and threw up its commission. My thermometer did not indicate anything; I noted this extraordinary phenomenon, of course, but at the same time I reasoned—and, I think, with considerable sagacity—that it was less owing to the singular condition of the atmosphere than to the fact that there was no quicksilver in the instrument. About this time a magnificent spectacle dazzled my vision—the whole constellation of the Great Menken came flaming out of the heavens like a vast spray of gas-jets, and shed a glory abroad over the universe as it fell! [N. B. I have used the term "Great Menken" because I regard it as a more modest expression than the Great Bear, and consequently better suited to the columns of THE CALIFORNIAN, which goes among families, you understand—but when you come to transfer my report to the *Journal of Science*, Professor, you are at liberty to change it if you like.]

I applied the sixth wash. A sprinkle of sparkling fragments ensued—fragments of some beautiful world that had been broken up and cast out of the blue firmament—and then a radiance as of noonday flared out of the zenith, and Mercury, the winged symbol of Progress, came sweeping down like a banished sun, and catching in the folds of the flag that floats from the tall staff in the Plaza, remained blazing in the centre of its dim constellation of stars! "Lo, a miracle! the thirty-sixth star furnished from the imperial diadem of heaven! while yet no welcome comes from the old home in the Orient, behold the STATE OF NEVADA is recognized by God!" says I, and seized my telescope, filled her to the brim and washed her out again! The divinity student in the next room came in at this juncture and protested against my swearing with so much spirit, and I had some difficulty in making him understand that I had only made use of a gorgeous metaphor, and that there was really no profanity intended in it.

About this time the wind changed and quite a shower of stars fell, lasting about twenty minutes; a. lull ensued, and then came several terrific discharges of thunder and lightning, and how it poured! you couldn't see the other side of the street for the hurtling tempest of stars! I got my umbrella—which I had previously provided along with my other apparatus—and started down the street. Of course there was plenty of light, although the street lamps were not lit.—(you let that sagacious gas company alone, Professor, to make a good thing out of it when the almanac advertises anything of this kind. I put in these parentheses to signify a complicated wink—you understand?) I met Charles Kean, and I expect he was drunk; I drifted down the pavement, tacking from one side of it to the other, and trying to give him a wide berth, but it was no use; he would run into me, and he did—he brought up square against me and fell. “Down goes another star,” I observed, and stopped a moment to make a note of it.

The meteoric storm abated gradually, and finally ceased, but by that time the stars had cut my umbrella nearly all to pieces, and there were a dozen or more sticking in it when I lowered it. It was the most furious deluge I ever saw, while it lasted. Pretty soon I heard a great huzzaing in the distance, and immediately afterward I noticed a brilliant meteor streaming athwart the heavens with a train of fire of incredible length appended to it. It swept the sky in a graceful curve, and after I had watched its splendid career a few seconds and was in the act of making the proper entry in my note-book, it descended and struck me such a stunning thump in the pit of the stomach that I was groveling in the dust before I rightly knew what the matter was. When I recovered consciousness, I remarked “Down went a couple of us then,” and made a note of it. I saved the remains of this most remarkable meteor, and I transmit them to you with this report, to be preserved in the National Astronomical Museum. They consist of a fragment of a torn and jagged cylinder, the size of your wrist, composed of a substance strongly resembling the pasteboard of this world; to this is attached a slender stick some six feet long, which has something of the appearance of the pine wood so well known to the commerce of this earth, but of such a supernatural fineness of texture, of course, as to enable one to detect its celestial origin at once. There is food here for philosophic contemplation, and a series of interesting volumes might be written upon a question which I conceive to be of the utmost importance to Science, viz.: Do they cultivate pines in Paradise? And if it be satisfactorily demonstrated that they do cultivate pines in Paradise, may we not reasonably surmise that they cultivate cabbages there also? O, sublime thought! O, beautiful dream! The scientific world may well stand speechless and awe-stricken in the presence of these tremendous questions! But may we not hope that the learned German who has devoted half his valuable life to determining what materials a butterfly's wing is made of, and to writing unstinted books upon the subject, will devote the balance of it to profound investigation of the celestial cabbage question? And is it too much to hope that that other benefactor of our race who has proven in his thirteen inspired volumes that it is exceedingly mixed as to whether the extraordinary bird called the Phoenix ever really existed or not, will lend his assistance to the important work and turn out a few tomes upon the subject, wherewith to enrich our scientific literature? My dear sir, this matter is worthy of the noblest effort; for we know by the past experience of learned men, that whosoever shall either definitely settle this cabbage question, or indefinitely unsettle it with arguments and reasonings and deductions freighted with that odor of stability and incomprehensible wisdom which is so overpowering.

ing to the aspiring student and so dazzling and bewildering
to the world at large, will be clothed with titles of dignity
by our colleges, and receive medals of gold from the Kings
and Presidents of the earth.

As I was meandering down the street, pondering over the
matters treated of in the preceding paragraph, I ran against
another man, and he squared off for a fight. I squared off,
also, and dashed out with my left, but he dodged and "cross-
countered." [I have since learned that he was educated at
the Olympic Club.] That is to say, he ducked his head
to one side and avoided my blow, and at the same time he
let go with his right and caved the side of my head in. At
this moment I beheld the most magnificent discharge of stars
that had occurred during the whole evening. I estimated the
number to be in the neighborhood of fifteen hundred thousand.
I beg that you will state it at that figure in the *Journal of
Science*, Professor, and throw in a compliment about my wast-
ing no opportunity that seemed to promise anything for the
good of the cause. It might help me along with your kind of
men if I should conclude to tackle science for a regular
business, you know. You see they have elected a new Gov-
ernor over there in Nevada, and consequently I am not as
much Governor of the Third House there as I was. It was a
very comfortable berth; I had a salary of $60,000 a year when
I could collect it.

While my stranger and myself were staggering under the
two terrific blows which we had exchanged—and especially
myself, on account of the peculiar nature of the "cross-coun-
ter" as above described—a singular star dropped in our midst
which I would have liked well to possess, because of its quaint
appearance, and because I had never seen anything like it
mentioned in Mr. Dick's astronomy. It emitted a mild sil-
very lustre, and bore upon its face some characters which, in
the fervor of my astronomical enthusiasm, I imagined spelt
"Police—18," but of course this was an absurd delusion. I
only mention it to show to what lengths scientific zeal will
sometimes carry a novice. This marvellous meteor was already
in the possession of another enthusiast, and he would not part
with it.

On my way home, I met young John William Skae—the
inimitable punster of Virginia City, and formerly of Pennsyl-
vania, perhaps you know him?—and I knew from his distraught
and pensive air that he was building a joke. I was anxious
not to intrude any excitement upon him, which might have
the effect of bringing the half-finished edifice down about my
cars, but my very caution precipitated the catastrophe I was
trying to avert. Said I, "Are you out looking for meteors,
too?" His eye instantly lighted with a devilish satisfaction,
and says he: "Well, sorter; I'm looking for my Susan—going
to meteor by moonlight alone; O Heavens! why this sudden
pang, this bursting brain! save me, save me or I perish!"

But I didn't save him—I let him drop; and I deserted him
and left him moaning there in the gutter. A man cannot
serve me that way twice and expect me to stand by him and
chafe his temples and blow his nose and sand-paper his legs
and fetch him round again. I would let him perish like
outcast first, and deny him Christian burial afterwards. That
Skae has always been following me around trying to make me
low-spirited with his dismal jokes, but since that time he
caught me out in the lonely moor on the Cliff House road,
and intimidated me into listening to that execrable pun on the
Kingfisher, I have avoided him as I would a pestilence.

I will now close my report, Professor. If you had not just
happened to print that assurance in your little notice that
these things should be published in the *American Journal of*

Science, "for the good of Science," I expect it never would have occurred to me to make any meteorological observations at all; but you see that remark corralled me. It has been the dearest wish of my life to do something for the good of Science and see it in print in such a paper as the one you mention, and when I saw this excellent opportunity presented, I thought it was now or never with me. It is a pity that the astonishing drawings which accompany this report cannot be published in the CALIFORNIAN; it could not be helped, though: the artist who was to have engraved them was not healthy, and he only took one look at them and then went out in the back yard and destroyed himself. But you can print them in the Journal of Science, anyhow, just the same; get an artist whose sensibilities have been toned down by chiseling melancholy devices on tombstones all his life, and let him do them up for you. He would probably survive the job.

MARK TWAIN.

WHEREAS,

LOVE'S BAKERY! I am satisfied I have found the place now that I have been looking for all this time. I cannot describe to you the sensation of mingled astonishment, gladness, hope, doubt, anxiety, and balmy, blissful emotion that suffused my being and quivered in a succession of streaky thrills down my backbone, as I stood on the corner of Third and Minna streets, last Tuesday, and stared, spell-bound, at those extraordinary words, painted in large, plain letters on a neighboring window-curtain—"LOVE'S BAKERY." "God bless my soul!" said I, "will wonders never cease?—are there to be no limits to man's spirit of invention?—is he to invade the very realms of the immortal, and presume to guide and control the great passions, the impalpable essences, that have hitherto dwelt in the secret chambers of the soul, sacred from all save divine intrusion?"

I read and re-read that remarkable sign with constantly-increasing wonder and interest. There was nothing extraordinary in the appearance of the establishment, and even if it had possessed anything of a supernatural air, it must necessarily have been neutralized by the worldly and substantial look of a pyramid of excellent bread that stood in the window—a sign very inconsistent, it seemed to me, with the character of a place devoted to the high and holy employment of instilling the passion of love into the human heart, although it was certainly in keeping with the atrocious taste which was capable of conferring upon a vice-royalty of itself such an execrable name as "Love's Bakery." Why not Love's Bower, or the Temple of Love, or the Palace of Cupid?—anything—anything in the world would have been less repulsive than such hideous vulgarity of nomenclature as "Love's Bakery."

The place seemed very complete, and well supplied with every facility for carrying on the business of creating love successfully. In a window of the second story was a large tin cage with a parrot in it, and near it was a sign bearing the inscription, "Preparatory School for Young Ladies"—that is, of course, a school where they are taught certain things necessary to prepare them for the bakery down below. Not far off is also a "Preparatory School for Young Gentlemen," which is doubtless connected with Love's Bakery too. I saw none of the pupils of either of the schools, but my imagination dwelt upon them with a deep and friendly interest. How irksome, I thought, must this course of instruction be to these tender hearts, so impatient to be baked into a state of perfect love!

Greatly moved by the singular circumstances which surrounded me, I fell into a profound and pleasing reverie. Here, I thought, they take a couple of hopeful hearts in the rough, and work them up, with spices and shortening and sweetening enough to last for a lifetime, and turn them out well kneaded together, baked to a turn, and ready for matrimony, and without having been obliged to undergo a long and harrowing courtship, with the desperate chances attendant thereon, of persevering rivals, unwilling parents, inevitable love-quarrels, and all that sort of thing.

Here, I thought, they will bake you up a couple in moderate circumstances, at short notice and at a cheap rate, and turn them out in good enough shape for the money, perhaps, but nevertheless burnt with the fire of jealousy on one side, and flabby and "duffy" with lukewarmness and indifference on the other, and spotted all over with the saleratus stains of a predisposition to make the conjugal cake bitter and unpalatable for all time to come.

Or they will take an excessively patrician pair, charge them a dozen prices, and deliver them to order in a week, all plastered over with the ghostly vines and flowers of blighted fancies, hopes and yearnings, wrought in chilly ice-work.

Or, perhaps, they will take a brace of youthful, tender hearts, and dish them up in no time, into crisp, delicate "lady-fingers," tempting to contemplate, and suggestive of that serene after-dinner happiness and sociability that come when the gross substantials have been swept from the board and are forgotten in soft dalliance with pastry and ices and sparkling Moselle.

Or maybe they will take two flinty old hearts that have harbored selfishness, envy and all uncharitableness in solitude for half a century, and after a fortnight's roasting, turn them out the hardest kind of hard-tack, invulnerable to all softening influences for evermore.

