"And proud I am," said Marietta, who never before had shown such
enthusiastic affection for her brother, "to sit down to the table
with such a nice-looking fellow as you are."

The next morning Mr. Rooper came into Mrs. Himes's yard, and there
beheld Asaph, in all the glory of his new clothes, sitting under the
chestnut-tree smoking the Centennial meerschaum pipe. Mr. Rooper
himself was dressed in his very best clothes, but he carried with
him no pipe.

"Sit down," said Asaph, "and have a smoke."

"No," replied the other; "I am goin' in the house. I have come to
see your sister."

"Goin' to begin already?" said Asaph.

"Yes," said the other; "I told you I was goin' to begin to-day."

"Very good," said his friend, crossing his pepper-and-salt legs;
"and you will finish the 17th of August. That's a good, reasonable
time."

But Mr. Rooper had no intention of courting Mrs. Himes for a month.
He intended to propose to her that very morning. He had been turning
over the matter in his mind, and for several reasons had come to
this conclusion. In the first place, he did not believe that he
could trust Asaph, even for a single day, not to oppose him.
Furthermore, his mind was in such a turmoil from the combined effect
of the constantly present thought that Asaph was wearing his
clothes, his hat, and his shoes, and smoking his beloved pipe, and
of the perplexities and agitations consequent upon his sentiments
toward Mrs. Himes, that he did not believe he could bear the mental
strain during another night.

Five minutes later Marietta Himes was sitting on the horsehair sofa
in the parlor, with Mr. Rooper on the horsehair chair opposite to
her, and not very far away, and he was delivering the address which
he had prepared.

"Madam," said he, "I am a man that takes things in this world as
they comes, and is content to wait until the time comes for them to
come. I was well acquainted with John Himes. I knowed him in life,
and I helped lay him out. As long as there was reason to suppose
that the late Mr. Himes--I mean that the grass over the grave of Mr.
Himes had remained unwithered, I am not the man to take one step in
the direction of his shoes, nor even to consider the size of 'em in
connection with the measure of my own feet. But time will pass on in
nater as well as in real life; and while I know very well, Mrs.
Himes, that certain feelin's toward them that was is like the leaves
of the oak-tree and can't be blowed off even by the fiercest
tempests of affliction, still them leaves will wither in the fall
and turn brown and curl up at the edges, though they don't depart,
but stick on tight as wax all winter until in the springtime they is
pushed off gently without knowin' it by the green leaves which come
out in real life as well as nater."

When he had finished this opening Mr. Rooper breathed a little sigh
of relief. He had not forgotten any of it, and it pleased him.

Marietta sat and looked at him. She had a good sense of humor, and,
while she was naturally surprised at what had been said to her, she
was greatly amused by it, and really wished to hear what else Thomas
Rooper had to say to her.

"Now, madam," he continued, "I am not the man to thrash a tree with
a pole to knock the leaves off before their time. But when the young
leaves is pushin' and the old leaves is droppin' (not to make any
allusion, of course, to any shrivellin' of proper respect), then I
come forward, madam, not to take the place of anybody else, but jest
as the nateral consequence of the seasons, which everybody ought to
expect; even such as you, madam, which I may liken to a
hemlock-spruce which keeps straight on in the same general line of
appearance without no reference to the fall of the year, nor winter
nor summer. And so, Mrs. Himes, I come here to-day to offer to lead
you agin to the altar. I have never been there myself, and there
ain't no woman in the world that I'd go with but you. I'm a
straightforward person, and when I've got a thing to say I say it,
and now I have said it. And so I set here awaitin' your answer."

At this moment the shutters of the front window, which had been
closed, were opened, and Asaph put in his head. "Look here, Thomas
Rooper," he said, "these shoes is pegged. I didn't bargain for no
pegged shoes; I wanted 'em sewed; everything was to be first-class."

Mr. Rooper, who had been leaning forward in his chair, his hands
upon his knees, and his face glistening with his expressed feelings
as brightly as the old-fashioned but shining silk hat which stood on
the floor by his side, turned his head, grew red to the ears, and
then sprang to his feet. "Asaph Scantle," he cried, with extended
fist, "you have broke your word; you hindered."

"No, I didn't," said Asaph, sulkily; "but pegged shoes is too much
for any man to stand." And he withdrew from the window, closing the
shutters again.

"What does this mean?" asked Mrs. Himes, who had also risen.

"It means," said Thomas, speaking with difficulty, his indignation
was so great, "that your brother is a person of tricks and meanders
beyond the reach of common human calculation. I don't like to say
this of a man who is more or less likely to be my brother-in-law,
but I can't help sayin' it, so entirely upset am I at his goin' back
on me at such a minute."

"Going back on you?" asked Mrs. Himes. "What do you mean? What has
he promised?"

Thomas hesitated. He did not wish to interrupt his courtship by the
discussion of any new question, especially this question. "If we
could settle what we have been talkin' about, Mrs. Himes," he said,
"and if you would give me my answer, then I could git my mind down
to commoner things. But swingin' on a hook as I am, I don't know
whether my head or my heels is uppermost, or what's revolvin' around
me."

