[30] As in the case of the gentleman for whom Senator Vance’s native county was named. He had over his front door the inscription:
1809=1891.
Albert Pike was born in Boston, but after his twenty-second year made his home in the South. He was a student at Harvard and taught for a while; in 1831, he went to Arkansas, walking, it is said, five hundred miles of the way, as his horse had run away in a storm.
He became an editor and then a lawyer, cultivating letters at the same time, and wrote the “Hymns to the Gods.” He served in the Mexican and Civil Wars, with rank in the latter of Brigadier-General in the Confederate army. He afterwards made his home in Washington City, where he at first practised his profession, but later gave his attention mostly to literature and Freemasonry.
Hymns to the Gods.
Prose Sketches and Poems.
Reports of Cases in the Supreme Court of Arkansas.
Works on Freemasonry.
Nugae, (including Hymns to the Gods).
The following poem is one of the best on that wonderful bird whose song almost all Southern poets have celebrated. It has a classic ring and reminds one of Keats’ Odes on the Nightingale and on a Grecian Urn.
1812=1882.
William Tappan Thompson was a native of Ravenna, Ohio, the first white child born in the Western Reserve. He removed to Georgia in 1835, and became with Judge A. B. Longstreet editor of the “States Rights Sentinel” at Augusta. He was subsequently editor of several other papers, in one of which, the “Miscellany,” appeared his famous humorous “Letters of Major Jones.”
From 1845 to 1850 he lived in Baltimore, editor with Park Benjamin of the “Western Continent;” but he returned to Georgia and established in Savannah the “Morning News” with which he was connected till his death.
He served in the Confederate cause as aide to Gov. Joseph E. Brown, and later as a volunteer in the ranks.
Major Jones’s Courtship.
Major Jones’s Chronicles of Pineville.
Major Jones’s Sketches of Travel.
The Live Indian: a Farce.
John’s Alive, and other Sketches, edited by his daughter.
Dramatized The Vicar of Wakefield.
The titles of these books describe their contents, and the following extract gives their style. The scenes are laid in Georgia; and even when Major Jones travels, he remains a Georgian still.
(From Major Jones’s Courtship.[31])
They all agreed they would hang up a bag for me to put Miss Mary’s Crismus present in, on the back porch; and about ten o’clock I told ’em good-evenin’ and went home.
I sot up till midnight, and when they wos all gone to bed, I went softly into the back gate, and went up to the porch, and thar, shore enough, was a great big meal-bag hangin’ to the jice. It was monstrous unhandy to git to it, but I was termined not to back out. So I sot some chairs on top of a bench, and got hold of the rope, and let myself down into the bag; but jist as I was gittin in, it swung agin the chairs, and down they went with a terrible racket; but nobody din’t wake up but Miss Stallinses old cur dog, and here he come rippin and tearin through the yard like rath, and round and round he went, tryin to find out what was the matter. I scrooch’d down in the bag, and didn’t breathe louder nor a kitten, for fear he’d find me out; and after a while he quit barkin.
The wind begun to blow bominable cold, and the old bag kept turnin round and swingin so it made me sea-sick as the mischief. I was afraid to move for fear the rope would break and let me fall, and thar I sot with my teeth rattlin like I had a ager. It seemed like it would never come daylight, and I do believe if I didn’t love Miss Mary so powerful I would froze to death; for my heart was the only spot that felt warm, and it didn’t beat more’n two licks a minit, only when I thought how she would be supprised in the mornin, and then it went in a canter. Bimeby the cussed old dog came up on the porch and begun to smell about the bag, and then he barked like he thought he’d treed something.
“Bow! wow! wow!” ses he. Then he’d smell agin, and try to git up to the bag. “Git out!” ses I, very low, for fear the galls mought hear me. “Bow! wow!” ses he. “Begone! you bominable fool!” ses I, and I felt all over in spots, for I spected every minit he’d nip me, and what made it worse, I didn’t know wharabouts he’d take hold. “Bow! wow! wow!” Then I tried coaxin—“Come here, good feller,” ses I, and whistled a little to him, but it wasn’t no use. Thar he stood, and kep up his everlastin barkin and whinin, all night. I couldn’t tell when daylight was breakin, only by the chickens crowin, and I was monstrous glad to hear ’em, for if I’d had to stay thar one hour more, I don’t believe I’d ever got out of that bag alive.