Here was a revolution far more extended, and destined to be attended by more momentous consequences to the nations of the earth, than any ever projected or accomplished by the greatest of the world's military heroes! Love, the master passion of the human heart, which, since the morning of the creation had shaped the destinies of emperors and beggars alike, and had ruled all men as with a rod of iron, was to be hurled from the seat of power in a single instant, as it were, and brought into subjection to the will of an inspired, a sublimely-gifted baker! By some mysterious magic, by some strange and awful invention, the divine emotion was to be confined within set bounds and limits, controlled, weighed, measured, and doled out to God's creatures in quantities and qualities to suit the purchaser, like vulgar beer and candles!

And in times to come, I thought, the afflicted lover, instead of reading *Houston & Hastings'* omnipresent sign and gathering no comfort from it, will read "*Go TO LOVE'S BAKERY!*" on the dead-walls and telegraph poles, and be saved.

Now I might never have published to the world my discovery of this manufactory of the human affections in a populous thoroughfare of San Francisco, if it had not occurred to me that some account of it would serve as a peculiarly fitting introductory to a story of love and misfortune, which it falls to my lot to relate. And yet even Love's Bakery could afford no help to the sufferers of whom I shall speak, for they do not lack affection for each other, but are the victims of an accumulation of distressing circumstances against which the efforts of that august agent would be powerless.

The facts in the case come to me by letter from a young lady who lives in the beautiful city of San José; she is personally unknown to me, and simply signs herself "Aurelia Maria," which may possibly be a fictitious name. But no matter, the poor girl is almost heart-broken by the misfortunes she has undergone, and so confused by the conflicting counsels of misguided friends and insidious enemies, that she does not know what course to pursue in order to extricate herself from the web of difficulties in which she seems almost hopelessly involved. In this dilemma she turns to me for help, and supplicates for my guidance and instruction with a moving eloquence that would touch the heart of a statue. Hear her sad story:

She says that when she was sixteen years old she met and

day for a season, and give him another trial. The very day
before the wedding was to have taken place, Breckinridge,
while absorbed in watching the flight of a balloon, walked into
a well and fractured one of his legs, and it had to be taken off
above the knee. Again Aurelia was moved to break the en-
gagement, but again love triumphed, and she set the day for-
ward and gave him another chance to reform. And again
misfortune overtook the unhappy youth. He lost one arm by
the premature discharge of a Fourth-of-July cannon, and
within three months he got the other pulled out by a carding-
machine. Aurelia's heart was almost crushed by these latter
calamities. She could not but be deeply grieved to see her
lover passing from her by piecemeal, feeling, as she did, that
he could not last forever under this disastrous process of reduc-
tion, yet knowing of no way to stop its dreadful career, and in
her tearful despair she almost regretted, like brokers who hold
on and lose, that she had not taken him at first, before he had
suffered such an alarming depreciation. Still, her brave soul
bore her up, and she resolved to bear with her friend's unnatu-
ral disposition yet a little longer. Again the wedding-day
approached, and again disappointment overshadowed it: Car-
uthers fell ill with the erysipelas, and lost the use of one of
his eyes entirely. The friends and relatives of the bride, con-
sidering that she had already put up with more than could
reasonably be expected of her, now came forward and insisted
that the match should be broken off; but after wavering
awhile, Aurelia, with a generous spirit which did her credit,
said she had reflected calmly upon the matter and could not
discover that Breckinridge was to blame. So she extended the
time once more, and he broke his other leg. It was a sad day
for the poor girl when she saw the surgeons reverently bearing
away the sack whose uses she had learned by previous experi-
ence, and her heart told her the bitter truth that some more
of her lover was gone. She felt that the field of her affections
was growing more and more circumscribed every day, but
once more she frowned down her relatives and renewed her
betrothal. Shortly before the time set for the nuptials another
disaster occurred. There was but one man scalped by the
Owens River Indians last year. That man was Williamson
Breckinridge Caruthers, of New Jersey. He was hurrying
home with happiness in his heart, when he lost his hair forever,
and in that hour of bitterness he almost cursed the mistaken
mercy that had spared his head.

At last Aurelia is in serious perplexity as to what she
ought to do. She still loves her Breckinridge, she writes,
with true womanly feeling—she still loves what is left of him
—but her parents are bitterly opposed to the match, because
he has no property and is disabled from working, and she has
not sufficient means to support both comfortably. "Now,
what should she do?" she asks with painful and anxious solici-
tude.

It is a delicate question; it is one which involves the life-
long happiness of a woman, and that of nearly two-thirds of a
man, and I feel that it would be assuming too great a respon-
sibility to do more than make a mere suggestion in the case.
How would it do to build to him? If Aurelia can afford the
expense, let her furnish her mutilated lover with wooden arms
and wooden legs, and a glass eye and a wig, and give him
another show; give him ninety days, without grace, and if he
does not break his neck in the meantime, marry him and take
the chances. It does not seem to me that there is much risk,
any way, because if he sticks to his infernal propensity for
damaging himself every time he sees a good opportunity, his
next experiment is bound to finish him, and then you are all
right, you know, married or single. If married, the wooden
legs and such other valuables as he may possess, revert to the
widow, and you see you sustain no actual loss save the cher-
ished fragment of a noble but most unfortunate husband, who
honestly strove to do right, but whose extraordinary instincts
were against him. Try it, Maria! I have thought the matter
over carefully and well, and it is the only chance I see for you.
It would have been a happy conceit on the part of Caruthers
if he had started with his neck and broken that first, but since
he has seen fit to choose a different policy and string himself
out as long as possible, I do not think we ought to upbraid him
for it if he has enjoyed it. We must do the best we can under
the circumstances, and try not to feel exasperated at him.

MARK TWAIN.

But now, after all this fuss that has been made by the chief cook about this item, I do not see that it is any more obscure than the general run of local items in the daily papers after all. You don't usually find out much by reading local items, and you don't in the case of Johnny Skae's item. But it is just THE CALIFORNIAN'S style to be so disgustingly particular and so distressingly hypercritical. If Stiggers throws off one of his graceful little jokes, ten to one THE CALIFORNIAN will come out the very next Saturday and find fault with it, because there ain't any point to it—find fault with it because there is no place in it where you can laugh—find fault with it because a man feels humiliated after reading it. They don't appear to know how to discriminate. They don't appear to understand that there are different kinds of jokes, and that Stiggers' jokes may be of that kind. No; they give a man no credit for originality—for striking out into new paths and opening up new domains of humor; they overlook all that, and just cramp an *Alla* joke down to their own narrow and illiberal notion of what a joke ought to be, and then if they find it hasn't got any point to it, they turn up their noses and say it isn't any joke at all. I do despise such meanness.

And they are just the same way with the *Flag's* poetry. They never stop to reflect that the author may be striking out into new fields of poetry—no; they simply say, “Stuff! this poem's got no sense in it; and it hasn't got any rhyme to it to speak of; and there is no more rhythm about it than there is to a Chinese oration”—and then, just on this evidence alone, they presume to say it's not poetry at all.

And so with the *Call's* grammar. If the local of the *Call* gets to branching out into new and aggravating combinations of words and phrases, they don't stop to think that maybe he is humbly trying to start something fresh in English composition and thus make his productions more curious and entertaining—not they; they just bite into him at once, and say he isn't writing grammar. And why? We repeat: And why? Why, merely because he don't choose to be the slave of their notions and Murray's.

And just so with the *Bulletin's* country correspondents. Because one of those mild and unoffending dry-goods clerks with his hair parted in the middle writes down to the *Bulletin* in a column and a half how he took the stage for Calistoga; and paid his fare; and got his change; stating the amount of the same; and that he had thought it would be more; but unpretentiously intimates that it could be a matter of no consequence to him one way or the other; and then goes on to tell about who he found at the Springs; and who he treated; and who treated him; and proceeds to give the initials of all the ladies of quality sojourning there; and does it in such a way as to conceal, as far as possible, how much they dote on his society; and then tells how he took a bath; and how the soap escaped from his fingers; and describes with infinite humor the splashing and scrambling he had to go through with before he got it again; and tells how he took a breezy gallop in the early morning at 9 A. M. with Gen. E. B. G.'s charming and accomplished daughter, and how the two, with souls o'ercharged with emotions too deep for utterance, beheld the glorious sun bathing the eastern hills with the brilliant magnificence of his truly gorgeous splendor, thus recalling to them tearful reminiscences of other scenes and other climes,

when their hearts were young and as yet unseared by the cold clammy hand of the vain, heartless world—dreaming thus, in blissful unconsciousness, he of the stream of ants travelling up his body and down the back of his neck, and she of the gallinipper sucking the tip-end of her nose—because one of

to the *Bulletin*, I say, THE CALIFORNIAN gets irritated and acrimonious in a moment, and says it is the vilest bosh in the world; and says there is nothing important about it, and wonders who in the nation cares if that fellow *did* ride in the stage, and pay his fare, and take a bath, and see the sun rise up and *slipper* over the eastern hills four hours after daylight; and asks with withering scorn, "Well, what does it all amount to?" and wants to know who is any wiser now than he was before he read the long winded correspondence; and intimates that the *Bulletin* had better be minding the commercial interests of the land than afflicting the public with such wishy-washy trash. That is just the style of THE CALIFORNIAN. No correspondence is good enough for its hypercritical notions unless it has got something in it. The CALIFORNIAN sharps don't stop to consider that maybe that disbaanded clerk was up to something—that maybe he was sifting around after some new realm or other in literature—that maybe perhaps he was trying to get something through his head—well, they don't stop to consider anything; they just say, because it is trivial, and awkwardly written, and stupid, and devoid of information, that it is Bosh, and that is the end of it! THE CALIFORNIAN hates originality—that is the whole thing in a nutshell. They know it all. They are the *only* authority—and if *they* don't like a thing, why of course it won't do. Certainly not. Now who but THE CALIFORNIAN would ever have found fault with Johnny Skae's item. No daily paper in town would, anyhow. It is after the same style, and is just as good, and as interesting and as luminous as the articles published every day in the city papers. It has got all the virtues that distinguish those articles and render them so acceptable to the public. It is not obtrusively pointed, and in this it resembles the jokes of Stiggers; it warbles smoothly and easily along, without rhyme or rythm or reason, like the *Flag's* poetry; the eccentricity of its construction is appalling to the grammatical student, and in this it rivals the happiest achievements of the *Call*; it furnishes the most laborious and elaborate details to the eye without transmitting any information whatever to the understanding; and in this respect it will bear comparison with the most notable specimens of the *Bulletin's* country correspondence; and finally, the mysterious security that curtains its general intent and meaning could not be surpassed by all the newspapers in town put together.

(THIRD EDITION OF THE CALIFORNIAN)

More trouble. The chief hair-splitter has been in here again raising a dust. It appears that Skae's item has disseminated the conviction that there has been a distressing accident somewhere, of some kind or other, and the people are exasperated at the agonizing uncertainty of the thing. Some have it that the accident happened to Schuyler; others say that inasmuch as Schuyler disappeared in the first clause of the item, it must have been the horse; again, others say that inasmuch as the horse disappeared in the second clause without having up to that time sustained any damage, it must have been Schuyler's wife; but others say that inasmuch as she disappeared in the third clause all right and was never mentioned again, it must have been the old woman, Schuyler's mother-in-law; still others say that inasmuch as the old woman died three years ago, and not necessarily by accident, it is too late in the day to mention it now, and so it must have been the house; but others sneer at the latter idea, and say if the burning of the house sixteen years ago was so "distressing" to Schuyler, why didn't he wait fifty years longer before publishing the incident, and then maybe he could bear it easier. But there is trouble abroad, at any rate. People are satisfied that there has been an accident, and they are furious because they cannot find out who it has happened to. They are ridiculously unreasonable. They say they don't know who Schuyler is, but that's neither here nor there—if anything has happened to him they are going to know all about it or somebody has got to suffer.

That is just what it has come to—personal violence. And it is all bred out of that snivelling lunatic's coming in here at midnight, and enlisting my sympathies with his infamous imaginary misfortune, and making me publish his wool-gathering nonsense. But this is throwing away time. Something has got to be done. There has got to be an accident in the Schuyler family, and that without any unnecessary delay. Nothing else will satisfy the public. I don't know any man by the name of Schuyler, but I will go out and hunt for one. All I want now is a Schuyler. And I am bound to have a Schuyler if I have to take Schuyler Colfax. If I can only get hold of a Schuyler, I will take care of the balance of the programme—I will see that an accident happens to him as soon as possible. And failing this, I will try and furnish a disaster to the stricken Skae.