"Oh, I can give you your answer quickly enough," she said. "It is
impossible for me to marry you, so that's all settled."

"Impossible is a big word," said Mr. Rooper. "Has anybody else got
afore me?"

"I am not bound to answer that question," said Marietta, slightly
coloring; "but I cannot accept you, Mr. Rooper."

"Then there's somebody else, of course," said Thomas, gazing darkly
upon the floor. "And what's more, Asaph knew it; that's just as
clear as daylight. That's what made him come to me yesterday and go
back on his first bargain."

"Now then," said Mrs. Himes, speaking very decidedly, "I want to
know what you mean by this talk about bargains."

Mr. Rooper knit his brows. "This is mighty different talk," he said,
"from the kind I expected when I come here. But you have answered my
question, now I'll answer yours. Asaph Scantle, no longer ago than
day before yesterday, after hearin' that things wasn't goin' very
well with me, recommended me to marry you, and agreed that he would
do his level best, by day and by night, to help me git you, if I
would give him a suit of clothes, an umbrella, and a dictionary."

At this Mrs. Himes gave a little gasp and sat down.

"Now, I hadn't no thoughts of tradin' for a wife," continued Thomas,
"especially in woollen goods and books; but when I considered and
turned the matter over in my mind, and thought what a woman you was,
and what a life there was afore me if I got you, I agreed to do it.
Then he wanted pay aforehand, and that I wouldn't agree to, not
because I thought you wasn't wuth it, but because I couldn't trust
him if anybody offered him more before I got you. But that ain't the
wust of it; yesterday he come down to see me and went back on his
bargain, and that after I had spent the whole night thinkin' of you
and what I was goin' to say. And he put on such high-cockalorum airs
that I, bein' as soft as mush around the heart, jest wilted and
agreed to give him everything he bargained for if he would promise
not to hinder. But he wasn't satisfied with that and wouldn't come
to no terms until I'd give him my Centennial pipe, what's been like
a child to me this many a year. And when he saw how disgruntled I
was at sich a loss, he said that my pipe might be very dear to me,
but his sister was jest as dear to him. And then, on top of the
whole thing, he pokes his head through the shutters and hinders jest
at the most ticklish moment."

"A dictionary and a pipe!" ejaculated poor Marietta, her eyes fixed
upon the floor.

"But I'm goin' to make him give 'em all back," exclaimed Thomas.
"They was the price of not hinderin', and he hindered."

"He shall give them back," said Marietta, rising, "but you must
understand, Mr. Rooper, that in no way did Asaph interfere with your
marrying me. That was a matter with which he did have and could have
nothing to do. And now I wish you could get away without speaking to
him. I do not want any quarrelling or high words here, and I will
see him and arrange the matter better than you can do it."

"Oh, I can git away without speakin' to him," said Mr. Rooper, with
reddened face. And so saying, he strode out of the house, through
the front yard, and out of the gate, without turning his head toward
Asaph, still sitting under the tree.

"Oh, ho!" said the latter to himself; "she's bounced him short and
sharp; and it serves him right, too, after playin' that trick on me.
Pegged shoes, indeed!"

At this moment the word "Asaph" came from the house in tones
shriller and sharper and higher than any in which he had ever heard
it pronounced before. He sprang to his feet and went to the house.
His sister took him into the parlor and shut the door. Her eyes were
red and her face was pale. "Asaph," said she, "Mr. Rooper has told
me the whole of your infamous conduct. Now I know what you meant
when you said that you were making arrangements to get clothes. You
were going to sell me for them. And when you found out that I was
likely to marry Doctor Wicker, you put up your price and wanted a
dictionary and a pipe."

"No, Marietta," said Asaph, "the dictionary belonged to the first
bargain. If you knew how I need a dictionary--"

"Be still!" she cried. "I do not want you to say a word. You have
acted most shamefully toward me, and I want you to go away this very
day. And before you go you must give back to Mr. Rooper everything
that you got from him. I will fit you out with some of Mr. Himes's
clothes and make no conditions at all, only that you shall go away.
Come upstairs with me, and I will get the clothes."

The room in the garret was opened, and various garments which had
belonged to the late Mr. Himes were brought out.

"This is pretty hard on me, Marietta," said Asaph, as he held up a
coat, "to give up new all-wool goods for things what has been worn
and is part cotton, if I am a judge."

Marietta said very little. She gave him what clothes he needed, and
insisted on his putting them on, making a package of the things he
had received from Mr. Rooper, and returning them to that gentleman.
Asaph at first grumbled, but he finally obeyed with a willingness
which might have excited the suspicions of Marietta had she not been
so angry.