Old Miss Stallins come out fust, and as soon as she seed the bag, ses she: “What upon yeath has Joseph went and put in that bag for Mary? I’ll lay it’s a yearlin or some live animal, or Bruin wouldn’t bark at it so.”
She went in to call the galls, and I sot thar, shiverin all over so I couldn’t hardly speak if I tried to,—but I didn’t say nothin. Bimeby they all come runnin out on the porch.
“My goodness! what is it?” ses Miss Mary.
“Oh, it’s alive!” ses Miss Kesiah. “I seed it move.”
“Call Cato, and make him cut the rope,” ses Miss Carline, “and let’s see what it is. Come here, Cato, and get this bag down.”
“Don’t hurt it for the world,” ses Miss Mary.
Cato untied the rope that was round the jice, and let the bag down easy on the floor, and I tumbled out, all covered with corn-meal from head to foot.
“Goodness gracious!” ses Miss Mary, “if it ain’t the Majer himself!”
“Yes,” ses I, “and you know you promised to keep my Crismus present as long as you lived.”
The galls laughed themselves almost to death, and went to brushin off the meal as fast as they could, sayin they was gwine to hang that bag up every Crismus till they got husbands too. Miss Mary—bless her bright eyes!—she blushed as beautiful as a mornin-glory, and sed she’d stick to her word. . . . I do believe if I was froze stiff, one look at her sweet face, as she stood thar lookin down to the floor with her roguish eyes, and her bright curls fallin all over her snowy neck, would have fotched me to. I tell you what, it was worth hangin in a meal bag from one Crismus to another to feel as happy as I have ever sense.
[31] By permission of T. B. Peterson and Brothers, Philadelphia.
1827=1887.
James Barron Hope was born near Norfolk, Virginia, educated at William and Mary College, and began the practice of law at Hampton. In 1857 he wrote the poem for the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the settlement of Jamestown, and in 1858 an Ode for the dedication of the Washington Monument at Richmond. He also wrote poems for the “Southern Literary Messenger,” as Henry Ellen. In 1861 he entered the Confederate service and fought through the war as captain. Afterwards he settled in Norfolk to the practice of his profession. His best poems are considered to be “Arms and the Man,” and “Memorial Ode,” the latter written for the laying of the corner-stone of the Lee Monument in Richmond, 1887, just before his death.
Leoni di Monota, [poems].
Elegiac Ode and other Poems.
Under the Empire, [novel].
Arms and the Man, and other Poems.
(From Arms and the Man.[32])
A Metrical Address recited on the one hundredth anniversary of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown, on invitation of the United States Congress, October 19, 1881.
(From Memorial Ode.)
[32] By permission of Mrs. Jane Barren Hope Marr.
1829= ——.
James Wood Davidson was born in Newberry County, South Carolina, and educated at South Carolina College, Columbia. He taught at Winnsboro and at Columbia until the opening of the war, when he enlisted as a volunteer in the Army of Northern Virginia, and served throughout the great struggle. After the war he taught again in Columbia till 1871. Then he removed to Washington and in 1873 to New York, where he engaged in literary and journalistic work. He has also lived in Florida and represented Dade County in the State Legislature. He is now living in Washington City.
Living Writers of the South, (1869).
The Correspondent.
Poetry of the Future.
Dictionary of Southern Authors, [unfinished].
School History of South Carolina.
Bell of Doom, [a poem].
Florida of To-day.
Helen of Troy, [a romance of ancient Greece; unfinished.]
Dr. Davidson’s “Living Writers of the South” has made his name well known as a critic and student of literature, and his labors in behalf of Southern letters entitle him to high regard.
(From Poetry of the Future.[33])
The relation between the Beautiful and Beauty on the one hand, and the Poetical and Poetry on the other, has generally been seen, when seen at all, vaguely; that is to say, seen as the Beautiful and the Poetical themselves have been seen—“in a mirror darkly.” This indistinctness seems to have grown out of the faulty views of nature taken by the speculators. . . . . . . . . . In brief, then, Nature is an effect—a product—of a Power lying behind or above it; and it stands, accordingly, to that Power in the relation of an effect to a cause. That cause we shall describe as Spiritual; the effect, as Natural. The Natural, or Nature, is the material Universe embracing the three kingdoms, known as mineral, vegetable, and animal. . . . .
Such being the case, everything in nature is a correspondent of some thing—is expressive of and consequently representative and exponential of something—above it or behind it; and that something is an idea—a thing not material. It follows, then, that every object in nature has real character in itself as a representative of an idea; just as, say, an anchor is representative of hope, a heart, of love, an olive branch, of peace, and a ring, of marriage. . .