MARK TWAIN.

(For the Californian.)

HOW I WENT TO THE GREAT RACE BETWEEN
LODI AND NORFOLK.

THERE can be no use in my writing any account whatsoever of the great race, because that matter has already been attended to in the daily papers. Therefore, I will simply describe to you *how* I went to the race. But before I begin, I would like to tell you about Homestead—Benj. W. Homestead, of the Incidental Hotel. [I do not wish to be too severe, though, and so I use fictitious names to prevent your finding out who it is I refer to, and where his place of business is.]

It will ease my mind to tell you about him. You know Homestead, clerk at the Incidental Hotel, and you know he has the reputation of being chatty, and sociable, and accommodating—a man, in fact, eminently fitted to make a guest feel more at home in the hotel than in his own house with his own wife, and his own mother, and his wife's mother, and her various friends and relatives, and all the other little comforts that go to make married life a blessing, and create what is known as “Sweet Home,” and which is so deservedly popular—I mean among people who have not tried it. You know Homestead as that kind of a man. Therefore, you would not suppose that attractive exterior of his, and that smiling visage, and that seductive tongue capable of dark and mysterious crimes.

Very well, I will ask you to listen to a plain, unprejudiced statement of facts :

On or about the 21st of the pretent month, it became
apparent to me that the forthcoming race between *Norfolk*
and *Lodi* was awakening extraordinary attention all over the
Pacific coast, and even far away in the Atlantic States. I
saw that if I failed to see this race I might live a century,
perhaps, without ever having an opportunity to see its equal.
I went at once to a livery stable—the man said his teams had
all been engaged a week before I called. I got the same
answer at all the other livery stables, except one. They told
me there that they had a nice dray, almost new, and a part of
a horse—they said part of a horse because a good deal of him
was gone, in the way of a tail, and one ear and a portion of
the other, and his upper lip, and one eye; and, inasmuch as
his teeth were exposed, and he had a villainous cast in his
remaining eye, these defects, added to his damaged ears and
departed tail, gave him an extremely “gallus” and unpre-
possessing aspect—but they only asked two hundred and
forty dollars for the turn-out for the day.

I resisted the yearning I felt to hire this unique establish-
ment.

Then they said they had a capacious riding-horse left, but
all the seats on him except one had been engaged; they
said he was an unusually long horse, and he could seat seven
very comfortably; and that he was very gentle, and would
not kick up behind; and that one of the choicest places on
him for observation was still vacant, and I could have it for
nineteen dollars—and so on and so on; and while the
passenger agent was talking, he was busy measuring off a
space of nine inches for me pretty high up on the commo-
dious animal's neck.

It seemed to me that the prospect of going to the races
was beginning to assume a very "neck-or-nothing" condi-
tion, but nevertheless I steadfastly refused the supercargo's
offer, and he sold the vacancy to a politician who was used to
being on the fence and would naturally consider a seat astride
a horse's neck in the light of a pleasant variety.

I then walked thoughtfully down to the incendiary, turning over in my mind various impossible expedients for getting out to the Ocean Race-Course. I thought of the horse-cars and the steam-cars, but without relief, for neither of these conveyances could carry me within four miles of the place. At the hotel I met the abandoned Homestead, and as nearly as I can recollect, the following conversation ensued:

"Ah, Mark, you're the very man I was looking for. Take a drink?"

I cannot be positive, but it is my impression that I either stated that I would, or else signified assent by a scarcely perceptible eagerness of manner common to me under circumstances of this nature.

While we were drinking, Homestead remarked, with considerable vivacity:

"Yes, I was just looking for you. I am going out to the great race on Tuesday, and I've a vacancy and want company. I'd like to have you go along with me if you will."

I set my glass down with a suddenness and decision unusual with me on such occasions, and seizing his hand, I wrung it with heartfelt warmth and cordiality. It is humiliating to me to reflect, now, that at that moment I even shed some tears of gratitude, and felt them coursing down the backbone of my nose and dripping from the end of it.

Never mind the remainder of the conversation—suffice it that I was charged to be at the Incidental punctually at ten o'clock on Tuesday morning, and that I promised to do so.

Well, at the appointed time, I was there. That is, I was as near as I could get—I was on the outskirts of a crowd that occupied all the pavement outside and filled the office inside. Young Smith, of Buncombe and Brimstone, approached me with an air of superiority, and remarked languidly that he guessed he would go to the races. He dropped his airs, though, very suddenly, and came down to my level when I told him I was going to the races also. He said he thought all the conveyances in town had been secured a week ago. I assumed a crushing demeanor of wealthy indifference, and remarked, rather patronizingly, that I had seen greater races—in Europe and other places—and did not care about seeing this one, but then Homestead had insisted so on my going with him that—

"The very devil!" says young Smith, "give us your hand! we're *compangyongs dew vo-yaj!*" (he affects the French, does young Smith.)—"I'm going with Homestead, too, my boy!"

We grew cordial in a moment, and went around, arm-in-arm, patronizing the balance of the crowd. But somehow, every man we accosted silenced our batteries as I had silenced young Smith's in the first place—they were all going with Homestead. I tell you candidly, and in all seriousness, that when I came to find out that there were a hundred and fifty men there, all going to the races, and all going with Homestead, I began to think it was—was—singular, at the very least, not to say exceedingly strange.

But I am tired of this infamous subject—I am tired of this disgraceful narrative, and I shall not finish it.

However, as I have gone this far, I *wil* quote from a conversation that occurred in front of the hotel at ten o'clock. The degraded Homestead stepped out at the door, and bowed, and smiled his hated smile, and said, blandly:

"Ah, you are all here, I see. I am glad you are so punctual, for there is nothing that worries me so much when I am going on a little trip like this for recreation, as to be delayed. Well, boys, time presses—let's make a start."

"I guess we're all ready, Mr. Homestead," said one gentleman, "but—but how are you going?"

The depraved Homestead smiled, as if he were going to say something very smart, and then, "Oh," says he, "I'M GOING TO WALK!"

I have made a plain, simple statement of the facts connected with this outrage, and they can be substantiated by every man who was present upon that occasion. I will now drop this subject forever.

MARK TWAIN.

Great Sahara

Great Sahara

but as I was saying, they read everything, up there, and consequently all the Art criticisms, and the "Parlor Theatricals vs. Christian Commission" controversy, and even the quarrels in the advertising columns between rival fire-proof safe and sewing-machine companies were devoured with avidity. Why, they eventually became divided on these questions, and discussed them with a spirit of obstinacy and acrimony that I have seldom seen equalled in the most important religious and political controversies. I have known a Grover & Baker fanatic to cut his own brother dead because he went for the Florence. As you have already guessed, perhaps, the county and township elections were carried on these issues alone, almost. I took sides, of course—every man had to—there was no shirking the responsibility; a man must be one thing or the other, either Florence or Grover & Baker, unless, of course, he chose to side with some outside machine faction, strong enough to be somewhat formidable. I was a bitter Florence man, and I think my great speech in the bar-room of the Union Hotel, at Angels', on the night of the 13th of February, will long be remembered as the deadliest blow the unprincipled Grover & Baker cabal ever got in that camp, and as having done more to thwart their hellish designs upon the liberties of our beloved country than any single effort of any one man that was ever made in that county. And in that same speech I administered a scathing rebuke to the "Lillie Union and Constitution Fire and Burlar Proof Safe Party," (for I was a malignant Tilton & McFarland man and would break bread and eat salt with none other,) that made even the most brazen among them blush for the infamous and damnable designs they had hatched and were still hatching against the Palladium of Freedom in Calaveras county. The concluding passage of my speech was considered to have been the finest display of eloquence and power ever heard in that part of the country, from Rawhide Ranch to Deadhorse Flat. I said:

"FELLOW-CITIZENS: A word more, and I am done. Men of Calaveras—men of Cuyóte Flat—men of Jackass—BEWARE OF CODDINGTON! [Cheers.] Beware of this atrocious ditch-owner—this vile water-rat—this execrable dry-land shrimp—this bold and unprincipled mud-turtle, who sells water to Digger, Chinaman, Greaser and American alike, and at the self-same prices—who would sell you, who would sell me, who would sell us ALL, to carry out the destructive schemes of the 'Enlightened [Bah!] Freedom & Union Grover & Baker Loop-Stitch Sewing Machine Party [groans] of which wretched conglomeration of the ruff-scruff and rag-tag-and-bob-tail of noble old Calaveras he is the appropriate leader—BEWAR-R-E of him! [Tremendous applause.] Again I charge you as men whom future generations will hold to a fearful responsibility, to BEWARE OF CODDINGTON! [Tempests of applause.] Beware of this unsavory remnant of a once pure and high-minded man!* [Renewed applause.] Beware of this faithless modern Esau, who would sell his birthright of freedom and ours, for a mess of pottage!—for a mess of tripe!—for a mess of sauer-kraut and garlic!—for a mess of anything under the sun that a Christian Florence Iatriot would scorn and a Digger Indian turn from with loathing and disgust!† [Thunders of applause.] Remember Coddington on election day! and remember him but to damn him! I appeal to you, sovereign and enlightened Calaverasses, and my heart tells me that I do not appeal in vain! I have done. [Earthquakes of applause that made the welkin tremble for many minutes, and finally died away in hoarse demands for the villain Coddington, and threats to lynch him.]

I felt exhausted, and in need of rest after my great effort, and so I tore myself from my enthusiastic friends and we home with Coddington to his hospitable mansion, where we partook of an excellent supper and then retired to bed, after playing several games of seven-up for beer and booking some heavy election bets.

The contest on election day was bitter, and to the last degree exciting, but principles triumphed over party jugglery and chicanery, and we carried everything but the Constable, (Unconditional Button-Hole Stitch and Anti-Parlor Theatrical candidate,) and Tax Collector, (Moderate Lillie Fire-Proof and Fusion Grover & Button-Hole Stitch Machines,) and County Assessor, (Radical Christian Commission and Independent Sewing Machine candidate,) and we could have carried these, also, but at the last moment fraudulent handbills were suddenly scattered abroad containing sworn affidavits that a Tilton & McFarland safe, on its way from New York, had melted in the tropical sunshine after fifteen minutes' exposure on the Isthmus; also, that the lock stitch, back-stitch, fore-and-aft, forward-and-back, down-the-middle, double-and-twist, and the other admirable stitches and things upon which the splendid reputation of the Florence rests, had all been cabbaged from the traduced and reviled Button-Hole Stitch and Grover & Baker machines; also, that so far from the Parlor-Theatrical-Christian-Commission controversy being finished, it had sprung up again in San Francisco, and by latest advices the Opposition was ahead. What men could do, we did, but although we checked the demoralization that had broken out in our ranks, we failed to carry all our candidates. We sent express to San Andreas and Columbia, and had strong affidavits—sworn to by myself and our candidates—printed, denouncing the other publications as low and disreputable falsehoods and calumnies, whose shameless authorship to be driven beyond the pale of civilized society, and winding up with the withering revelation that the rain had recently soaked through one of Lillie's Fire and Burglar-Proof safes in San Francisco, and badly damaged the books and papers in it; and that, in the process of drying, the safe warped so that the door would not swing on its hinges, and had to be "prized" open with a butter-knife. But that was a rough shot! It blocked the game and saved the day for us—and just at the critical moment our reserve (whom we had sent for—and drummed up in Tuolumne and the adjoining counties, and had kept out of sight and full of chain-lightning, sudden death and scorpion-bile all day in Tom Deer's back-yard,) came filing down the street as drunk as loons, with a drum and fife and lighted transparencies, (daylight and dark were all the same to them in their condition,) bearing such stirring devices as:

> "The Florence is bound to rip, therefore, LET HER KIP !"
> "Grover & Baker, how are you NOW ?"

> "Nothing can keep the Opposition cool in the other world but
> Tilton & McFarland's Chilled Iron Safes !" etc., etc.