With an enormous package wrapped in brown paper in one hand, and a
cane, an umbrella, and a very small hand-bag in the other, Asaph
approached the tavern. Mr. Rooper was sitting on the piazza alone.
He was smoking a very common-looking clay pipe and gazing intently
into the air in front of him. When his old crony came and stood
before the piazza he did not turn his head nor his eyes.

"Thomas Rooper," said Asaph, "you have got me into a very bad
scrape. I have been turned out of doors on account of what you said
about me. And where I am goin' I don't know, for I can't walk to
Drummondville. And what's more, I kept my word and you didn't. I
didn't hinder you; for how could I suppose that you was goin' to pop
the question the very minute you got inside the door? And that
dictionary you promised I've not got."

Thomas Rooper answered not a word, but looked steadily in front of
him. "And there's another thing," said Asaph. "What are you goin' to
allow me for that suit of clothes what I've been wearin', what I
took off in your room and left there?"

At this Mr. Rooper sprang to his feet with such violence that the
fire danced out of the bowl of his pipe. "What is the fare to
Drummondville?" he cried.

Asaph reflected a moment. "Three dollars and fifty cents, includin'
supper."

"I'll give you that for them clothes," said the other, and counted
out the money.

Asaph took it and sighed. "You've been hard on me, Thomas," said he,
"but I bear you no grudge. Good-by."

As he walked slowly toward the station Mr. Scantle stopped at the
store. "Has that dictionary come that was ordered for me?" he said;
and when told that it could not be expected for several days he did
not despair, for it was possible that Thomas Rooper might be so
angry that he would forget to countermand the order; in that case he
might yet hope to obtain the coveted book.

The package containing the Rooper winter suit was heavy, and Asaph
walked slowly. He did not want to go to Drummondville, for he hated
bookkeeping, and his year of leisure and good living had spoiled him
for work and poor fare. In this moody state he was very glad to stop
and have a little chat with Mrs. McJimsey, who was sitting at her
front window.

This good lady was the principal dressmaker of the village; and by
hard work and attention to business she made a very comfortable
living. She was a widow, small of stature, thin of feature, very
neatly dressed and pleasant to look at. Asaph entered the little
front yard, put his package on the door-step, and stood under the
window to talk to her. Dressed in the clothes of the late Mr. Himes,
her visitor presented such a respectable appearance that Mrs.
McJimsey was not in the least ashamed to have people see him
standing there, which she would have been a few days ago. Indeed,
she felt complimented that he should want to stop. The conversation
soon turned upon her removal from her present abode.

"I'm awfully sorry to have to go," she said; "for my time is up just
in the middle of my busy season, and that's goin' to throw me back
dreadfully. He hasn't done right by me, that Mr. Rooper, in lettin'
things go to rack and ruin in this way, and me payin' his rent so
regular."

"That's true," said Asaph. "Thomas Rooper is a hard man--a hard man,
Mrs. McJimsey. I can see how he would be overbearin' with a lone
woman like you, neither your son nor your daughter bein' of age yet
to take your part."

"Yes, Mr. Scantle, it's very hard."

Asaph stood for a moment looking at a little bed of zinnias by the
side of the door-step. "What you want, Mrs. McJimsey," said he, "is
a man in the house."

In an instant Mrs. McJimsey flushed pink. It was such a strange
thing for a gentleman to say to her.

Asaph saw the flush. He had not expected that result from his
remark, but he was quick to take advantage of it. "Mrs. McJimsey,"
said he, "you are a widow, and you are imposed upon, and you need
somebody to take care of you. If you will put that job into my hands
I will do it. I am a man what works with his head, and if you will
let me I'll work for you. To put it square, I ask you to marry me.
My sister's goin' to be married, and I'm on the pint of goin' away;
for I could not abear to stay in her house when strangers come into
it. But if you say the word, I'll stay here and be yours for ever
and ever more."

Mrs. McJimsey said not a word, but her head drooped and wild
thoughts ran through her brain. Thoughts not wild, but well trained
and broken, ran through Asaph's brain. The idea of going to
Drummondville and spending for the journey thither a dollar and
seventy-five cents of the money he had received from Mr. Rooper now
became absolutely repulsive to him.

"Mrs. McJimsey," said he, "I will say more. Not only do I ask you to
marry me, but I ask you to do it now. The evenin' sun is settin',
the evenin' birds is singin', and it seems to me, Mrs. McJimsey,
that all nater pints to this softenin' hour as a marryin' moment.
You say your son won't be home from his work until supper-time, and
your daughter has gone out for a walk. Come with me to Mr. Parker's,
the Methodist minister, and let us join hands at the altar there.
The gardener and his wife is always ready to stand up as witnesses.
And when your son and your daughter comes home to supper, they can
find their mother here afore 'em married and settled."

"But, Mr. Scantle," exclaimed Mrs. McJimsey, "it's so suddint. What
will the neighbors say?"

"As for bein' suddint, Mrs. McJimsey, I've knowed you for nearly a
year, and now, bein' on the way to leave what's been my happy home,
I couldn't keep the truth from you no longer. And as for the
neighbors, they needn't know that we hain't been engaged for
months."