We next come to consider the percipient mind. Men’s minds have limited and imperfect faculties and capabilities. That which is good, or true, or beautiful, to one mind can hardly be the same in the same way and degree to any other mind. It is true—as some writers have stated, but none seems willing to push the propositions to their legitimate conclusions—that the Good and the Beautiful are true, the Beautiful and the True are good, and the True and the Good are beautiful. We wish to accept the propositions in their most comprehensive scope and with all their legitimate consequences.
Let us note, at this point, the fact, obvious enough but generally overlooked, that in perception the result depends far more upon the percipient mind than upon the object perceived. To a ploughboy, a pebble is an insignificant thing, suggestive possibly of some discomfort in walking, and fit only to shy at a bird, may be; but to the geologist it appears worthy a volume, and speaks to him of strata may be a million of years old, of glacial attrition, of volcanic action, of chemical constituents, of mineralogical principles, and crystallogenic attraction, of mathematical laws and geometric angles, and of future geognostic changes. That is to say, the pebble contracts and expands, as it were, with the faculties and the prejudices of the person—of the mind—that sees it.
Or, again: The crescent moon is visible in the clear sky. A sees a bright convenience which enables him to walk better—not so good a light as the full moon would be, but valuable as far as it goes. B sees a lovely luminary to light him to his lady-love, a hallowed eye half shut that watches with protecting radiance over her slumbers. C reckons the intervening 238,000 miles, its diameter of 2,162.3 miles, and his mind busies itself with orbits, radii, ellipses, eclipses, azimuth, parallax, sidereal periods, satellitic inclinations, and synodic revolutions. D, with a turn for symbols and history, sees in it something of the “ornaments like the moon” that Gideon captured from the Sheikhs Zebah and Zalmunna, something of Byzantine siege, Ottoman ensign, the Crusades, the Knighthood of Selim, the battle of Tours, and the city of New Orleans. . . . . . . . .
The Beautiful . . . . is a relation between the man that sees and the object seen. A perfectly harmonious relation brings perfect beauty.
The Poetical . . . . is the beautiful; and this may be expressed either in prose or in poetry. . . . . . . . . .
Poetry, more closely defined, is the poetical expressed in rhythmical language.
[33] By permission of the author.
1831=1893.
Charles Colcock Jones, Jr., was born at Savannah, Georgia, and made his literary fame by special study of the history of Georgia and the life of the Southern Indians. He was by profession a lawyer, was colonel of artillery in the Confederate Army, and from 1865 to 1877 lived and practised law in New York City. Since 1877 his home was “Montrose” near Augusta, Georgia, where he left a fine library and large collections of Indian curiosities and of portraits and autographs. His style is full and flowing, and the following list shows his great activity with his pen.
Indian Remains in Southern Georgia.
Ancient Tumuli and Structures in Georgia.
Dead Towns of Georgia.
Last Days of Gen. Henry Lee.
Life, Labors, and Neglected Grave of Richard Henry Wilde.
Negro Myths from the Georgia Coast.
Histories of Savannah and Augusta.
English Colonization of Georgia.
Edited his father’s works.
History of Georgia.
Sketch of Tomo-chi-chi.
Antiquities of the Southern Indians.
Life of Jasper: of Tatnall: of De Soto: of Purry: of Jenkins: of Habersham: of Gen. Robert Toombs: of Elbert: of John Percival.
Addresses to Confederate Association, and Historical Society, and on Greene, Pulaski, Stephens.
Colonel Jones is the most prolific author that Georgia has produced and his works place him at the head of her historical writers.
(From History of Georgia.[34])
During the four years commencing in 1729 and ending in 1732, more than thirty thousand Salzburgers, impelled by the fierce persecutions of Leopold, abandoned their homes in the broad valley of the Salza, and sought refuge in Prussia, Holland, and England, where their past sufferings and present wants enlisted the profound sympathy of Protestant communities. In the public indignation engendered by their unjustifiable and inhuman treatment, and in the general desire to alleviate their sufferings, Oglethorpe and the trustees fully shared. An asylum in Georgia was offered.
. . . . . . .
Forty-two men with their families, numbering in all seventy-eight souls, set out on foot for Rotterdam. They came from the town of Berchtolsgaden and its vicinity. . . . On the 2d of December they embarked for England. On the 8th of January, 1734 (O. S.), having a favorable wind, they departed in the ship Purisburg for Savannah.
. . . . . . .
. . . Upon the return of Mr. Oglethorpe and the commissary, Baron Von Reck, [sent to examine the site of the new colony] to Savannah, nine able-bodied Salzburgers were dispatched, by the way of Abercorn, to Ebenezer, to cut down trees and erect shelters for the new colonists. On the 7th of April the rest of the emigrants arrived, and, with the blessing of the good Mr. Bolzius, entered at once upon the task of clearing land, constructing bridges, building shanties, and preparing a road-way to Abercorn. Wild honey found in a hollow tree greatly refreshed them, and parrots and partridges made them “a very good dish.” Upon the sandy soil they fixed their hopes for a generous yield of peas and potatoes. To the “black, fat, and heavy” land they looked for all sorts of corn. From the clayey soil they purposed manufacturing bricks and earthenware.
On the first of May lots were drawn upon which houses were to be erected in the town of Ebenezer. The day following, the hearts of the people were rejoiced by the coming of ten cows and calves,—sent as a present from the magistrates of Savannah in obedience to Mr. Oglethorpe’s orders. Ten casks “full of all Sorts of Seeds” arriving from Savannah set these pious people to praising God for all his loving kindnesses. Commiserating their poverty, the Indians gave them deer, and their English neighbors taught them how to brew a sort of beer made of molasses, sassafras, and pine tops. Poor Lackner dying, by common consent the little money he left was made the “Beginning of a Box for the Poor.” . . . . . . . . By appointment, Monday, the 13th of May, was observed by the congregation as a season of thanksgiving. . . . .
Of the town of Savannah, the Baron Von Reck favors us with the following impressions: “I went to view this rising Town, Savannah, seated upon the Banks of a River of the same Name. The Town is regularly laid out, divided into four Wards, in each of which is left a spacious Square for holding of Markets and other publick Uses. The Streets are all straight, and the Houses are all of the same Model and Dimensions, and well contrived for Conveniency. For the Time it has been built it is very populous, and its Inhabitants are all White People. And indeed the Blessing of God seems to have gone along with this Undertaking, for here we see Industry honored and Justice strictly executed, and Luxury and Idleness banished from this happy Place where Plenty and Brotherly Love seem to make their Abode, and where the good Order of a Nightly Watch restrains the Disorderly and makes the Inhabitants sleep secure in the midst of a Wilderness.
“There is laid out near the Town, by order of the Trustees, a Garden for making Experiments for the Improving Botany and Agriculture; it contains 10 Acres and lies upon the River; and it is cleared and brought into such Order that there is already a fine Nursery of Oranges, Olives, white Mulberries, Figs, Peaches, and many curious Herbs: besides which there are Cabbages, Peas, and other European Pulse and Plants which all thrive. Within the Garden there is an artificial Hill, said by the Indians to be raised over the Body of one of their ancient Emperors.
“I had like to have forgot one of the best Regulations made by the Trustees for the Government of the Town of Savannah. I mean the utter Prohibition of the Use of Rum, that flattering but deceitful Liquor which has been found equally pernicious to the Natives and new Comers, which seldoms fails by Sickness or Death to draw after it its own Punishment.”
[34] By permission of Mr. Charles Edgeworth Jones.
ca. 1831= ——.
Mary Washington Monument, Fredericksburg, Va.
Mrs. Terhune, better known as “Marion Harland,” was born in Amelia County, Virginia, where her father, Samuel P. Hawes, a merchant from Massachusetts, had made his home. She began writing at the early age of fourteen. In 1856, she was married to Rev. E. P. Terhune and since 1859 has lived in the North. Her novels, dealing chiefly with Southern life, are very popular and have made her well known North and South. “The Story of Mary Washington” was written in order to aid the enterprise for a monument to the mother of Washington, which was happily consummated May 10, 1894, by its unveiling at Fredericksburg, on which occasion Mrs. Terhune was present, an honored guest.
Alone.
Moss Side.
Nemesis.
Husbands and Homes.
Helen Gardner’s Wedding-Day.
Ruby’s Husband.
At Last.
Empty Heart.
Judith, a Chronicle of Old Virginia.
Hidden Path.
Miriam.
Husks.
Sunnybank.
Christmas Holly.
Phemie’s Temptation.
Common Sense in the Household.
Eve’s Daughters.
A Gallant Fight.
Story of Mary Washington.
(From Story of Mary Washington.[35])
“Wmsburg, ye 7th of Octr, 1722.
“Dear Sukey, Madam Ball of Lancaster and Her Sweet Molly have gone Hom. Mamma thinks Molly the Comliest Maiden She Knows. She is about 16 yrs old, is taller than Me, is very Sensable, Modest and Loving. Her Hair is like unto Flax, Her Eyes are the color of Yours, and her Chekes are like May blossoms. I wish you could see her.”
We do seem to see her in lingering over the portrait done in miniature in colors that are fresh to this day. It is, as if in exploring a catacomb, we had happened upon a fair chamber adorned with a frescoed portrait of a girl-princess of a legendary age. Romancist and biographer are one as we study the picture line by line. The brush was dipped in the limner’s heart and wrought passing well.
(From the Same.)
Her only public appearance as the hero’s mother was at the Peace Ball given in Fredericksburg during the visit of Washington to that town. With all her majestic self-command, she did not disguise the pleasure with which she received the special request of the managers that she would honor the occasion with her presence. There was even a happy flutter in the playful rejoinder that “her dancing days were pretty well over, but that if her coming would contribute to the general pleasure she would attend.”
. . . A path was opened from the foot to the top of the hall as they appeared in the doorway, and “every head was bowed in reverence.” It must have been the proudest moment of her life, but she bore herself with perfect composure then, and after her son, seating her in an armchair upon the daïs reserved for distinguished guests, faced the crowd in prideful expectancy that all his friends would seek to know his mother. She had entered the hall at eight o’clock, and for two hours held court, the most distinguished people there pressing eagerly forward to be presented to her. . . . From her slightly elevated position, she could, without rising, overlook the floor, and watched with quiet pleasure the dancers, among them the kingly figure of the Commander-in-Chief, who led a Fredericksburg matron through a minuet.
At ten o’clock, she signed to him to approach, and rose to take his arm, saying in her clear soft voice, “Come, George, it is time for old folks to be at home.” Smiling a good-night to all, she walked down the room, as erect in form and as steady in gait as any dancer there.
One of the French officers exclaimed aloud, as she disappeared:
“If such are the matrons of America, she may well boast of illustrious sons!” . . . . .
Lafayette’s report of his interview to his friends at Mt. Vernon was: “I have seen the only Roman matron living at this day!”
[35] By permission of author and publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.
1835= ——.
Mrs. Wilson was born at Columbus, Georgia, but early removed to Mobile, Alabama. Her first novel was “Inez: a Tale of the Alamo,” published in 1855. She was married to Mr. L. M. Wilson of Mobile in 1868, and they had a delightful suburban home at Spring Hill. Since Mr. Wilson’s death, she resides in Mobile. Her novels, especially “St. Elmo,” have made a great sensation in the reading world: they evince great ability and learning. See Miss Rutherford’s “American Authors.”
Inez: a Tale of the Alamo.
Macaria.
Vashti.
At the Mercy of Tiberius.
Beulah.
St. Elmo.
Infelice.
“St. Elmo contains a description of that marvel of oriental architecture, the Taj Mahal at Agra in India,—a marble tomb erected to perpetuate the name of Noormahal, whom Tom Moore has immortalized in his ‘Lalla Rookh.’ A recent traveller visiting Agra in 1891 writes that he was surprised to find a Parsee boy almost in the shadow of the Taj Mahal reading a copy of the London edition of Mrs. Wilson’s Vashti. . . . Her style has been severely criticised as pedantic, but certainly this charge may with equal justice be brought against George Meredith, Bulwer, and George Eliot, and it is well established that Mrs. Wilson’s books have in many instances stimulated her young readers to study history, mythology, and the sciences, from which she so frequently draws her illustrations.”—Miss Rutherford.
(From St. Elmo.[36])
Edna had risen to leave the room when the master of the house entered, but at his request resumed her seat and continued reading.
After searching the shelves unavailingly, he glanced over his shoulder and asked:
“Have you seen my copy of De Guérin’s Centaur anywhere about the house? I had it a week ago.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, for causing such a fruitless search; here is the book. I picked it up on the front steps where you were reading a few evenings since, and it opened at a passage that attracted my attention.”
She closed the volume and held it toward him, but he waved it back.
“Keep it if it interests you. I have read it once, and merely wished to refer to a particular passage. Can you guess what sentence most frequently recurs to me? If so, read it to me.”
He drew a chair close to the hearth and lighted his cigar.
Hesitatingly Edna turned the leaves.
“I am afraid, sir, that my selection will displease you.”
“I will risk it, as, notwithstanding your flattering opinion to the contrary, I am not altogether so unreasonable as to take offense at a compliance with my own request.”
Still she shrank from the task he imposed, and her fingers toyed with the scarlet fuchsias; but after eyeing her for a while, he leaned forward and pushed the glass bowl beyond her reach.
“Edna, I am waiting.”
“Well, then, Mr. Murray, I should think that these two passages would impress you with peculiar force.”
Raising the book, she read with much emphasis:
“‘Thou pursuest after wisdom, O Melampus! which is the science of the will of the gods; and thou roamest from people to people, like a mortal driven by the destinies. In the times when I kept my night-watches before the caverns, I have sometimes believed that I was about to surprise the thoughts of the sleeping Cybele, and that the mother of the gods, betrayed by her dreams, would let fall some of her secrets. But I have never yet made out more than sounds which faded away in the murmur of night, or words inarticulate as the bubbling of the rivers.’ . . . ‘Seekest thou to know the gods, O Macareus! and from what source, men, animals, and elements of the universal fire have their origin? The aged ocean, the father of all things, keeps locked within his own breast these secrets; and the nymphs who stand around sing as they weave their eternal dance before him, to cover any sound which might escape from his lips, half opened by slumber. Mortals dear to the gods for their virtue have received from their hands lyres to give delight to man, or the seeds of new plants to make him rich, but from their inexorable lips—nothing!’
“Mr. Murray, am I correct in my conjecture?”
“Quite correct,” he answered, smiling grimly.
Taking the book from her hand he threw it on the table, and tossed his cigar into the grate, adding in a defiant, challenging tone:
“The mantle of Solomon did not fall at Le Cayla on the shoulders of Maurice de Guérin. After all he was a wretched hypochondriac, and a tinge of le cahier vert doubtless crept into his eyes.”
“Do you forget, sir, that he said, ‘When one is a wanderer, one feels that one fulfils the true condition of humanity?’ and that among his last words are these, ‘The stream of travel is full of delight. Oh! who will set me adrift on this Nile?’”
“Pardon me if I remind you, par parenthèse, of the preliminary and courteous En garde! which should be pronounced before a thrust. De Guérin felt starved in Languedoc, and no wonder! But had he penetrated every nook and cranny of the habitable globe, and traversed the vast zaarahs which science accords the universe, he would have died at last as hungry as Ugolino. I speak advisedly; for the true Io gad-fly, ennui, has stung me from hemisphere to hemisphere, across tempestuous oceans, scorching deserts, and icy mountain ranges. I have faced alike the bourrans of the steppes, and the Samieli of Shamo, and the result of my vandal life is best epitomized in those grand but grim words of Bossuet: ‘On trouve au fond du tout le vide et le néant!’ Nineteen years ago, to satisfy my hunger, I set out to hunt the daintiest food this world could furnish, and, like other fools, have learned finally, that life is but a huge mellow golden Ösher, that mockingly sifts its bitter dust upon our eager lips. Ah! truly, on trouve au fond du tout le vide et le néant!”
“Mr. Murray, if you insist upon your bitter Ösher simile, why shut your eyes to the palpable analogy suggested? Naturalists assert that the Solanum, or apple of Sodom, contains in its normal state neither dust nor ashes; unless it is punctured by an insect, (the Tenthredo), which converts the whole of the inside into dust, leaving nothing but the rind entire, without any loss of color. Human life is as fair and tempting as the fruit of ‘Ain Jidy,’ till stung and poisoned by the Tenthredo of sin.”
All conceivable suaviter in modo characterized his mocking countenance and tone, as he inclined his haughty head and asked:
“Will you favor me by lifting on the point of your dissecting knife this stinging sin of mine to which you refer? The noxious brood swarm so teasingly about my ears that they deprive me of your cool, clear, philosophic discrimination. Which particular Tenthredo of the buzzing swarm around my spoiled apple of life would you advise me to select for my anathema maranatha?”
“Of your history, sir, I am entirely ignorant; and even if I were not, I should not presume to levy a tax upon it in discussions with you; for, however vulnerable you may possibly be, I regard an argumentum ad hominem as the weakest weapon in the armory of dialectics—a weapon too often dipped in the venom of personal malevolence. I merely gave expression to my belief that miserable useless lives are sinful lives.” . . .