A vast Florence machine on wheels led the van, and a sick Chinaman bearing a crippled Grover & Baker brought up the rear. The procession reeled up to the polls with deafening cheers for the Florence and curses for the "loop stitch scounrels," and deposited their votes like men for freedom of speech, freedom of the press and freedom of conscience in the matter of sewing machines, provided they are Floresces

I had a very comfortable time in Calaveras county, in spite of the rain, and if I had my way I would go back there, and t

ge the sewing machine question around Coon's bar-room.
stove again with the boys on rainy evenings. Calaveras pos-
sesses some of the grandest natural features that have ever
fallen under the contemplation of the human mind—such as
the Big Trees, the famous Morgan gold mine which is the
richest in the world at the present time, perhaps, and "straight"
whisky that will throw a man a double somerset and limber
him up like boiled maccaroni before he can set his glass down.
Marvelous and incomprehensible is the straight whisky of
Angels' Camp!

But I digress to some extent, for maybe it was not really
necessary to be quite so elaborate as I have been in order to
enable the reader to understand that we were in the habit of
reading everything thoroughly that fell in our way at Angels,'
and that
as she do it? why does she do it?
Yours, without prejudice,
Union rooms. They get
24 hours out from
all the papers did it never strike this sprightly.
San Francisco have gone in there and asked the man

However, as easily as he could write to me, he established a matter—this is just about the whole criticism—questions usually asked of editors in

The respondents' Column;" sometimes a street near the
ated over difficult word—when he might as well
Eureka; or he asks who discovered the
ary; or he asks who discovered the
tion who have consulted history; or he asks
senting Cain's wife was—when a moment's
half out of an hour did not satisfy him that nobody knows and
the usual life-long question was, 'Why?' he would say,
not to let him know.
Ella.—No, either Mr. Dan Setch
as we were married. Perhaps it will interest
both uncommonly anxious to marry
with him a few
nights in both to let you still more to do
fair to be a mother to a family of
him we know, cannot imagine, unless his cons
idate he don't love water.
now, as much
I let another fel
with him a few
I thought it only
He introduced me to a friend of his, the son of Brown,
able to Brown also,) and me and Brown sat down on a bench
and had a long talk about. Washoe and other things, and I
found him very entertaining for a stranger. He said his
mother was a hundred and thirteen years old, and he had an
aunt who died in her infancy, who, if she had lived, would
have been older than his mother, now. He judged so because,
originally, his aunt was born before his mother was. That
was the first thing he told me, and then we were friends in a
moment. It could not but be flattering to me, a stranger, to
be made the recipient of information of so private and sacred
a nature as the age of his mother and the early decrease of his
attentive, and I naturally felt drawn towards him and bound to him
by a stronger and a warmer tie than the cold, formal introduc-
tion that had previously passed between us. I shall cherish
the memory of the ensuing two hours as being among the
purest and happiest of my checkered life. I told him frankly
who I was, and where I came from, and where I was going to,
and when I calculated to start, and all about my uncle Am-
brose, who was an Admiral, and was for a long time in com-
mand of a large fleet of canal boats, and about my gifted aunt
Martha, who was a powerful poetess, and a dead shot with a
brickbat at forty yards, and about myself and how I was em-
ployed at good pay by the publishers of THE CALIFORNIAN to
come up there and write an able criticism upon the pictures
in the Art Union—indeed I concealed nothing from Brown,
and in return he concealed nothing from me, but told me
everything he could recollect about his rum old mother, and
his grandmother, and all his relations, in fact. And so we
talked, and talked, and exchanged these tender heart-reminis-
cences until the sun drooped far in the West, and then Brown
said "Let's go down and take a drink."

MARK TWAIN.

M. T.

* He used to belong to the Florence at first.

† I grant you that last part was a sort of a strong figure, see
that that tribe are not over-particular in the matter of diet, and de
usually go back on anything that they can chaw.
M. T.

MR. MARK TWAIN—Sir: I wish to call your attention to a matter which has come to my notice frequently, but before doing so, I may remark, en passant, that I don't see why your parents should have called you Mark Twain; had they known your ardent nature, they would doubtless have named you Water-less Twain. However, Mark what I am about to call your attention to, and I do so knowing you to be "capable and honest" in your inquiries after truth, and that you can fathom the mysteries of Love. Now I want to know why, (and this is the object of my enquiry,) a man should proclaim his love in large gilt letters over the door and in his windows. Why does he do so? You may have noticed in the Russ House Block, one door south of the hotel entrance and inscription thus: "I Love Land." Now if this refers to real estate, he should not say "love;" he should say "like." Very true, in speaking of one's native soil, we say, "Yes, my native land I love thee," but I am satisfied that even if you could suppose this inscription had any remote reference to a birthplace, it does not mean a ranch or eligibly situated town site. Why does he do it? why does he?

Yours, without prejudice,

NOMME DE PLUME.

Now, did it never strike this sprightly Frenchman that he could have gone in there and asked the man himself "why he does it," as easily as he could write to me on the subject? But no matter--this is just about the weight of the important questions usually asked of editors and answered in the "Correspondents' Column;" sometimes a man asks how to spell a difficult word--when he might as well have looked in the dictionary; or he asks who discovered America--when he might have consulted history; or he asks who in the mischief Cain's wife was--when a moment's reflection would have satisfied him that nobody knows and nobody cares--at least, except himself. The Frenchman's little joke is good, though, for doubtless "Quarter-less twain," it would sound like "Water-less twain," if uttered between two powerful brandy punches. But as to why the man in question loves land--I cannot imagine, unless his constitution resembles mine, and he don't love water.

ARABELLA.—No, neither Mr. Dan Setchell nor Mr. Gottschalk are married. Perhaps it will interest you to know that they are both uncommonly anxious to marry, however. And perhaps it will interest you still more to know that, in case they do marry, they will doubtless wed females; I hazard this, because, in discussing the question of marrying, they have uniformly expressed a preference for your sex. I answer your inquiries concerning Miss Adelaide Phillips in the order in which they occur, by number, as follows: I. No. II. Yes. III. Perhaps. IV. "Scasely."

JULIA MARIA.—Fashions? It is out of my line, Maria.
How am I to know anything about such mysteries—I that
laughish alone? Sometimes I am startled into a passing in-
terest in such things, but not often. Now, a few nights ago,
I was reading the *Dramaic Chronicle* at the opera, between
the acts—reading a poem in it, and reading it after my usual
style of ciphering out the merits of poetry, which is to read a
line or two near the top, a verse near the bottom and then strike
an average, (even professional critics do that)—when—well,
it had a curious effect, read as I happened to read it:

"'What shall I wear?' asked Addie St. Clair,
As she stood by her mirror so young and fair'—
and then I skipped a line or so, while I returned the bow of a
strange young lady, who, I observed too late, had intended
that courtesy for a ruffian behind me, instead of for myself,
and read:

"The *modiste* replied, 'It were wicked to hide
Such peerless perfection that should be your pride'—
and then I skipped to the climax, to get my average, and
read—

"'My beautiful bride!' a low voice replied,
As handsome Will Vernon appeared at her side,
'If you wish from all others my heart to beguile,
Wear a smile to-night, darling—your own sunny smile.'

Now there's an airy costume for you! a "sunny smile!"
There's a costume, which, for simplicity and picturesqueness,
grand-discounts a Georgia major's uniform, which is a shirt-
collar and a pair of spurs. But when I came to read the re-
mainder of the poem, it appeared that my new Lady Godiva
'd other clothes beside her sunny smile, and so—it is not
necessary to pursue a subject further which no longer possesses
startling interest. Ask me no questions about fashions,

Julia, but use your individual judgment in the matter.—"well your own sunny smile," and such millinery traps and trimmings as may be handy and will be likely to set it off to best advantage.

Noël DE PLUME.—Behold! the Frenchman cometh again, as follows :

"Your courteous attention to my last enquiry induces this acknowledgment of your kindness. I availed myself of your suggestions and made the enquiry of the gentleman, and he told me very frankly that it was—none of my business. So you see we do sometimes have to apply to your correspondence column for correct information, after all. I read in the papers a few days since some remarks upon the grammatical construction of the sentences—" *Sic semper traditoris*" and "*Sic semper traditoribus*," and I procured a Latin grammar in order to satisfy myself as to the genitive, dativi and abitative cases of tractors—and while wending my weary way homeward at a late hour of the night, thinking over the matter, and not knowing what moment some cut-throat would knock me over, and, as he escaped, flourishing my watch and portmonaie, exclaim, "*Sic semper tyrannus*," I stumbled over an individual lying on the sidewalk, with a postage stamp pasted on his hat in lieu of a car ticket, and evidently in the objective case to the phrase "how come you so ?" As I felt in his pockets to see if his friends had taken care of his money, lest he might be robbed, he claimed, trugically, "*Sic(hic) semper tarantula-juice f!* Not finding the phrase in my grammar, which I examined at once, I thought of your advice and *asked* him what he meant, said he "I mean jis what I say, and I intend to sti-hic to it." He was *quarterless*. Twain; when I sounded him he hadn't a cent, although he smelled strong of a 5-scent shop."

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

ALL letters for this department should be addressed to Mr. MARK TWAIN, who has been detailed from the editorial staff to conduct it. Courting Etiquette, Distressed Lovers, of either sex, and Struggling Young Authors, as yet "unbeknown" to Fame, will receive especial attention.

TRUE SON OF THE UNION—Very well, I will publish the following extract from one of the dailies, since you seem to consider it necessary to your happiness, and since your trembling soul has found in it evidence of lukewarm loyalty on the part of the Collector—but candidly, now, don't you think you are in rather small business? I do, anyhow, though I do not wish to flatter you:

"BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL.—San Francisco, June 17, 1865. Messrs. Editors: Why is it that on this day, the greatest of all in the annals of the rights of man—viz., the Glorious Anniversary of the Battle of Bunker Hill—our Great Ensign of Freedom does not appear on the Custom House? Perhaps our worthy Collector is so busy Senator-making that it might have escaped his notice. You will be pleased to assign an excuse for the above official delinquency, and oblige

A NEW ENGLAND MECHANIC."

Why was that published? I think it was simply to gratify a taste for literary pursuits which has suddenly broken out in the system of the artisan from New England; or perhaps he has an idea, somehow or other, in a general way, that it would be a showing of neat and yet not gaudy international politeness for Collectors of ports to hoist their flags in commemoration of British victories, (for the physical triumph was theirs, although we claim all the moral effect of a victory;) or perhaps it struck him that "this day, the greatest of all in the annals of the rights of man," (whatever that may mean, for it is a little too deep for me,) was a fine, high-sounding expression, and yearned to get it off in print; or perhaps it occurred to him that "the Glorious Anniversary," and "our Great Ensign of Freedom," being new and startling figures of speech, would probably create something of a sensation if properly marshalled under the leadership of stunning capitals, and so he couldn't resist the temptation to trot them out in grand dress parade before the reading public; or perhaps, finally, he really did think the Collector's atrocious conduct partook of the character of a devilish "official delinquency," and imperatively called for explanation or "excuse." And still, after all this elaborate analysis, I am considerably "in fixed" as to the actual motive for publishing that thing.

But observe how quibbling and fault-finding breed in a land of newspapers. Yesterday I had the good fortune to intercept the following bitter communication on its way to the office of a cotemporary, and I am happy in being able to afford to the readers of THE CALIFORNIAN the first perusal of it:

Editors of the Flaming Loyalist: What does it mean? The extraordinary conduct of Mr. John Doe, one of the highest Government officials among us, upon the anniversary of the battle of Bunker Hill—that day so inexpressibly dear to every loyal American heart because our patriot forefathers got worsted upon that occasion—is matter of grave suspicion. It was observed (by those who have closely watched Mr. Doe's actions ever since he has been in office, and who have thought his professions of loyalty lacked the genuine ring,) that this man, who has uniformly got drunk, heretofore, upon all the nation's great historical days, remained thoroughly sober upon the hallowed 17th of June. Is not this significant? Was this the pardonable forgetfulness of a loyal officer, or rather, was it not the deliberate act of a malignant and a traitorous heart? You will be pleased to assign an excuse for the above official delinquency, and oblige

A SENTINEL AGRICULTURIST UPON THE NATIONAL WATCHTOWER.