"It's so queer, so very queer," said the little dressmaker. And her
face flushed again, and there were tears, not at all sorrowful ones,
in her eyes; and her somewhat needle-pricked left hand accidentally
laid itself upon the window-sill in easy reach of any one outside.

The next morning Mr. Rooper, being of a practical way of thinking,
turned his thoughts from love and resentment to the subject of his
income. And he soon became convinced that it would be better to keep
the McJimseys in his house, if it could be done without too great an
outlay for repairs. So he walked over to his property. When he
reached the house he was almost stupefied to see Asaph in a chair in
the front yard, dressed in the new suit of clothes which he, Thomas
Rooper, had paid for, and smoking the Centennial pipe.

"Good-morning, Mr. Rooper," said Asaph, in a loud and cheery voice.
"I suppose you've come to talk to Mrs. McJimsey about the work
you've got to do here to make this house fit to live in. But there
ain't no Mrs. McJimsey. She's Mrs. Scantle now, and I'm your tenant.
You can talk to me."

Doctor Wicker came to see Mrs. Himes in the afternoon of the day he
had promised to come, and early in the autumn they were married.
Since Asaph Scantle had married and settled he had not seen his
sister nor spoken to her; but he determined that on so joyful an
occasion as this he would show no resentment. So he attended the
wedding in the village church dressed in the suit of clothes which
had belonged to the late Mr. Himes.




"HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER"


It is now five years since an event occurred which so colored my
life, or rather so changed some of its original colors, that I have
thought it well to write an account of it, deeming that its lessons
may be of advantage to persons whose situations in life are similar
to my own.

When I was quite a young man I adopted literature as a profession;
and having passed through the necessary preparatory grades, I found
myself, after a good many years of hard and often unremunerative
work, in possession of what might be called a fair literary
practice. My articles, grave, gay, practical, or fanciful, had come
to be considered with a favor by the editors of the various
periodicals for which I wrote, on which I found in time I could rely
with a very comfortable certainty. My productions created no
enthusiasm in the reading public; they gave me no great reputation
or very valuable pecuniary return; but they were always accepted,
and my receipts from them, at the time to which I have referred,
were as regular and reliable as a salary, and quite sufficient to
give me more than a comfortable support.

It was at this time I married. I had been engaged for more than a
year, but had not been willing to assume the support of a wife until
I felt that my pecuniary position was so assured that I could do so
with full satisfaction to my own conscience. There was now no doubt
in regard to this position, either in my mind or in that of my wife.
I worked with great steadiness and regularity; I knew exactly where
to place the productions of my pen, and could calculate, with a fair
degree of accuracy, the sums I should receive for them. We were by
no means rich; but we had enough, and were thoroughly satisfied and
content.

Those of my readers who are married will have no difficulty in
remembering the peculiar ecstasy of the first weeks of their wedded
life. It is then that the flowers of this world bloom brightest;
that its sun is the most genial; that its clouds are the scarcest;
that its fruit is the most delicious; that the air is the most
balmy; that its cigars are of the highest flavor; that the warmth
and radiance of early matrimonial felicity so rarefies the
intellectual atmosphere that the soul mounts higher, and enjoys a
wider prospect, than ever before.

These experiences were mine. The plain claret of my mind was changed
to sparkling champagne, and at the very height of its effervescence
I wrote a story. The happy thought that then struck me for a tale
was of a very peculiar character; and it interested me so much that
I went to work at it with great delight and enthusiasm, and finished
it in a comparatively short time. The title of the story was "His
Wife's Deceased Sister"; and when I read it to Hypatia she was
delighted with it, and at times was so affected by its pathos that
her uncontrollable emotion caused a sympathetic dimness in my eyes,
which prevented my seeing the words I had written. When the reading
was ended, and my wife had dried her eyes, she turned to me and
said, "This story will make your fortune. There has been nothing so
pathetic since Lamartine's 'History of a Servant-girl.'"

As soon as possible the next day I sent my story to the editor of
the periodical for which I wrote most frequently, and in which my
best productions generally appeared. In a few days I had a letter
from the editor, in which he praised my story as he had never before
praised anything from my pen. It had interested and charmed, he
said, not only himself, but all his associates in the office. Even
old Gibson, who never cared to read anything until it was in proof,
and who never praised anything which had not a joke in it, was
induced by the example of the others to read this manuscript, and
shed, as he asserted, the first tears that had come from his eyes
since his final paternal castigation some forty years before. The
story would appear, the editor assured me, as soon as he could
possibly find room for it.

If anything could make our skies more genial, our flowers brighter,
and the flavor of our fruit and cigars more delicious, it was a
letter like this. And when, in a very short time, the story was
published, we found that the reading public was inclined to receive
it with as much sympathetic interest and favor as had been shown to
it by the editors. My personal friends soon began to express
enthusiastic opinions upon it. It was highly praised in many of the
leading newspapers; and, altogether, it was a great literary
success. I am not inclined to be vain of my writings, and, in
general, my wife tells me, think too little of them; but I did feel
a good deal of pride and satisfaction in the success of "His Wife's
Deceased Sister." If it did not make my fortune, as my wife asserted
that it would, it certainly would help me very much in my literary
career.

