"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious. "Indeed, I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?" "Ah, well-well-well-this is disheartening. It ought to be done with a club in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?" "O, with pleasure—with pleasure. I have a very bad memory, but I hope you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an irregular memory-singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me.” can. "O, it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you "I will. I will put my whole mind on it." "Thanks. Are you ready to begin?" "Ready." Q. How old are you? A. Nineteen, in June. Q. Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five Where were you born? or six. A. In Missouri. Q. When did you begin to write? A. In 1836. Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now? A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow. Q. It does, indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met? A. Aaron Burr. Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years A. Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for? Q. Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr? A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day, and he asked me to make less noise, and Q. But, good heavens! if you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; and if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not? A. I don't know. He was always a particular kind of Q. Still, I do n't understand it at all. You say he a man that way. spoke to you and that he was dead. A. I did n't say he was dead. Q. But was n't he dead? A. Well, some said he was, some said he was n't. Q. What did you think? A. Oh, it was none of my business! It was n't any of my funeral. Q. Did you However, we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask you something else. What was the date of your birth? A. Monday, October 31, Q. What! Impossible! dred and ninety years old. 1693. That would make you a hun- A. I do n't account for it at all. Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and ninety. It is an awful discrepancy. A. Why, have you noticed that? (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy, but somehow I could n't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing! Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters? A. Eh! I-I-I think so-yes-but I do n't remember. Q. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard. A. Why, what makes you think that? Q. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Is n't that a brother of yours? A. Oh, yes, yes, yes! was a brother of mine. him. Poor old Bill! Now you remind me of it; that That's William-Bill we called Q. Why? Is he dead then? We never could tell. Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then? A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him. Q. Buried him! Buried him, without knowing whether he was dead or not? A. Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough. Q. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and you knew he was dead A. No! no! Q. Oh, I see. We only thought he was. He came to life again? A. I bet he did n't. Q. Well, I never heard anything like this. Somebody was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery? You see, A. Ah! that's just it! That's it exactly. we were twins-defunct and I-and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we did n't know which. Some think it was Bill. Some think it was me. Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think? A. Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark- -a large mole on the back of his left hand-that was me. That child was the one that was drowned! Q. Very well, then, I do n't see that there is any mystery about it, after all. Anyway, I don't see a blundering lot as to 'sh!--do n't mention Heaven knows they without adding this. A. You do n't? Well, I do. how they could ever have been such go and bury the wrong child. But, it where the family can hear of it. have heart-breaking troubles enough Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present, and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested Would you in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. mind telling me what particular circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man? A. Oh! it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery, and so he got up and rode with the driver. Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company, and I was sorry to see him go. I need not say that I have never been troubled with interviewers since. Samuel L. Clemens. VIRGINIA. Ye good men of the Commons, with loving hearts and true, Who stand by the bold Tribunes that still have stood by you, Come, make a circle round me, and mark my tale with care, A tale of what Rome once hath borne, of what Rome yet may bear. This is no Grecian fable, of fountains running wine, Of maids with snaky tresses, or sailors turned to swine; In sight of all the people, the bloody deed was done. Of all the wicked Ten still the names are held accursed, Twelve axes waited on him, six marching on a side; The townsmen shrank to right and left, and eyed askance with fear His lowering brow, his curling mouth, which always seemed to sneer. Nor lacks he fit attendance; for close behind his heels, With outstretched chin and crouching pace, the client Marcus steals. Where'er ye shed the honey, the buzzing flies will crowd; Where'er ye fling the carrion, the raven's croak is loud; Where'er down Tiber garbage floats, the greedy pike you see; And wheresoe'er such lord is found, such client still will be. Just then, as through one cloudless chink in a black stormy sky Shines out the dewy morning star, a fair young girl came by, With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm Home she went bounding from the school, nor dreamed of shame or harm; And past those dreaded axes she innocently ran, With bright, frank brow that had not learned to blush at gaze of man; And up the Sacred Street she turned, and, as she danced along, She warbled gaily to herself lines of the good old song. And Appius heard her sweet young voice, and saw her sweet young face, And loved her with the accurséd love of his accurséd race, And all along the Forum, and up the Sacred Street, His vulture eye pursued- the trip of those small glancing feet. She crossed the Forum, shining with stalls in alleys gay, And just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day, When up the varlet Marcus came; not such as when, erewhile, He crouched behind his patron's heels, with the true client smile; He came with lowering forehead, swollen features, and clenched fist, And strode across Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist. Hard strove the frightened maiden, and screamed with look aghast; And at her scream, from right and left, the folks came running fast; The money-changer Crispus, with his thin silver hairs, And Hanno from the stately booth glittering with Punic wares, |