Now isn't that enough to disgust any man with being an officeholder? Here is a drudging public servant who has always served his masters patiently and faithfully, and although there was nothing in his instructions requiring him to get drunk on national holidays, yet with an unselfishness, and an enlarged public spirit, and a gushing patriotism that did him infinite credit, he did always get as drunk as a loon on these occasions—ay, and even upon any occasion of minor importance when an humble effort on his part could shed additional lustre upon hi

country's greatness, never did he hesitate a moment to go
and fill himself full of gin. Now observe how his splendid
services have been appreciated—behold how quickly the
remembrance of them hath passed away—mark how the tried
servant has been rewarded. This grateful officer—this pure
patriot—has been known to get drunk five hundred times in
a year for the honor and glory of his country and his country's
flag, and no man cried "Well done, thou good and faithful
servant"—yet the very first time he ventures to remain
sober on a battle anniversary (exhausted by the wear and
tear of previous efforts, no doubt,) this spying "Agriculturist,"
who has deserted his onion-patch to perch himself upon the
National Watch-Tower at the risk of breaking his meddlesome
neck, discovers the damning fact that he is firm on his
legs, and sings out: "He don't keep up his lick!—he's DISLOYAL!"

Oh, stuff! a public officer has a hard enough time of it, at
best, without being constantly hauled over the coals for
inconsequential and insignificant trifles. If you *must* find
fault, go and ferret out something worth while to find fault
with—if John Doe or the Collector neglect the actual
business they are required by the Government to transact,
impeach them. \But pray allow them a little poetical license
in the choice of occasions for getting drunk and hoisting the
National flag. If the oriental artisan and the sentinel agriculturalist held the offices of these men, would they ever *attend to anything else* bat the flag-flying and gin-soaking outward forms of patriotism and official industry?

to bet on the other side, and if he couldn't he'd change sides
—any way that suited the other man would suit him—any
way just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still, he was
lucky—uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner
He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't
be no solitry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on
it—and take any side you please, as I was just telling you:
if there was a horse race, you'd find him flush or you find him
busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on
it; if there was a cat fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a
chicken-fight, he'd bet on it; why if there was two birds
sitting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first
—or if there was a camp-meeting he would be there reglar
to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best
exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and agood man; if
he even see a straddle-bug start to go any wheres, he would
bet you how long it would take him to get wherever he was
going to, and if you took him up he would foller that straddle-
bug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was
bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the
boys here has seen that Greeley and can tell you about him.
Why, it never made no difference to him—he would bet on
anything—the dangdest feller. Parson Walker's wife laid
very sick, once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they
warn't going to save her; but one morning he come in and
Greeley asked how she was, and he said she was considerable
better—thank the Lord for his inf'mit mercy—and coming on
so smart that with the blessing of Providence she'd get well
yet—and Greeley, before he thought, says: “Well, I'll resk
two—and a half that she don't, anyway.”

Thish-yer Greeley had a mare—the boys called her the
fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, be-
cause, of course, she was faster than that—and he used to
win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always
had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or
something of that kind. They used to give her two or three
hundred yard's start, and then pass her under way; b
always at the fag-end of the race she'd get excited and de
perate like, and come cavorting and spraddling up, and scat
tering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and some
times out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up
m-o-r-e dust, and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and
sneezing and blowing her nose—and always fetch up at the
stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it
down.

And he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him you'd
think he warn't worth a cent, but to set around and look
onery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon
as money was up on him he was a different dog—his under-
jaw'd begin to stick out like the for'castle of a steamboat, and
his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces.
And a dog might tackle him, and bully-rag him, and bite him,
and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and
Andrew Jackson—which was the name of the pup—Andrew
Jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and
hadn't expected nothing else—and the bets being doubled and
doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all
up—and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog
just by the joint of his hind leg and freeze to it—not chaw,
you understand, but only just grip and hang on till they
throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. Greeley always came
out winner on that pup till he harnessed a dog once that
didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off in a

"Well," Greeley says, easy and careless, "He's good enough for one thing I should judge—he can out-jump any frog in Calaveras county."

The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, and give it back to Greeley and says, very deliberate, "Well—I don't see no points about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."

"Maybe you don't," Greeley says. "Maybe you understand frogs, and maybe you don't understand 'em: maybe you've had experience, and maybe you ain't only a amateur, as it were. Anyways, I've got my opinion, and I'll resk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county."

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad, like, "Well—I'm only a stranger here, and I ain't got no frog—but if I had a frog I'd bet you."

And then Greeley says, "That's all right—that's all right—if you'll hold my box a minute I'll go and get you a frog;" and so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Greeley's, and set down to wait.

So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to himself, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail-shot—filled him pretty near up to his chin—and set him on the floor. Greeley he went to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog and fetched him in and give him to this feller and says:

"Now if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his fore-paws just even with Dan'l's, and I'll give the word." Then he says, 'one—two—three—jump!' and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off, but Dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders—so—like a Frenchman, but it wa'n't no use—he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. Greeley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away, and when he was going out at the door he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders—this way—at Dan'l, and says again, very deliberate: "Well—I don't see no points about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."

Greeley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long time, and at last he says, "I do wonder what in the nation that frog throw'd off for—I wonder if there ain't something the matter with him—he pears to look mighty baggy, somehow," and he ketched Dan'l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him up and says, "Why blame my cats if he don't weigh five pounds, and turned him upside down, and he belched out about a double-handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man—he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. And—

[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front-yard, and got up to see what was wanted.] And turning to me as he moved away, he said: "Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy—I ain't going to be gone a second."

But by your leave. I did not think that a continuation of the history of the enterprising vagabond Jim Greeley would be likely to afford me much information concerning the Rev. Leonidas W. Greeley, and so I started away.

At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he buttonholed me and recommenced:

"Well, thish-yer Greeley had a yaller one-eyed cow that didn't have no tail only just a short stump like a bannanner, and—"

"O, curse Greeley and his afflicted cow!" I muttered, good-naturedly, and bidding the old gentleman good-day, I departed.

Your, truly,

MARK TWAIN.

circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he came to make a snatch for his pet holt, he saw in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged like, and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He give Greeley a look as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece, and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius--I know it, because he hadn't had no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.

Well, thish-yer Greeley had rat-tarriers and chicken cocks, and tom-cats, and all them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He ketched a frog one day and took him home and said he cal'lated to educate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he *did* learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut--see him turn one summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Greeley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do most anything--and I believe him. Why, I've seen him send Dan'l Webster down here on this floor--Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog--and sing out "Flies! Dan'l, flies," and quicker'n you could wink, he'd spring straight up, and snake a fly off 'n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd done any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it come to fair-and-square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand, and when it come to that, Greeley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. Greeley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had travelled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever *they* see.

Well, Greeley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him down town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller—a stranger in the camp, he was—come across him with his box, and says:

"What might it be that you've got in the box?"

And Greeley says, sorter indifferent like, "It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain't--it's only just a frog."

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, "H'm—so 'tis. Well, what's he good for?"

circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he came to make a snatch of his pet holt, he saw in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged like, and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got slacked out bad. He give Greeley a look as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece, and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius--I know it, because he hadn't had no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.

Well, thish-yer Greeley had rat-tarriers and chicken cocks, and tom-cats, and all them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He ketched a frog one day and took him home and said he cal'lated to educate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his hiet to learn that frog to jump

as you did

correct his one great fault—we refer to his habit of throwing extraordinary spirit into passages which do not require it— his habit of ranting, to speak plainly. It was this same unfortunate habit which caused him to spoil the noble scene between 'Lord Blucher' and 'Viscount Cranberry,' last night, in that portion of the third act where the latter unjustly accuses the former of attempting to seduce his pure and honored grandmother. His rendition of 'Lord Blucher's' observation—

'Speak but another syllable, vile, hell-spawned miscreant, and thou diest the death of a ter-r-raitor!'

was uttered with undue excitement and unseemly asperity— there was too much rant about it. We trust Mr. Macbeth will consider the hint we have given him.' That extract, Mr. Twain, was from the *Morning Thunderbolt*. The *Daily Battering-Ram* gave me many compliments, but said that in the great scene referred to above, I gesticulated too wildly and too much—and advised me to be more circumspect in future, in these matters. I played the same piece that night, and toned myself down considerably in the matter of ranting and gesticulation. The next morning neither the *Thunderbolt* or the *Battering-Ram* gave me credit for it, but the one said my 'Lord Blucher' overdid the pathetic in the scene where his sister died, and the other said I laughed too boisterously in the one where my servant fell in the dyer's vat and came out as green as a meadow in Spring-time. The *Daily American Earthquake* said I was too tame in the great scene with the 'Viscount.' I felt a little discouraged, but I made a note of these suggestions and fell to studying harder than ever. That night I toned down my grief and my mirth, and worked up my passionate anger and my gesticulation just the least in the world. I may remark here that I began to perceive a moderation, both in quantity and quality, of the applause vouchsafed me by the audience. The next

morning the papers gave me no credit for my efforts at improvement, but the *Thunderbolt* said I was too loving in the scene with my new bride, the *Battering-Ram* said I was not loving enough, and the *Earthquake* said it was a masterly performance and never surpassed upon these boards. I was check-mated. I sat down and considered how I was going to engineer that love-scene to suit all the critics, until at last I became stupefied with perplexity. I then went down town, much dejected, and got drunk. The next day the *Battering-Ram* said I was too spiritless in the scene with the 'Viscount,' and remarked sarcastically that I threatened the 'Viscount's' life with a subdued voice and manner eminently suited to conversation in a funeral procession. The *Thunderbolt* said my mirth was too mild in the dyer's vat scene, and observed that instead of laughing heartily, as it was my place to do, I smiled as blandly—and as guardedly, apparently—as an undertaker in the cholera season. These mortuary comparisons had a very depressing effect upon my spirits, and I turned to the *Earthquake* for comfort. That authority said 'Lord Blucher' seemed to take the death of his idolized sister uncommonly easy, and suggested with exquisite irony that if I would use a toothpick, or pretend to pare my nails, in the death-bed scene, my attractive indifference would be the perfection of acting. I was almost desperate, but I went to work earnestly again to apply the newspaper hints to my 'Lord Blucher.' I ranted in the 'Viscount' scene (this at home in my private apartments) to suit the *Battering-Ram*, and then toned down considerably, to approach the *Earthquake's* standard; I worked my grief up strong in the death-bed scene to suit the latter paper, and then modified it a good deal to comply with the *Thunderbolt's* hint; I laughed boisterously in the dyer's vat scene, in accordance with the suggestion of the *Thunderbolt*, and then toned down toward the *Battering-Ram's* notion of excellence. That night my audience did not seem to know whether to applaud or not, and the result was that they came as near doing neither one thing nor the other as was possible. The next morning the *Semi-Monthly Literary Bosh* said my rendition of the character of 'Lord Blucher' was faultless—that it was stamped with the seal of inspiration; the *Thunderbolt* said I was an industrious, earnest and aspiring young dramatic student, but I was possessed of only ordinary merit, and could not hope to achieve more than a very moderate degree of success in my profession—and added that my engagement was at an end for the present; the *Battering-Ram* said I was a tolerably good stock-actor, but that the practice of managers in imposing such people as me upon the public as stars, was very reprehensible—and added that my engagement was at an end for the present; the *Earthquake* critic said he had seen worse actors, but not much worse—and added that my engagement was at an end for the present. So much for newspapers. The *Monthly Magazine of Literature and Art* (high authority,) remarked as follows: 'Mr. King Lear Macbeth commenced well, but the longer he played, the worse he played. His first performance of 'Lord Blucher' in *Blood, Hair and the Ground Tore*. Up, may be entered upon the record as a remarkably fine piece of acting—but toward the last he got to making it the most extraordinary exhibition of theatrical lunacy we ever witnessed. In the scene with the 'Viscount,' which calls for sustained, vigorous, fiery declamation, his manner was an incomprehensible

A NOTABLE CONUNDRUM.