In less than a month from the writing of this story, something very
unusual and unexpected happened to me. A manuscript was returned by
the editor of the periodical in which "His Wife's Deceased Sister"
had appeared. "It is a good story," he wrote, "but not equal to what
you have just done. You have made a great hit; and it would not do
to interfere with the reputation you have gained by publishing
anything inferior to 'His Wife's Deceased Sister,' which has had
such a deserved success."

I was so unaccustomed to having my work thrown back on my hands that
I think I must have turned a little pale when I read the letter. I
said nothing of the matter to my wife, for it would be foolish to
drop such grains of sand as this into the smoothly oiled machinery
of our domestic felicity; but I immediately sent the story to
another editor. I am not able to express the astonishment I felt
when, in the course of a week, it was sent back to me. The tone of
the note accompanying it indicated a somewhat injured feeling on the
part of the editor. "I am reluctant," he said, "to decline a
manuscript from you; but you know very well that if you sent me
anything like 'His Wife's Deceased Sister' it would be most promptly
accepted."

I now felt obliged to speak of the affair to my wife, who was quite
as much surprised, though, perhaps, not quite as much shocked, as I
had been.

"Let us read the story again," she said, "and see what is the matter
with it." When we had finished its perusal, Hypatia remarked, "It is
quite as good as many of the stories you have had printed, and I
think it very interesting; although, of course, it is not equal to
'His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"

"Of course not," said I; "that was an inspiration that I cannot
expect every day. But there must be something wrong about this last
story which we do not perceive. Perhaps my recent success may have
made me a little careless in writing it."

"I don't believe that," said Hypatia.

"At any rate," I continued, "I will lay it aside, and will go to
work on a new one."

In due course of time I had another manuscript finished, and I sent
it to my favorite periodical. It was retained some weeks, and then
came back to me. "It will never do," the editor wrote, quite warmly,
"for you to go backward. The demand for the number containing 'His
Wife's Deceased Sister' still continues, and we do not intend to let
you disappoint that great body of readers who would be so eager to
see another number containing one of your stories."

I sent this manuscript to four other periodicals, and from each of
them was it returned with remarks to the effect that, although it
was not a bad story in itself, it was not what they would expect
from the author of "His Wife's Deceased Sister."

The editor of a Western magazine wrote to me for a story to be
published in a special number which he would issue for the holidays.
I wrote him one of the character and length he asked for, and sent
it to him. By return mail it came back to me. "I had hoped," the
editor wrote, "when I asked for a story from your pen, to receive
something like 'His Wife's Deceased Sister,' and I must own that I
am very much disappointed."

I was so filled with anger when I read this note that I openly
objurgated "His Wife's Deceased Sister." "You must excuse me," I
said to my astonished wife, "for expressing myself thus in your
presence; but that confounded story will be the ruin of me yet.
Until it is forgotten nobody will ever take anything I write."

"And you cannot expect it ever to be forgotten," said Hypatia, with
tears in her eyes.

It is needless for me to detail my literary efforts in the course of
the next few months. The ideas of the editors with whom my principal
business had been done, in regard to my literary ability, had been
so raised by my unfortunate story of "His Wife's Deceased Sister"
that I found it was of no use to send them anything of lesser merit.
And as to the other journals which I tried, they evidently
considered it an insult for me to send them matter inferior to that
by which my reputation had lately risen. The fact was that my
successful story had ruined me. My income was at end, and want
actually stared me in the face; and I must admit that I did not like
the expression of its countenance. It was of no use for me to try to
write another story like "His Wife's Deceased Sister." I could not
get married every time I began a new manuscript, and it was the
exaltation of mind caused by my wedded felicity which produced that
story.

"It's perfectly dreadful!" said my wife. "If I had had a sister, and
she had died, I would have thought it was my fault."

"It could not be your fault," I answered, "and I do not think it was
mine. I had no intention of deceiving anybody into the belief that I
could do that sort of thing every time, and it ought not to be
expected of me. Suppose Raphael's patrons had tried to keep him
screwed up to the pitch of the Sistine Madonna, and had refused to
buy anything which was not as good as that. In that case I think he
would have occupied a much earlier and narrower grave than that on
which Mr. Morris Moore hangs his funeral decorations."

"But, my dear," said Hypatia, who was posted on such subjects, "the
Sistine Madonna was one of his latest paintings."

"Very true," said I; "but if he had married, as I did, he would have
painted it earlier."

I was walking homeward one afternoon about this time, when I met
Barbel--a man I had known well in my early literary career. He was
now about fifty years of age, but looked older. His hair and beard
were quite gray; and his clothes, which were of the same general
hue, gave me the idea that they, like his hair, had originally been
black. Age is very hard on a man's external appointments. Barbel had
an air of having been to let for a long time, and quite out of
repair. But there was a kindly gleam in his eye, and he welcomed me
cordially.

