The $30,000 Bequest, Mark Twain [best book club books for discussion TXT] 📗

grace in every movement. He accordingly addressed

him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way

to the village. After he had received the desired information,

and was about taking his leave, the youth said, “Are you not

Major Elfonzo, the great musician [2]—the champion of a noble cause—

the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?”

“I bear that name,” said the Major, “and those titles,

trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry

me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,”

continued the Major, “you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds,

I should like to make you my confidant and learn your address.”

The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment,

and began: “My name is Roswell. I have been recently admitted

to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success

in that honorable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall

look down from the lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall

ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity,

and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be

called from its buried GREATNESS.” The Major grasped him by the hand,

and exclaimed: “O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration—thou flame

of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare

of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede

your progress!”

 

There is a strange sort of originality about McClintock;

he imitates other people’s styles, but nobody can imitate his,

not even an idiot. Other people can be windy, but McClintock blows

a gale; other people can blubber sentiment, but McClintock spews it;

other people can mishandle metaphors, but only McClintock knows

how to make a business of it. McClintock is always McClintock,

he is always consistent, his style is always his own style. He does

not make the mistake of being relevant on one page and irrelevant

on another; he is irrelevant on all of them. He does not make

the mistake of being lucid in one place and obscure in another;

he is obscure all the time. He does not make the mistake of slipping

in a name here and there that is out of character with his work;

he always uses names that exactly and fantastically fit his lunatics.

In the matter of undeviating consistency he stands alone in authorship.

It is this that makes his style unique, and entitles it to a name

of its own—McClintockian. It is this that protects it from being

mistaken for anybody else’s. Uncredited quotations from other writers

often leave a reader in doubt as to their authorship, but McClintock

is safe from that accident; an uncredited quotation from him would

always be recognizable. When a boy nineteen years old, who had

just been admitted to the bar, says, “I trust, sir, like the Eagle,

I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man,”

we know who is speaking through that boy; we should recognize

that note anywhere. There be myriads of instruments in this

world’s literary orchestra, and a multitudinous confusion of sounds

that they make, wherein fiddles are drowned, and guitars smothered,

and one sort of drum mistaken for another sort; but whensoever the

brazen note of the McClintockian trombone breaks through that fog

of music, that note is recognizable, and about it there can be no blur

of doubt.

 

The novel now arrives at the point where the Major goes home to see

his father. When McClintock wrote this interview he probably

believed it was pathetic.

 

The road which led to the town presented many attractions Elfonzo

had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was now wending

his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness. The south winds

whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed against the banks,

as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars. This brought him to

remember while alone, that he quietly left behind the hospitality

of a father’s house, and gladly entered the world, with higher hopes

than are often realized. But as he journeyed onward, he was mindful

of the advice of his father, who had often looked sadly on the ground,

when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened his eyes. Elfonzo had

been somewhat a dutiful son; yet fond of the amusements of life—

had been in distant lands—had enjoyed the pleasure of the world,

and had frequently returned to the scenes of his boyhood,

almost destitute of many of the comforts of life. In this condition,

he would frequently say to his father, “Have I offended you,

that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon me with

stinging looks? Will you not favor me with the sound of your voice?

If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread a humid veil

of darkness around your expectations, send me back into the world,

where no heart beats for me—where the foot of man had never yet trod;

but give me at least one kind word—allow me to come into the presence

sometimes of thy winter-worn locks.” “Forbid it, Heaven, that I

should be angry with thee,” answered the father, “my son, and yet

I send thee back to the children of the world—to the cold charity

of the combat, and to a land of victory. I read another destiny

in thy countenance—I learn thy inclinations from the flame that has

already kindled in my soul a strange sensation. It will seek thee,

my dear ELFONZO, it will find thee—thou canst not escape that

lighted torch, which shall blot out from the remembrance of men

a long train of prophecies which they have foretold against thee.

I once thought not so. Once, I was blind; but now the path of life

is plain before me, and my sight is clear; yet, Elfonzo, return to thy

worldly occupation—take again in thy hand that chord of sweet sounds—

struggle with the civilized world and with your own heart;

fly swiftly to the enchanted ground—let the night-OWL send forth

its screams from the stubborn oak—let the sea sport upon the beach,

and the stars sing together; but learn of these, Elfonzo, thy doom,

and thy hiding-place. Our most innocent as well as our most lawful

DESIRES must often be denied us, that we may learn to sacrifice them

to a Higher will.”

 

Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately

urged by the recollection of his father’s family to keep moving.

 

McClintock has a fine gift in the matter of surprises; but as a

rule they are not pleasant ones, they jar upon the feelings.

His closing sentence in the last quotation is of that sort.

It brings one down out of the tinted clouds in too sudden and collapsed

a fashion. It incenses one against the author for a moment.

It makes the reader want to take him by this winter-worn locks,

and trample on his veneration, and deliver him over to the cold

charity of combat, and blot him out with his own lighted torch.

But the feeling does not last. The master takes again in his hand that

concord of sweet sounds of his, and one is reconciled, pacified.

 

His steps became quicker and quicker—he hastened through the PINY woods,

dark as the forest was, and with joy he very soon reached the little

village of repose, in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry.

His close attention to every important object—his modest questions

about whatever was new to him—his reverence for wise old age,

and his ardent desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought

him into respectable notice.

 

One mild winter day, as he walked along the streets toward the Academy,

which stood upon a small eminence, surrounded by native growth—

some venerable in its appearance, others young and prosperous—

all seemed inviting, and seemed to be the very place for learning as

well as for genius to spend its research beneath its spreading shades.

He entered its classic walls in the usual mode of southern manners.

 

The artfulness of this man! None knows so well as he how to pique

the curiosity of the reader—and how to disappoint it. He raises

the hope, here, that he is going to tell all about how one enters

a classic wall in the usual mode of Southern manners; but does he?

No; he smiles in his sleeve, and turns aside to other matters.

 

The principal of the Institution begged him to be seated and listen

to the recitations that were going on. He accordingly obeyed

the request, and seemed to be much pleased. After the school

was dismissed, and the young hearts regained their freedom,

with the songs of the evening, laughing at the anticipated pleasures

of a happy home, while others tittered at the actions of the past day,

he addressed the teacher in a tone that indicated a resolution—

with an undaunted mind. He said he had determined to become

a student, if he could meet with his approbation. “Sir,” said he,

“I have spent much time in the world. I have traveled among

the uncivilized inhabitants of America. I have met with friends,

and combated with foes; but none of these gratify my ambition,

or decide what is to be my destiny. I see the learned world

have an influence with the voice of the people themselves.

The despoilers of the remotest kingdoms of the earth refer their

differences to this class of persons. This the illiterate and

inexperienced little dream of; and now if you will receive me as I am,

with these deficiencies—with all my misguided opinions, I will give

you my honor, sir, that I will never disgrace the Institution,

or those who have placed you in this honorable station.”

The instructor, who had met with many disappointments, knew how to

feel for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities

of an unfeeling community. He looked at him earnestly, and said:

“Be of good cheer—look forward, sir, to the high destination you

may attain. Remember, the more elevated the mark at which you aim,

the more sure, the more glorious, the more magnificent the prize.”

From wonder to wonder, his encouragement led the impatient listener.

A strange nature bloomed before him—giant streams promised

him success—gardens of hidden treasures opened to his view.

All this, so vividly described, seemed to gain a new witchery from his

glowing fancy.

 

It seems to me that this situation is new in romance. I feel

sure it has not been attempted before. Military celebrities have

been disguised and set at lowly occupations for dramatic effect,

but I think McClintock is the first to send one of them to school.

Thus, in this book, you pass from wonder to wonder, through gardens

of hidden treasure, where giant streams bloom before you,

and behind you, and all around, and you feel as happy, and groggy,

and satisfied with your quart of mixed metaphor aboard as you would

if it had been mixed in a sample-room and delivered from a jug.

 

Now we come upon some more McClintockian surprise—a sweetheart

who is sprung upon us without any preparation, along with a name

for her which is even a little more of a surprise than she herself is.

 

In 1842 he entered the class, and made rapid progress in the English

and Latin departments. Indeed, he continued advancing with such

rapidity that he was like to become the first in his class,

and made such unexpected progress, and was so studious, that he had

almost forgotten the pictured saint of his affections. The fresh

wreaths of the pine and cypress had waited anxiously to drop once

more the dews of Heaven upon the heads of those who had so often

poured forth the tender emotions of their