THE Fair continues, just the same. It is a nice place to hunt for people in. I have hunted for a friend there for as much as two hours of an evening, and at the end of that time found the hunting just as good as it was when I commenced.

If the projectors of this noble Fair never receive a dollar or even a kindly word of thanks for the labor of their hands, the sweat of their brows and the wear and tear of brain it has cost them to plan their work and perfect it, a consciousness of the incalculable good they have conferred upon the community must still give them a placid satisfaction more precious than money or sounding compliments. They have been the means of bringing many a pair of loving hearts together that could not get together anywhere else on account of parents and other obstructions. When you see a young lady standing by the sanitary scarecrow which mutely appeals to the public for quarters and swallows them, you may know by the expectant look upon her face that a young man is going to happen along there presently; and, if you have my luck, you will notice by that look still remaining upon her face that you are not the young man she is expecting. They court a good deal at the Fair, and the young fellows are always exchanging notes with the girls. For this purpose the business cards scattered about the place are found very convenient. I picked up one last night which was printed on both sides, but had been interlined in pencil, by somebody's Arabella, until one could not read it without feeling dizzy. It ran about in this wise—though the interlineations were not in parentheses in the original:

> "John Smith, (My Dearest and Sweetest:) Soap Boiler and Candle Factor; (If you love me, if you love) Bar Soap, Castile Soap and Soft Soap, peculiarly suitable for (your Arabella, fly to the) Pacific coast, because of its non-liability to be affected by the climate. Those who may have kitchen refuse to sell, can leave orders, and our soap-fat carts will visit the (Art Gallery. I will be in front of the big mirror in an hour from now, and will go with you to the) corner designated. For the very best Soap and Candles the market affords, apply at the (Academy of Music. And from there, O joy! how my heart thrills with rapture at the prospect! with souls surcharged with bliss, we will wander forth to the) Soap Factory, or to the office, which is located on the (moon-lit beach,) corner of Jackson street, near the milk ranch. (From Arabella, who sends kisses to her darling) JOHN SMITH, Pioneer Soap Boiler and Candle Factor."

Sweethearts usually treasure up these little affectionate billets, and that this one was lost in the Pavilion, seemed proof to me that its contents were rather distracting to the mind of the young man who received it. He never would

have lost it if he had not felt unsettled about something. I think it is likely he got mixed, so to speak, as to whether he was the lucky party, or whether it was the soap-boiler. However, I have possession of her extraordinary document now, and this is to inform Arabella that, in the hope that I may answer for the other young man, and to fill a void or so in her aching heart, I am drifting about, in an unsettled way, on the look-out for her—sometimes on the Pacific Coast, sometimes at the Art Gallery, sometimes at the soap factory, and occasionally at the moonlit beach and the milk ranch. If she happen to visit either of those places shortly, and will have the goodness to wait a little while, she can calculate on my drifting around in the course of an hour or so.

I cannot say that all visitors to the Fair go there to make
love, though I have my suspicions that a good many of them
do. Numbers go there to look at the machinery and misun-
derstand it, and still greater numbers, perhaps, go to criticise
the pictures. There is a handsome portrait in the Art Gallery
of a pensive young girl. Last night it fell under the critical
eye of a connoisseur from Arkansas. She examined it in
silence for many minutes, and then she blew her nose calmly,
and, says she, "I like it—it is so sad and thinkful."

Somebody knocked Weller's bust down from its shelf at
the Fair, the other night, and destroyed it. It was wrong to
do it, but it gave rise to a very able pun by a young person
who has had much experience in such things, and was only
indifferently proud of it. He said it was Weller enough when
it was a bust, but just the reverse when it was busted. Ex-
planation: He meant that it looked like Weller in the first
place, but it did not after it was smashed to pieces. He also
meant that it was well enough to leave it alone and not destroy
it. The Author of this fine joke is among us yet, and I can
bring him around if you would like to look at him. One
would expect him to be haughty and ostentatious, but you
would be surprised to see how simple and unpretending he is
and how willing to take a drink.

But I have been playing the noble game of "Muggins." In
that game, if you make a mistake of any kind, however trivial
it may be, you are pronounced a muggins by the whole com-
pany, with great unanimity and enthusiasm. If you play the
right card in the wrong place, you are a muggins; no matter
how you play, in nine cases out of ten you are a muggins.
They inform you of it with a shout which has no expression in it
of regret. I have played this fine game all the evening, and
although I knew little about it at first, I got to be quite a
muggins at last. I played it very successfully on a police-
man as I went home. I had forgotten my night-key and was
climbing in at the window. When he clapped his hand on my
shoulder, I smiled upon him and, says I, "Muggins!" with much
vivacity. Says he, "How so?" and I said, "Because I live here,
and you play the wrong card when you arrest me for entering
my own house." I thought it was rather neat. But then
there was nobody at home to identify me, and I had to go all
the way to the station-house with him and give bail to appear
and answer to a charge of burglary. As I turned to depart
says he "Muggins!" I thought that was rather neat also.

But the conundrum I have alluded to in the heading of this
article, was the best thing of the kind that has ever fallen
under my notice. It was projected by a young man who has
hardly any education at all and whose opportunities have
been very meagre, even from his childhood up. It was this :
"Why was Napoleon when he crossed the Alps, like the San-
itary cheese at the Mechanics' Fair?"

It was very good for a young man just starting in life;
don't you think so? He has gone away now to Sacra-
mento. Probably we shall never see him more. He did not
state what the answer was.

MARK TWAIN.

STILL FURTHER CONCERNING THAT CONUNDRUM.

IN accordance with your desire, I went to the Academy of Music on Monday evening, to take notes and prepare myself to write a careful critique upon the opera of the *Crown Diamonds*. That you considered me able to acquit myself creditably in this exalted sphere of literary labor, was gratifying to me, and I should even have felt flattered by it had I not known that I was so competent to perform the task well, that to set it for me could not be regarded as a flattering concession, but, on the contrary, only a just and deserved recognition of merit.

Now, to throw disguise aside and speak openly, I have long yearned for an opportunity to write an operatic diagnostic and analytical dissertation for you. I feel the importance of carefully-digested newspaper criticism in matters of this kind—for I am aware that by it the dramatic and musical tastes of a community are moulded, cultivated and irrevocably fixed—that by these tastes are vitiated and debased, or elevated and ennobled, according to the refinement or vulgarity, and the competency or incompetency of the writers to whom this department of the public training is entrusted. If you would see around you a people who are filled with the keenest appreciation of perfection in musical execution and dramatic delineation, and painfully sensitive to the slightest departures from the true standard of art in these things, you must employ upon your newspapers critics capable of discriminating between merit and demerit, and alike fearless in praising the one and condemning the other. Such a person—although it may be in some degree immodest in me to say so—I claim to be. You will not be surprised, then, to know that I read your boshy criticisms on the opera with the most exquisite anguish—and not only yours, but those which I find in every paper in San Francisco.

You do nothing but sing one everlasting song of praise; when an artist, by diligence and talent, makes an effort of transcendent excellence, behold, instead of receiving marked and cordial attention, both artist and effort sink from sight, and are lost in the general slough of slimy praise in which it is your pleasure to cause the whole company, good, bad and indifferent, to wallow once a week. With this brief but very liberal and hearty expression of sentiment, I will drop the subject and leave you alone for the present, for it behooves me now to set you a model in criticism.

The opera of the *Crown Diamonds* was put upon the stage in creditable shape on Monday evening, although I noticed that the curtains of the "Queen of Portugal's" drawing-room were not as gorgeous as they might have been, and that the furniture had a second-hand air about it, of having seen service in the preceding reign. The acting and the vocalization, however, were, in the main, good. I was particularly charmed by the able manner in which Signor Bellindo Alphonso Cellini, the accomplished basso-relievo furniture-scout and sofa-shifter performed his part. I have before observed that this rising young artist gave evidence of the rarest genius in his peculiar department of operatic business, and have been annoyed at noticing with what studied care a venomous and profligate press have suppressed his name and suffered his sublimest efforts to pass unnoticed and unglorified. Shame upon such grovelling envy and malice! But, with all your neglect, you have failed to crush the spirit of the gifted furniture-scout, or seduce from him the affectionate encouragement and appreciation of the people. The moment he stepped upon the stage on Monday evening, to carry out the bandit chieftan's valise, the circles, with

warm and generous applause. It was a princely triumph
Bellindo; he told me afterwards it was the proudest mo
of his life.

I watched Alphonso during the entire performance and was
never so well pleased with him before, although I have admired
him from the first. In the second act, when the eyes of the
whole audience were upon him—when his every movement was
the subject of anxiety and suspense—when everything depended
upon his nerve and self-possession, and the slightest symptom
of hesitation or lack of confidence would have been fatal—he
stood erect in front of the cave, looking calmly and unflinchingly
down upon the camp-stool for several moments, as one
who has made up his mind to do his great work or perish in
the attempt, and then seized it and bore it in triumph to the
foot-lights! It was a sublime spectacle. There was not a dry
eye in the house. In that moment, not even the most envious
and uncharitable among the noble youth's detractors would have
had the hardihood to say he was not endowed with a lofty
genius.

Again, in the scene where the Prime Minister's nephew is
imploring the female bandit to fly to the carriage and escape
impending wrath, and when dismay and confusion ruled the
hour, how quiet, how unmoved, how grandly indifferent was
Bellindo in the midst of it all!—what solidity of expression
lay upon his countenance! While all save himself were
unnerved by despair, he serenely put forth his finger and mashed
to a shapeless pulp a mosquito that loitered upon the wall, yet
betrayed no sign of agitation the while. Was there nothing
in this lofty contempt for the dangers which surrounded him
that marked the actor destined hereafter to imperishable
renown?

Possibly upon that occasion when it was necessary for
Alphonso to remove two chairs and a table during the shifting
of the scenes, he performed his part with undue precipitation;
with the table upside down upon his head, and grasping the
corners with hands burdened with the chairs, he appeared to
some extent undignified when he galloped across the stage.
Generally his conception of his part is excellent, but in this
case I am satisfied he threw into it an enthusiasm not required
and also not warranted by the circumstances. I think that careful
study and reflection will convince him that I am right, and
that the author of the opera intended that in this particular
instance the furniture should be carried out with impressive
solemnity. That he had this in view is evidenced by the slow
and stately measure of the music played by the orchestra at
that juncture.

But the crowning glory of Cellini's performance that even-
ing was the placing of a chair for the Queen of Portugal to

sit down in after she had become fatigued by earnestly and
elaborately abusing the Prime Minister for losing the Crown
Diamonds. He did not grab the chair by the hind leg and
shove it awkwardly at her Majesty; he did not seize it by the
seat and thrust it ungracefully toward her; he did not handle
it as though he was undecided about the strict line of his
duty or ignorant of the proper manner of performing it. He
did none of these things. With a coolness and confidence
that evinced the most perfect conception and the most consummate
knowledge of his part, he came gently forward and
laid hold of that chair from behind, set it in its proper place
with a movement replete with grace, and then leaned upon the
back of it, resting his chin upon his hand, and in this position
smiled a smile of transfigured sweetness upon the audience

he said: "Thas so—'s a sp-(ic!)-splennid 'splay!' and set 1
glass down with sufficient decision to break it.

We went out, then, and saw a sign marked "CHICKEN SHOOT
ING." and we sat down and waited a long time, but finaly we
got weary and discouraged, and my comrade said that perhaps
it was no use—may be the chicken was not going to shoot
that day. We did not mind the disappointment so much, but
the hiccups were so distressing. I am subject to them when
I go abroad.

We left the hotel, then, and drove along the level beach,
drowsily admiring the terraced surf, and listening to the tid-
ings it was bringing from other lands in the mysterious lan-
guage of its ceaseless roar, until we hove in sight of the
stranded whale. We thought it was a cliff, an isolated hill,
an island—anything but a fish, capable of being cut up and
stowed away in a ship. Its proportions were magnified a thou-
sand-fold beyond any conception we had previously formed of
them. We felt that we could not complain of a disappoint-
ment in regard to the whale, at any rate. But we were not
prepared to see a magnified mastodon, also; yet there seemed
to be one towering high above the beach not far from the
whale. We drove a hundred yards further—it was nothing
but a horse.