"Why, what is the matter, old fellow?" said he. "I never saw you
look so woebegone."

I had no reason to conceal anything from Barbel. In my younger days
he had been of great use to me, and he had a right to know the state
of my affairs. I laid the whole case plainly before him.

"Look here," he said, when I had finished, "come with me to my room:
I have something I would like to say to you there."

I followed Barbel to his room. It was at the top of a very dirty and
well-worn house which stood in a narrow and lumpy street, into which
few vehicles ever penetrated, except the ash and garbage carts, and
the rickety wagons of the venders of stale vegetables.

"This is not exactly a fashionable promenade," said Barbel, as we
approached the house; "but in some respects it reminds me of the
streets in Italian towns, where the palaces lean over toward each
other in such a friendly way."

Barbel's room was, to my mind, rather more doleful than the street.
It was dark, it was dusty, and cobwebs hung from every corner. The
few chairs upon the floor and the books upon a greasy table seemed
to be afflicted with some dorsal epidemic, for their backs were
either gone or broken. A little bedstead in the corner was covered
with a spread made of New York _Heralds_, with their edges pasted
together.

"There is nothing better," said Barbel, noticing my glance toward
this novel counterpane, "for a bed-covering than newspapers: they
keep you as warm as a blanket, and are much lighter. I used to use
_Tribunes_, but they rattled too much."

The only part of the room which was well lighted was at one end near
the solitary window. Here, upon a table with a spliced leg, stood a
little grindstone.

"At the other end of the room," said Barbel, "is my cook-stove,
which you can't see unless I light the candle in the bottle which
stands by it; but if you don't care particularly to examine it, I
won't go to the expense of lighting up. You might pick up a good
many odd pieces of bric-Г -brac around here, if you chose to strike a
match and investigate; but I would not advise you to do so. It would
pay better to throw the things out of the window than to carry them
downstairs. The particular piece of indoor decoration to which I
wish to call your attention is this." And he led me to a little
wooden frame which hung against the wall near the window. Behind a
dusty piece of glass it held what appeared to be a leaf from a small
magazine or journal. "There," said he, "you see a page from the
_Grasshopper_, a humorous paper which flourished in this city some
half-dozen years ago. I used to write regularly for that paper, as
you may remember."

"Oh yes, indeed!" I exclaimed. "And I shall never forget your
'Conundrum of the Anvil' which appeared in it. How often have I
laughed at that most wonderful conceit, and how often have I put it
to my friends!"

Barbel gazed at me silently for a moment, and then he pointed to the
frame. "That printed page," he said, solemnly, "contains the
'Conundrum of the Anvil.' I hang it there so that I can see it while
I work. That conundrum ruined me. It was the last thing I wrote for
the _Grasshopper_. How I ever came to imagine it I cannot tell. It
is one of those things which occur to a man but once in a lifetime.
After the wild shout of delight with which the public greeted that
conundrum, my subsequent efforts met with hoots of derision. The
_Grasshopper_ turned its hind legs upon me. I sank from bad to
worse--much worse--until at last I found myself reduced to my
present occupation, which is that of grinding points to pins. By
this I procure my bread, coffee, and tobacco, and sometimes potatoes
and meat. One day while I was hard at work an organ-grinder came
into the street below. He played the serenade from "Trovatore"; and
the familiar notes brought back visions of old days and old
delights, when the successful writer wore good clothes and sat at
operas, when he looked into sweet eyes and talked of Italian airs,
when his future appeared all a succession of bright scenery and
joyous acts, without any provision for a drop-curtain. And as my ear
listened, and my mind wandered in this happy retrospect, my every
faculty seemed exalted, and, without any thought upon the matter, I
ground points upon my pins so fine, so regular and smooth, that they
would have pierced with ease the leather of a boot, or slipped
among, without abrasion, the finest threads of rare old lace. When
the organ stopped, and I fell back into my real world of cobwebs and
mustiness, I gazed upon the pins I had just ground, and, without a
moment's hesitation, I threw them into the street, and reported the
lot as spoiled. This cost me a little money, but it saved me my
livelihood."

After a few moments of silence, Barbel resumed:

"I have no more to say to you, my young friend. All I want you to do
is to look upon that framed conundrum, then upon this grindstone,
and then to go home and reflect. As for me, I have a gross of pins
to grind before the sun goes down."

I cannot say that my depression of mind was at all relieved by what
I had seen and heard. I had lost sight of Barbel for some years, and
I had supposed him still floating on the sun-sparkling stream of
prosperity where I had last seen him. It was a great shock to me to
find him in such a condition of poverty and squalor, and to see a
man who had originated the "Conundrum of the Anvil" reduced to the
soul-depressing occupation of grinding pin-points. As I walked and
thought, the dreadful picture of a totally eclipsed future arose
before my mind. The moral of Barbel sank deep into my heart.

When I reached home I told my wife the story of my friend Barbel.
She listened with a sad and eager interest.

"I am afraid," she said, "if our fortunes do not quickly mend, that
we shall have to buy two little grindstones. You know I could help
you at that sort of thing."

For a long time we sat together and talked, and devised many plans
for the future. I did not think it necessary yet for me to look out
for a pin-contract; but I must find some way of making money, or we
should starve to death. Of course the first thing that suggested
itself was the possibility of finding some other business; but,
apart from the difficulty of immediately obtaining remunerative work
in occupations to which I had not been trained, I felt a great and
natural reluctance to give up a profession for which I had carefully
prepared myself, and which I had adopted as my life-work. It would
be very hard for me to lay down my pen forever, and to close the top
of my inkstand upon all the bright and happy fancies which I had
seen mirrored in its tranquil pool. We talked and pondered the rest
of that day and a good deal of the night, but we came to no
conclusion as to what it would be best for us to do.

The next day I determined to go and call upon the editor of the
journal for which, in happier days, before the blight of "His Wife's
Deceased Sister" rested upon me, I used most frequently to write,
and, having frankly explained my condition to him, to ask his
advice. The editor was a good man, and had always been my friend. He
listened with great attention to what I told him, and evidently
sympathized with me in my trouble.

"As we have written to you," he said, "the only reason why we did
not accept the manuscripts you sent us was that they would have
disappointed the high hopes that the public had formed in regard to
you. We have had letter after letter asking when we were going to
publish another story like 'His Wife's Deceased Sister.' We felt,
and we still feel, that it would be wrong to allow you to destroy
the fair fabric which yourself has raised. But," he added, with a
kind smile, "I see very plainly that your well-deserved reputation
will be of little advantage to you if you should starve at the
moment that its genial beams are, so to speak, lighting you up."

"Its beams are not genial," I answered. "They have scorched and
withered me."

"How would you like," said the editor, after a short reflection, "to
allow us to publish the stories you have recently written under some
other name than your own? That would satisfy us and the public,
would put money in your pocket, and would not interfere with your
reputation."

Joyfully I seized that noble fellow by the hand, and instantly
accepted his proposition. "Of course," said I, "a reputation is a
very good thing; but no reputation can take the place of food,
clothes, and a house to live in; and I gladly agree to sink my
over-illumined name into oblivion, and to appear before the public
as a new and unknown writer."

"I hope that need not be for long," he said, "for I feel sure that
you will yet write stories as good as 'His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"

All the manuscripts I had on hand I now sent to my good friend the
editor, and in due and proper order they appeared in his journal
under the name of John Darmstadt, which I had selected as a
substitute for my own, permanently disabled. I made a similar
arrangement with other editors, and John Darmstadt received the
credit of everything that proceeded from my pen. Our circumstances
now became very comfortable, and occasionally we even allowed
ourselves to indulge in little dreams of prosperity.

Time passed on very pleasantly; one year, another, and then a little
son was born to us. It is often difficult, I believe, for thoughtful
persons to decide whether the beginning of their conjugal career, or
the earliest weeks in the life of their first-born, be the happiest
and proudest period of their existence. For myself I can only say
that the same exaltation of mind, the same rarefication of idea and
invention, which succeeded upon my wedding-day came upon me now. As
then, my ecstatic emotions crystallized themselves into a motive for
a story, and without delay I set myself to work upon it. My boy was
about six weeks old when the manuscript was finished; and one
evening, as we sat before a comfortable fire in our sitting-room,
with the curtains drawn, and the soft lamp lighted, and the baby
sleeping soundly in the adjoining chamber, I read the story to my
wife.

When I had finished, my wife arose and threw herself into my arms.
"I was never so proud of you," she said, her glad eyes sparkling,
"as I am at this moment. That is a wonderful story! It is--indeed I
am sure it is--just as good as 'His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"

As she spoke these words a sudden and chilling sensation crept over
us both. All her warmth and fervor, and the proud and happy glow
engendered within me by this praise and appreciation from one I
loved, vanished in an instant. We stepped apart, and gazed upon each
other with pallid faces. In the same moment the terrible truth had
flashed upon us both.

This story _was_ as good as "His Wife's Deceased Sister"!

We stood silent. The exceptional lot of Barbel's superpointed pins
seemed to pierce our very souls. A dreadful vision rose before me of
an impending fall and crash, in which our domestic happiness should
vanish, and our prospects for our boy be wrecked, just as we had
begun to build them up.

My wife approached me and took my hand in hers, which was as cold as
ice. "Be strong and firm," she said. "A great danger threatens us,
but you must brace yourself against it. Be strong and firm."

I pressed her hand, and we said no more that night.

The next day I took the manuscript I had just written, and carefully
infolded it in stout wrapping-paper. Then I went to a neighboring
grocery-store and bought a small, strong tin box, originally
intended for biscuit, with a cover that fitted tightly. In this I
placed my manuscript; and then I took the box to a tinsmith and had
the top fastened on with hard solder. When I went home I ascended
into the garret, and brought down to my study a ship's cash-box,
which had once belonged to one of my family who was a sea-captain.
This box was very heavy, and firmly bound with iron, and was secured
by two massive locks. Calling my wife, I told her of the contents of
the tin case, which I then placed in the box, and, having shut down
the heavy lid, I doubly locked it.

"This key," said I, putting it in my pocket, "I shall throw into the
river when I go out this afternoon."

My wife watched me eagerly, with a pallid and firm, set countenance,
but upon which I could see the faint glimmer of returning happiness.

"Wouldn't it be well," she said, "to secure it still further by
sealing-wax and pieces of tape?"

"No," said I. "I do not believe that any one will attempt to tamper
with our prosperity. And now, my dear," I continued, in an
impressive voice, "no one but you, and, in the course of time, our
son, shall know that this manuscript exists. When I am dead, those
who survive me may, if they see fit, cause this box to be split open
and the story published. The reputation it may give my name cannot
harm me then."




THE LADY, OR THE TIGER?


In the very olden time there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose
ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness
of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and
untrammelled, as became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a
man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible
that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was
greatly given to self-communing; and when he and himself agreed upon
anything, the thing was done. When every member of his domestic and
political systems moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature
was bland and genial; but whenever there was a little hitch, and
some of his orbs got out of their orbits, he was blander and more
genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the crooked
straight, and crush down uneven places.

Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become
semified was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of
manly and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and
cultured.

But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The
arena of the king was built not to give the people an opportunity of
hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to
view the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious
opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to
widen and develop the mental energies of the people. This vast
amphitheatre, with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults,
and its unseen passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which
crime was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an
impartial and incorruptible chance.

When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to
interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day
the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king's
arena--a structure which well deserved its name; for, although its
form and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely
from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no
tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy,
and who ingrafted on every adopted form of human thought and action
the rich growth of his barbaric idealism.

When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king,
surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on
one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened,
and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheatre. Directly
opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were two
doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the
privilege of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and
open one of them. He could open either door he pleased: he was
subject to no guidance or influence but that of the afore-mentioned
impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came
out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be
procured, which immediately sprang upon him and tore him to pieces,
as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the
criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great
wails went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the
arena, and the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts,
wended slowly their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young
and fair, or so old and respected, should have merited so dire a
fate.

But if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth
from it a lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his
Majesty could select among his fair subjects; and to this lady he
was immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered
not that he might already possess a wife and family, or that his
affections might be engaged upon an object of his own selection: the
king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his
great scheme of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the
other instance, took place immediately, and in the arena. Another
door opened beneath the king, and a priest, followed by a band of
choristers, and dancing maidens blowing joyous airs on golden horns
and treading an epithalamic measure, advanced to where the pair
stood side by side; and the wedding was promptly and cheerily
solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth their merry peals,
the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent man, preceded by
children strewing flowers on his path, led his bride to his home.

This was the king's semibarbaric method of administering justice.
Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of
which door would come the lady: he opened either he pleased, without
having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be
devoured or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one
door, and on some out of the other. The decisions of this tribunal
were not only fair, they were positively determinate: the accused
person was instantly punished if he found himself guilty; and if
innocent, he was rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not.
There was no escape from the judgments of the king's arena.

The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered
together on one of the great trial-days, they never knew whether
they were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This
element of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it
could not otherwise have attained. Thus the masses were entertained
and pleased, and the thinking part of the community could bring no
charge of unfairness against this plan; for did not the accused
person have the whole matter in his own hands?

This semibarbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid
fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is
usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by
him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that
fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional
heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well
satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree
unsurpassed in all this kingdom; and she loved him with an ardor
that had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and
strong. This love-affair moved on happily for many months, until one
day the king happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate
nor waver in regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was
immediately cast into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial
in the king's arena. This, of course, was an especially important
occasion; and his Majesty, as well as all the people, was greatly
interested in the workings and development of this trial. Never
before had such a case occurred; never before had a subject dared to
love the daughter of a king. In after-years such things became
commonplace enough; but then they were, in no slight degree, novel
and startling.

The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and
relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected
for the arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout
the land were carefully surveyed by competent judges, in order that
the young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not
determine for him a different destiny. Of course everybody knew that
the deed with which the accused was charged had been done. He had
loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor any one else thought of
denying the fact; but the king would not think of allowing any fact
of this kind to interfere with the workings of the tribunal, in
which he took such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the
affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of; and the king
would take an Г¦sthetic pleasure in watching the course of events,
which would determine whether or not the young man had done wrong in
allowing himself to love the princess.

The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered,
and thronged the great galleries of the arena; and crowds, unable to
gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The
king and his court were in their places, opposite the twin
doors--those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity.