“Well, I—I—I hardly know. I had the unabridged; and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition."

"Why, my friend, they would n't have a picture of it in even the latest e- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look asas-intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm,— I mean no harm at all."

"Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes-yes: they always speak of it with rapture."

"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."

66

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?"

"Oh, 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."

"Oh! it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you

can."

"I will. I will put my whole mind on it."

"Thanks! Are you ready to begin?"

"Ready."

Question. How old are you?

Answer. Nineteen in June.

Q. Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?

A. In Missouri.

Q. When did you begin to write?

A. In 1836.

Q. Why, how could

A. I don't know.

that be, if you are only nineteen now? It does seem curious, somehow.

Whom do you consider the most re-、

Q. It does indeed. markable 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 a man that way.

Q. Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead?

A. I didn't say he was dead.

Q. But wasn't he dead?

A. Well, some said he was, some said he was n't.

Q. What do you think?

A. Oh, it was none of my business! It was n't any funeral.

of my

Q. Did you However, we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask about something else. What was the date of your birth?

A. Monday; Oct. 31; 1693.

Q. What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old. How do you account for that?

A. I don'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 eighty. 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 don'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? Isn't that a brother of yours?

A. Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now, you remind me of it, that was a brother of mine. That's William,-Bill we called

him. Poor old Bill!

Q. Why, is he dead then?

A. Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it.

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! Nor 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! We only thought he was.

Q. Oh, I see! He came to life again?

A. I bet he did n't!

Q. Well, I never heard any thing like this. Somebody

was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery?

A. Ah, that's just it! That's it exactly! You see 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 don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all.

A. You don't; well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heartbreaking troubles enough without adding this.

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 in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you 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.

CXCVI.-PAT AND THE PIG.

WE have read of a Pat so financially flat
That he had neither money nor meat;

And when hungry and thin, it was whispered by sin
That he ought to steal something to eat.

So he went to the sty of a widow near by,
And he gazed on the tenant-poor soul!
"Arrah, now," said he, "what a trate that'll be,"
And the pig of the widow he stole.

In a feast he rejoiced, then he went to a priest;
For, in spite of the pork and the lard,

There was something within that was sharp as a pin,
For his conscience was pricking him hard.

And he said with a tear, "Will your riverence hear
What I have in sorrow to say?"

Then the story he told, and the tale did unfold
Of the pig he had taken away.

And the priest to him said, "Ere you go to your bed,
You must pay for the pig you have taken,

For 't is thus, by my soul, you'll be saving your soul,
And will also be saving your bacon."

"Oh, be jabers," said Pat, "I can niver do that,

Not the ghost of a penny have I,

And I'm wretched indade, if a penny it nade,
Any pace for me conscience to buy."

Then in sorrow he cried, and the priest he replied,

Only think how you'll tremble with fear

When the Judge you shall meet at the great judgment-seat, And the widow you plundered while here.

"Will the widow be there?" questioned Pat, with a stare, "And the pig? Be me sowl, is it thrue?"

"They will surely be there," said the priest, "I declare, And, O, Paddy, what then will you do?"