Then the light of inspiration dawned upon me, and I knew
what I would do if I kept the hotel, and the whale belonged
to me. I would not permit any one to approach nearer than
six or eight hundred yards to the show, because at that dis-
tance the light mists, or the peculiar atmosphere, or some-
thing, exaggerates it into a monster of colossal size. It
grows smaller as you go towards it. When we got pretty
close to it, the island shrunk into a fish—a very large one for
a sardine, it is true, but a very small one for a whale—and
the mastodon dwindled down to a Cayuse pony. Distance
had been lending immensity to the view. We were disap-
pointed again somewhat; but see how things are regulated!
The very source of our disappointment was a blessing to us:
As it was, there was just as much smell as two of us could
stand; and if the fish had been larger there would have been
more, wouldn't there? and where could we have got assistance
on that lonely beach to help us smell it? Ah! it was the
great law of compensation—the great law that regulates
Nature's heedless agents, and sees that when they make a
mistake, they shall at the self-same moment prevent that mis-
take from working evil consequences. Behold, the same gust
of wind that blows a lady's dress aside, and exposes her uncle,
fills your eyes so full of sand that you can't see it. Marvellous
are the works of Nature!

The whale was not a long one, physically speaking—say
thirty-five feet—but he smelt much longer; he smelt as much
as a mile and a half longer, I should say, for we travelled
about that distance beyond him before we ceased to detect his
fragrance in the atmosphere. My comrade said he did not
admire to smell a whale; and I adopt his sentiments while I
scorn his language. A whale does not smell like magnolia,
nor yet like heliotrope or "Balm of a Thousand Flowers;" I
do not know, but I should judge that it smells more like a
thousand pole-cats.

With these few remarks I will now proceed to unfold a
conundrum which I consider one of the finest that has ever
emanated from the human mind. My invalid comrade pro-
duced it while we were driving along slowly in the open
country this side of the Ocean House. I think it was
just where we crossed the aqueduct of the Spring Valley
Water Company, though I will not be certain; it might have
been a little to the east of it, or maybe a little to the west,
some at any rate it was in the immediate vicinity of it. I
remember the time, though, very distinctly, for I was looking
at my watch at the moment he commenced speaking, and it
was a quarter of a minute after 3 o'clock—I made a memo-
randum of it afterward in my notebook which I will show
you if you will remind me of it when I visit the CALIFORNIAN
office. The sun was shining very brightly, but a light breeze
was blowing from the sea, which rendered the weather pleas-
anter than it had been for several hours previously, and as it
blew the dust in the same direction in which we were travel-
ling, we experienced no inconvenience from it, although, as a
general thing, I do not enjoy dust. It was under these circum-
stances that my invalid comrade, young John William Skae,

who is in the quartz-milling business in Virginia City, now,
but was born in the State of Pennsylvania, where his parents,
and in fact most of his relatives, still reside, except one of his
brothers, who is in the army, and his aunt, who married a
minister of the gospel and is living out West, sometimes
having an improving season in the vineyard and sometimes
chased around considerable by the bushwhackers, who cannot
abide preachers, and who stir them up impartially, just the
same as they do those who have not yet got religion; and also
except his first cousin, James Peterson, who is a skirmisher
and is with the parson—he goes through the camp-meetings
and skirmishes for raw converts, whom he brings to the front
and puts them in the corral, or the mourner’s bench, as they
call it in that section, so that the parson can exhort them
more handy—it was under these circumstances, as I was say-
ing, that young Skae, who had been ruminating in dead silence
for a long time, turned toward me with an unwholesome glare
in his eye, at a quarter of a minute after 3 o’clock, while we
were in the vicinity of the aqueduct of the Spring Valley
Water Company, and notwithstanding the light breeze that
was blowing and the filmy dust that was drifting about us,
says he: “Why is a whale like a certain bird which has blue
feathers and is mostly found in the West, where he is consid-
ered a good bird though not remarkable? It is, because he is
the Kingfisher—(the king fish, sir.)”

There was no house near by, except an old shed that had
been used by some workmen, but I took him to that and did
what I could for him; his whole nervous system seemed pros-
trated; he only raised his head once, and asked in a feeble
voice, but with an expression of ineffable satisfaction in it—
“How’s that?” I knew he did not want medicine—if any-
thing could save him, it would be rest and quiet. Therefore, I
removed the horses to a distance, and then went down the road,
and by representing the case fairly and openly to all passengers,
I got them to drive by him slowly so that they would make no
noise to excite him. My efforts were successful; his pulse was
at two hundred and ninety when I put him in the shed, and
only forty-two when I took him out.

Now I thought that conundrum would have done honor to
the finest mind among us, and I think it especially good for an
invalid from Pennsylvania. How does it strike you? It is
circumscribed in its action, though, and is applicable only to
men; you could not say “Because it is the king fish, madam,”
without marring the effect of the joke by rendering the point
in a manner obscure.

Some friends of mine of great powers and high intellectual
culture, and who naturally take an interest in conundrums,
besought me to procure the answer to that one about Napoleon
and the Sanitary cheese, and publish it. I have written to
the Author of it, and he informs me that he and his mother,
who is a woman of extraordinary sagacity and a profound
thinker, are cyphering at it night and day, and they confi-
dently expect to have the answer ready in time for your next
week’s issue. From what I can understand, they are making
very encouraging progress; they have already found out why
Napoleon was like the cheese, but thus far they have not been
able to ascertain in what respect the cheese resembles Napo-
leon.

MARK TWAIN.

ing a salary after a while that will break any church that hires him. However, if he enjoys it, and really thinks it was a good joke, I am very sure I don't want to dilute his pleasure in the least by dispelling the illusion. It reminds me, though, of a neat remark which the editor of *Harper's Magazine* made three years ago, in an article wherein he was pleading for charity for the harmless vanity of poor devil scribblers who imagine they are gifted with genius. He said they didn't know but what their writing was fine—and then he says: "Don't poor Martin Farquhar Tupper fondle his platitudes and think they are poems?" That's it. Let the Bishop fondle his little joke—no doubt it is just as good to him as if it were the very soul of humor.

But I wonder who in the mischief is "St.-George-the-Martyr-Up-Town?" However, no matter—the Bishop is not going to take his chances altogether with St.-George-the-Martyr-Up-Town, or with the little sparrows that are subject to accidents, either—he has a judicious eye on cotton. And he is right, too. Nobody deserves to be helped who don't try to help himself, and "faith without works" is a risky doctrine.

Now, what is your idea about his last paragraph? Don't you think he is spreading it on rather thick?—as "the ungodly" would term it. Do you really think there is any rain behind all that thunder and lightning? Do you suppose he really means it? They are mighty powerful adjectives—uncommonly powerful adjectives—and sometimes I seem to smell a faint odor of irony about them. But that could hardly be. He evidently loves me. Why, if I could be brought to believe that that reverend old humorist was discharging any sarcasm at me, I would never write to him again as long as I live. Thinks I will "get my deserts hereafter"—I don't hardly like the ring of that, altogether.

He says he will pray for me, though. Well, he couldn't do anything that would fit my case better, and he couldn't find a subject who would thank him more kindly for it than I would. I suppose I shall come in under the head of "sinners at large"—but I don't mind that; I am no better than any other sinner and I am not entitled to especial consideration. They pray for the congregation first, you know—and with considerable vim; then they pray mildly for other denominations; then for the near relations of the congregation; then for their distant relatives; then for the surrounding community; then for the State; then for the Government officers; then for the United States; then for North America; then for the whole Continent; then for England, Ireland and Scotland; France, Germany and Italy; Russia, Prussia and Austria; then for the inhabitants of Norway, Sweden and Timbuctoo; and those of Saturn, Jupiter and New Jersey; and then they give the niggers a lift, and the Hindoos a lift, and the Turks a lift, and the Chinese a lift; and then, after they have got the fountain of mercy baled out as dry as an ash-hopper, they bespeak the sediment left in the bottom of it for us poor "sinners at large."

It isn't just exactly fair, is it? Sometimes, (being a sort of a Presbyterian in a general way, and a brevet member of one of the principal churches of that denomination.) I stand up in devout attitude, with downcast eyes, and hands clasped upon the back of the pew before me, and listen attentively and expectantly for awhile; and then rest upon one foot for a season; and then upon the other; and then insert my hands under my coat-tails and stand erect and look solemn; and then fold my arms and droop forward and look dejected; and then cast my eye furtively at the minister; and then at the congregation; and then grow absent-minded, and catch myself counting the lace bonnets; and marking the drowdy members; and noting the wide-awake ones; and averaging the bald heads; and afterwards descend to indolent conjectures as to whether the buzzing fly that keeps stumbling up the window-pane and sliding down backwards again will ever accomplish his object to his satisfaction; and, finally, I give up and relapse into a dreary reverie—and about this time the minister reaches my department, and brings me back to hope and consciousness with a kind word for the poor "sinners at large."

Sometimes we are even forgotten altogether and left out in the cold—and then I call to mind the vulgar little boy who was fond of hot biscuits, and whose mother promised him that he should have all that were left if he would stay away and keep quiet and be a good little boy while the strange guest ate his breakfast; and who watched that voracious guest till the growing apprehension in his young bosom gave place to 'demonstrated ruin, and then sung out: "There! I know'd how it was goin' to be—I know'd how it was going' to be, from the start! Blamed if he hain't gobbled the last biscuit!"

I do not complain, though, because it is very seldom that the Hindoos and the Turks and the Chinese get all the atoning biscuits and leave us sinners at large to go hungry. They do remain at the board a long time, though, and we often get a little tired waiting for our turn. How would it do to be less diffuse? How would it do to ask a blessing upon the specialities—I mean the congregation and the immediate community—and then include the whole broad universe in one glowing, fervent appeal? How would it answer to adopt the simplicity and the beauty and the brevity and the comprehensiveness of the Lord's Prayer as a model? But perhaps I am wandering out of my jurisdiction.

The letters I wrote to the Rev. Phillips Brooks of Philadelphia, and the Rev. Dr. Cummings of Chicago, urging them to come here and take charge of Grace Cathedral, and offering them my countenance and support, will be published next week, together with their replies to the same.

MARK TWAIN.

have got no more to do with hiring pastors for it than the
Dey of Algiers has. I wish they would ease up a little on
me; I mixed into this business a little too brashly—so to
speak—and without due reflection; but if I get out of it
once all right, I'll not mix in any more—never any more;
now that's honest—I never will.

I have numerous servants, but they are all worked down.
My housekeeper is on the verge of open rebellion. Yester-
day she said: "I lay I'll take and hyste some of them
preachers out of this mighty soon, now." And she'll do it.
I shall regret it. I could entertain no sentiment but that of
regret to see a clergyman "hysted" out of my establishment,
but what am I to do? I cannot help it. If I were to inter-
fere I should get "hysted" myself.

My clerical guests are healthy. Their appetites are good.
They are not particular as to food. They worry along very
well on spring chickens. I don't feel safe with them, though,
because if it is considered that a steamboat on the Missis-
sippi is inviting disaster when she ventures to carry more than
two ministers at a time, isn't it likely that the dozen I have
got in my house will eventually produce an earthquake? The
tradition goes that three clergymen on a steamboat will
ground her, four will sink her, and five and a gray mare added
will blow her up. If I had a gray mare in my stable, I would
leave this city before night.

MARK TWAIN.

*Excess of the unhappy telegraph—It never spells names right. —M.T.*

STEAMER DEPARTURES.—"Mark Twain," in a
late San Francisco letter to the Virginia Enterprise,
gets off the following production of a
sour temper:

I feel savage this morning. And as usual, when one
wants to growl, It is almost impossible to find things to
growl about with any degree of satisfaction. I cannot
find anything in the steamer departures to get mad at.
Only, I wonder who "J. Schmeltzer" is?—and what
does he have such an atrocious name for?—and what
business has he got in the States?—who is there in the
States who cares whether Schmeltzer comes or not? The
conduct of this unknown Schmeltzer is exasperating to
the last degree.

And off goes General Rosecrans, without ever doing
anything to give a paper a chance to abuse him. He
has behaved himself, and kept quiet, and avowed scan-
dalous meddling with the Oakland Seminaries, and
paid his board in the most aggravating manner. Let
him go.

And Conness is gone. Oh, no! Conness!

Grand Theatrical Banquet.

"Mark Twain," who writes a daily correspondence from San Francisco to one of the best newspapers on the Pacific coast—the *Territorial Enterprise*—furnishes its issue of November 4th with the following extraordinary bill of fare for a grand theatrical banquet which he says is to come off shortly:

DINNER TO THE WINNER!

Why, bless you, the mercantile Moses Ellis banquet don't amount to anything alongside of the barbecue that is to be given to the winner of the $30,000 suit between Maguire and Vestvali, Leland of the Occidental is preparing the fodder, and this time I confidently expect an invitation. As to that other banquet, I was like the balance of the newspaper men—I had no objections to the banquet as a banquet, but then I have always made it a point to move in good society, and I didn't like to eat with merchants. Therefore, if I had been invited, I should have declined—positively, and with conventional expressions of regret, but still, firmly declined.

The forthcoming banquet will be intensely theatrical in all its aspects. I have been permitted to glance at the bill of fare which will stand somewhat in this wise:

GRAND THEATRICAL BARBECUE.

*To the Illustrious Winner of the $30,000 Suit.*

OCCIDENTAL HOTEL, S. F., Nov., 1865

SOUPS.

Roman Soldier Supes from the several Theaters.
Tepid, hot, or Bemis McCool Soup, to order.

FISH.

Cuttle, a la Setchell.

COLD.

Hamlet's Ghost.

Pates-de-foie-Graves, from the Opera House.
Boned Turkey, a la Vestvali, (sauced with Threats by Maguire.)

BOILED.

Child of the Regiment.

ROASTS.

Manager, with legal sauce, a la Maguire.
Dear meat, a la Vestvali.

Bare meat, a la Mazeppa.

ENTREES.

Tenderloin of Ruby. Macklin stuffed.
Pauncefort fricasee. Warwick hash.

Bedeviled Manager, a la Maguire.

Arra-na-Pork Pie.

GAME.

Vestvali vs. Maguire.

Stuffed Rhinoceros, from the Museum.

VEGETABLES.

Boiled and Mashed Tragedians, Fried Claquers.
Baked Sweet Worrells. Beats—dead.

PASTRY.

Sawdust Pie, from the Circus. Boniface Bon-bons.
Educated Dog Pie, " " Bandmann Puffs, a
Vestvali Dumplings. la Alta.
Sedley Brown Bread. Bandmann Minced
Wheat-leigh Bread. Pies, a la Chronicle

Maguire Pudding his foot in it. (Bad.)

WINES.

Molasses and Water Claret, such as is used by
Noblemen on the Stage.

Stage Champagne, (Soda-Pop. avec "Veuve
Clicquot" label.)

COFFEE.

Theatrical Imaginary.

That is the bill as far as it has been prepared.
Of course large additions will be made to it yet.
However, you can see by the foregoing that the
banquet is going to be a brilliant affair. Nothing
but this approaching sensation is talked of at the
Occidental now.

other expenses. In view of these facts, sir, it is the opinion of the Committee that we had better not build the road. I did not think it necessary to submit a written report, because—

The President—"Take your seat, Mr. Ball—take your seat, sir. Your evil eye never lights upon this Chair but the spirit moves you to confuse its intellect with some of your villainous algebraical monstrosities. I will not entertain them, sir; I don't know anything about them. You needn't mind bringing in any written reports here—or verbal ones either, unless you can confine yourself to a reasonable number of figures at a time, so that I can understand what you are driving at. No, sir, the Third House will not build the railroad. The other Convention's donation of $3,000,000 in bonds, worth forty cents on the dollar, will buy enough of one of those bars to make a breastpin, and that will have to satisfy this commonwealth for the present. I observe that Messrs. Wasson and Gibson and Note ware and Kennedy have their feet on their desks. The chief page will proceed to remove those relics of ancient conventional barbarism from sight."

Mr. Musser—"Mr. President: To be, or not to be—that is the question—"

The President—"No, sir! The question is, shall we tolerate religious indifference in this community; or the rights of conscience; or the right of suffrage; or the freedom of the press; or free speech, or free schools, or free niggers. The Chair trusts it knows what it is about, without any instructions from the members."

Mr. Musser—"But sir, it was only a question from—"

The President—"Well, I don't care, I want you to sit down. The Chair don't consider that you know much about religion anyhow, and consequently the subject will suffer no detriment from your letting it alone. You and Judge Hardy can subside, and study over the preamble until you are wanted."

Mr. Brosnan—"Mr. President, these proceedings have all been irregular, extremely and customarily irregular. I will move, sir, that the question be passed, for the present, and that we take up the next section."

Mr. Mitchell—"I object to that, Mr. President. I move that we go into Committee of the Whole on it."

Mr. Wasson—"I move that it be referred back to the Standing Committee."

Mr. North—"I move that the rules be suspended and the whole article placed upon its final passage."

The President—"Gentlemen those of you who are in favor of adopting the original proposition, together with the various motions now pending before the house, will signify the same by saying 'aye.'"

No one voting in the negative, the chair decided the vote to be unanimous in the affirmative.

The President—"Gentlemen, your proceedings have been exactly similar to those of the convention which preceded you. You have considered a subject which you knew nothing about; spoken on every subject but the one before the house, and voted without knowing what you were voting for, or having any idea what would be the general result of your action. I will adjourn the Convention for an hour, on account of my cold, to the end that I may apply the remedy prescribed for it by Dr. Tjader—the same being gin and molasses. The Chief Page is hereby instructed to provide a spoonful of molasses and a gallon of gin, for the use of the President."

## Our Carson Dispatch—Second Session.

[BY TELEGRAPH.]

Third House met after recess, and transacted the following business:

Secretary read Section 15, Legislative Department:

"SECTION 15. The doors of each house shall be kept open during the session."

Kinkead moved to amend by adding the words "and the windows also, if the weather will permit."

Secretary read Section 32, Legislative Department:

"SECTION 32. No law shall be passed authorizing married women to carry on business as sole traders."

On motion of Sterns, construed to mean that married women shall not preach.

Secretary read Section 6, Declaration of rights:

"SECTION 6. Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed."

Young's moved to amend by striking out the word "bail" and inserting the word "board." Adopted, unanimously.

SECTION 1. Miscellaneous Provisions, was amended so as to read as follows:

"SECTION 1. The seat of government shall be at Carson, and the Legislature shall hold its session in the plaza during the first six years."

Section added empowering the President of the third house of the Convention to convene, by proclamation, the Third House of the State Legislature, for the purpose of electing two United States Senators, within thirty days after the Constitution shall have been ratified.

Name of the State changed to "Washoe," in conformity with the law which called the Convention together.

New section added, as follows:

"Section 1.—No Sheriff or other officer shall be expected to arrest any assassin or other criminal on strong presumptive evidence, merely, nor any other evidence, unless such assassin or other criminal shall insist upon his privilege of being arrested."

The hour having arrived for the President to take his regular gin and molasses, the Convention adjourned.

Last night, about 12 o'clock—[here the telegraph ceased working.—BLOOMER, operator.]

## A Rich Epigram.

"Mark Twain" has constructed the following 6 extremely funny things, at the expense of the delighted and war-like "Napoleon of the Stage,"

Tom Maguire,
Tora with 1re,
Lighted on McDougal;
Grabbed his throat,
Tore his coat,
And split him in the bunge.

Shame! Oh, fla!
Maguire, why
you thus skittle?
Why bang and clay,
And gouge and chaw
The unprepared McDougal?

Of bones bereft,
See how you're left,
Yestvall, gentle Jew gal—
And now you've slashed,
And almost hashed,
The form of poor McDougal.

in care,
insolence from Loppe,
would shake that shell down,
my last shake.—MARK TWAIN, in the

"MARK TWAIN" AMONG THE SPIRITS.

I ATTENDED the *seance* last night. After the house was crowded with ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Foie stepped out upon the stage and said it was usual to elect a committee of two gentlemen to sit up there and see that everything was conducted with perfect honesty and fairness. She said she wished the audience to name gentlemen, whose conscientiousness—in a word, whose high moral character, in every respect, was notorious in the community. The majority arose with one impulse and called my name. This handsome compliment was as grateful as it was graceful, and I felt the tears spring to my eyes. I trust I shall never do anything to forfeit the generous confidence San Francisco has thus shown me. This touching compliment is none the less grateful to me when I reflect that it took me two days to get it up. I “put up” that hand myself. I got all my friends to promise to go there and vote for me to be on that committee—and having reported a good deal in Legislatures, I knew how to do it right. I had a two-third vote secured—I wanted enough to elect me over the medium's veto, you know. I was elected, and I was glad of it. I thought I would feel a good deal better satisfied if I could have a chance to examine into this mystery myself, without being obliged to take somebody else's word for its fairness, and I did not go on that stand to find fault or make fun of the affair—a thing which would not speak well for my modesty when I reflect that so many men so much older and wiser than I am see nothing in Spiritualism to scoff at, but firmly believe in it as a religion.

Mr. Whiting was chosen as the other committeeman, and we sat down at a little table on the stage with the medium, and proceeded to business. We wrote the names of various departed persons. Mr. W. wrote a good many, but I found that I did not know many dead people; however, I put in the names of two or three whom I had known well, and then filled out the list with names of citizens of San Francisco who had been distinguished in life, so that most persons in the audience could tell whether facts stated by such spirits concerning themselves were correct or not. I will remark here that not a solitary spirit summoned by me paid the least attention to the invitation. I never got a word out of any of them. One of Mr. Whiting's spirits came up and stated some things about itself which were correct. Then some five hundred closely folded slips of paper were dumped in a pile on the table, and the lady began to lay them aside one by one. Finally a rap was heard. I took the folded paper; the spirit, so-called, seized the lady's hand and wrote "J. M. Cooke" backwards and upside down on a sheet of paper. I opened the slip I held, and, as Captain Cuttle would say, "J. M. Cooke" was the "d identical" name in it. A gentleman in the audience said he sent up the name. He asked a question or so, and the spirit wrote "Would like to communicate with you alone." The privacy of this ghost was respected, and he was permitted to go to thander again unmolested. [I would remark here that I cannot discover any dissimilarity in the handwriting of these spirits—there is a very powerful family likeness in it, and they have all that absurd fashion of writing backwards, upside down, and wrong end foremost. They are a rum lot, altogether.] "William Nelson" reported himself from the other world, and in answer to questions asked by a former friend of his in the audience, said he was aged twenty-four when he died; died by violence; died in battle; was a soldier; had fought both in the infantry and cavalry; fell at Chickamauga; had been a Catholic on earth—was not one now. Then in answer to a melting volley of questions, the

shadowy warrior wrote: "I don't want to answer any more about it." Exit Nelson.

About this time it was suggested that a couple of Germans be added to the committee, and it was done. Mr. Wallenstein, an elderly man, came forward, and also Mr. Ollendorff, a spry young fellow, cocked and primed for a sensation. They wrote some names. Then young Ollendorff said something which sounded like—

"Ist ein geist hieraus?" [Bursts of laughter from the audience]

Three raps—signifying that there was a geist hieraus.

"Vollen sie schreiben?" [More laughter.]

Three raps.

"Finzig stollen, linsowfterowlickterhairowfterfrowleineruhackfolderol?" [Oh, this is too rough, you know. I can't keep the run of this sort of thing.] Incredible as it may seem, the spirit cheerfully answered yes to that astonishing proposition.

The audience grew more and more boisterously mirthful with every fresh question, and they were informed that the performance could not go on in the midst of so much levity. They became quiet.

The German ghost didn't appear to know anything at all—couldn't answer the simplest questions. Young Ollendorff finally stated some numbers, and tried to get at the time of the spirit's death; it appeared to be considerably mixed as to whether it died in 1811 or 1812, which was reasonable enough, as it had been so long ago. At last it wrote "12."

Tableau! Young Ollendorff sprang to his feet in a state of consuming excitement. He exclaimed: