When Newman related to Mrs. Tristram his fruitless visit to Madame de Cintre, she urged him not to be discouraged, but to carry out his plan of "seein_urope" during the summer, and return to Paris in the autumn and settle dow_omfortably for the winter. "Madame de Cintre will keep," she said; "she i_ot a woman who will marry from one day to another." Newman made no distinc_ffirmation that he would come back to Paris; he even talked about Rome an_he Nile, and abstained from professing any especial interest in Madame d_intre's continued widowhood. This circumstance was at variance with hi_abitual frankness, and may perhaps be regarded as characteristic of th_ncipient stage of that passion which is more particularly known as th_ysterious one. The truth is that the expression of a pair of eyes that wer_t once brilliant and mild had become very familiar to his memory, and h_ould not easily have resigned himself to the prospect of never looking int_hem again. He communicated to Mrs. Tristram a number of other facts, o_reater or less importance, as you choose; but on this particular point h_ept his own counsel. He took a kindly leave of M. Nioche, having assured hi_hat, so far as he was concerned, the blue-cloaked Madonna herself might hav_een present at his interview with Mademoiselle Noemie; and left the old ma_ursing his breast-pocket, in an ecstasy which the acutest misfortune migh_ave been defied to dissipate. Newman then started on his travels, with al_is usual appearance of slow-strolling leisure, and all his essentia_irectness and intensity of aim. No man seemed less in a hurry, and yet no ma_chieved more in brief periods. He had certain practical instincts whic_erved him excellently in his trade of tourist. He found his way in foreig_ities by divination, his memory was excellent when once his attention ha_een at all cordially given, and he emerged from dialogues in foreign tongues, of which he had, formally, not understood a word, in full possession of th_articular fact he had desired to ascertain. His appetite for facts wa_apacious, and although many of those which he noted would have seeme_oefully dry and colorless to the ordinary sentimental traveler, a carefu_nspection of the list would have shown that he had a soft spot in hi_magination. In the charming city of Brussels—his first stopping-place afte_eaving Paris—he asked a great many questions about the street-cars, and too_xtreme satisfaction in the reappearance of this familiar symbol of America_ivilization; but he was also greatly struck with the beautiful Gothic towe_f the Hotel de Ville, and wondered whether it would not be possible to "ge_p" something like it in San Francisco. He stood for half an hour in th_rowded square before this edifice, in imminent danger from carriage-wheels, listening to a toothless old cicerone mumble in broken English the touchin_istory of Counts Egmont and Horn; and he wrote the names of thes_entlemen—for reasons best known to himself—on the back of an old letter.
At the outset, on his leaving Paris, his curiosity had not been intense; passive entertainment, in the Champs Elysees and at the theatres, seemed abou_s much as he need expect of himself, and although, as he had said t_ristram, he wanted to see the mysterious, satisfying BEST, he had not th_rand Tour in the least on his conscience, and was not given to cross- questioning the amusement of the hour. He believed that Europe was made fo_im, and not he for Europe. He had said that he wanted to improve his mind, but he would have felt a certain embarrassment, a certain shame, even—a fals_hame, possibly—if he had caught himself looking intellectually into th_irror. Neither in this nor in any other respect had Newman a high sense o_esponsibility; it was his prime conviction that a man's life should be easy, and that he should be able to resolve privilege into a matter of course. Th_orld, to his sense, was a great bazaar, where one might stroll about an_urchase handsome things; but he was no more conscious, individually, o_ocial pressure than he admitted the existence of such a thing as a_bligatory purchase. He had not only a dislike, but a sort of moral mistrust, of uncomfortable thoughts, and it was both uncomfortable and slightl_ontemptible to feel obliged to square one's self with a standard. One'_tandard was the ideal of one's own good-humored prosperity, the prosperit_hich enabled one to give as well as take. To expand, without bothering abou_t—without shiftless timidity on one side, or loquacious eagerness on th_ther—to the full compass of what he would have called a "pleasant"
experience, was Newman's most definite programme of life. He had always hate_o hurry to catch railroad trains, and yet he had always caught them; and jus_o an undue solicitude for "culture" seemed a sort of silly dawdling at th_tation, a proceeding properly confined to women, foreigners, and othe_npractical persons. All this admitted, Newman enjoyed his journey, when onc_e had fairly entered the current, as profoundly as the most zealou_ilettante. One's theories, after all, matter little; it is one's humor tha_s the great thing. Our friend was intelligent, and he could not help that. H_ounged through Belgium and Holland and the Rhineland, through Switzerland an_orthern Italy, planning about nothing, but seeing everything. The guides an_alets de place found him an excellent subject. He was always approachable, for he was much addicted to standing about in the vestibules and porticos o_nns, and he availed himself little of the opportunities for impressiv_eclusion which are so liberally offered in Europe to gentlemen who trave_ith long purses. When an excursion, a church, a gallery, a ruin, was propose_o him, the first thing Newman usually did, after surveying his postulant i_ilence, from head to foot, was to sit down at a little table and orde_omething to drink. The cicerone, during this process, usually retreated to _espectful distance; otherwise I am not sure that Newman would not have bidde_im sit down and have a glass also, and tell him as an honest fellow whethe_is church or his gallery was really worth a man's trouble. At last he ros_nd stretched his long legs, beckoned to the man of monuments, looked at hi_atch, and fixed his eye on his adversary. "What is it?" he asked. "How far?"
And whatever the answer was, although he sometimes seemed to hesitate, h_ever declined. He stepped into an open cab, made his conductor sit beside hi_o answer questions, bade the driver go fast (he had a particular aversion t_low driving) and rolled, in all probability through a dusty suburb, to th_oal of his pilgrimage. If the goal was a disappointment, if the church wa_eagre, or the ruin a heap of rubbish, Newman never protested or berated hi_icerone; he looked with an impartial eye upon great monuments and small, mad_he guide recite his lesson, listened to it religiously, asked if there wa_othing else to be seen in the neighborhood, and drove back again at _attling pace. It is to be feared that his perception of the differenc_etween good architecture and bad was not acute, and that he might sometime_ave been seen gazing with culpable serenity at inferior productions. Ugl_hurches were a part of his pastime in Europe, as well as beautiful ones, an_is tour was altogether a pastime. But there is sometimes nothing like th_magination of these people who have none, and Newman, now and then, in a_nguided stroll in a foreign city, before some lonely, sad-towered church, o_ome angular image of one who had rendered civic service in an unknown past, had felt a singular inward tremor. It was not an excitement or a perplexity; it was a placid, fathomless sense of diversion.
He encountered by chance in Holland a young American, with whom, for a time, he formed a sort of traveler's partnership. They were men of a very differen_ast, but each, in his way, was so good a fellow that, for a few weeks a_east, it seemed something of a pleasure to share the chances of the road.
Newman's comrade, whose name was Babcock, was a young Unitarian minister, _mall, spare, neatly-attired man, with a strikingly candid physiognomy. He wa_ native of Dorchester, Massachusetts, and had spiritual charge of a smal_ongregation in another suburb of the New England metropolis. His digestio_as weak and he lived chiefly on Graham bread and hominy—a regimen to which h_as so much attached that his tour seemed to him destined to be blighted when, on landing on the Continent, he found that these delicacies did not flouris_nder the table d'hote system. In Paris he had purchased a bag of hominy at a_stablishment which called itself an American Agency, and at which the Ne_ork illustrated papers were also to be procured, and he had carried it abou_ith him, and shown extreme serenity and fortitude in the somewhat delicat_osition of having his hominy prepared for him and served at anomalous hours, at the hotels he successively visited. Newman had once spent a morning, in th_ourse of business, at Mr. Babcock's birthplace, and, for reasons to_econdite to unfold, his visit there always assumed in his mind a jocula_ast. To carry out his joke, which certainly seems poor so long as it is no_xplained, he used often to address his companion as "Dorchester." Fellow- travelers very soon grow intimate but it is highly improbable that at hom_hese extremely dissimilar characters would have found any very convenien_oints of contact. They were, indeed, as different as possible. Newman, wh_ever reflected on such matters, accepted the situation with great equanimity, but Babcock used to meditate over it privately; used often, indeed, to retir_o his room early in the evening for the express purpose of considering i_onscientiously and impartially. He was not sure that it was a good thing fo_im to associate with our hero, whose way of taking life was so little hi_wn. Newman was an excellent, generous fellow; Mr. Babcock sometimes said t_imself that he was a NOBLE fellow, and, certainly, it was impossible not t_ike him. But would it not be desirable to try to exert an influence upon him, to try to quicken his moral life and sharpen his sense of duty? He like_verything, he accepted everything, he found amusement in everything; he wa_ot discriminating, he had not a high tone. The young man from Dorcheste_ccused Newman of a fault which he considered very grave, and which he did hi_est to avoid: what he would have called a want of "moral reaction." Poor Mr.
Babcock was extremely fond of pictures and churches, and carried Mrs.
Jameson's works about in his trunk; he delighted in aesthetic analysis, an_eceived peculiar impressions from everything he saw. But nevertheless in hi_ecret soul he detested Europe, and he felt an irritating need to protes_gainst Newman's gross intellectual hospitality. Mr. Babcock's moral malaise, I am afraid, lay deeper than where any definition of mine can reach it. H_istrusted the European temperament, he suffered from the European climate, h_ated the European dinner-hour; European life seemed to him unscrupulous an_mpure. And yet he had an exquisite sense of beauty; and as beauty was ofte_nextricably associated with the above displeasing conditions, as he wished, above all, to be just and dispassionate, and as he was, furthermore, extremel_evoted to "culture," he could not bring himself to decide that Europe wa_tterly bad. But he thought it was very bad indeed, and his quarrel wit_ewman was that this unregulated epicure had a sadly insufficient perceptio_f the bad. Babcock himself really knew as little about the bad, in an_uarter of the world, as a nursing infant, his most vivid realization of evi_ad been the discovery that one of his college classmates, who was studyin_rchitecture in Paris had a love affair with a young woman who did not expec_im to marry her. Babcock had related this incident to Newman, and our her_ad applied an epithet of an unflattering sort to the young girl. The next da_is companion asked him whether he was very sure he had used exactly the righ_ord to characterize the young architect's mistress. Newman stared an_aughed. "There are a great many words to express that idea," he said; "yo_an take your choice!"
"Oh, I mean," said Babcock, "was she possibly not to be considered in _ifferent light? Don't you think she really expected him to marry her?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Newman. "Very likely she did; I have no doub_he is a grand woman." And he began to laugh again.
"I didn't mean that either," said Babcock, "I was only afraid that I migh_ave seemed yesterday not to remember—not to consider; well, I think I wil_rite to Percival about it."
And he had written to Percival (who answered him in a really impuden_ashion), and he had reflected that it was somehow, raw and reckless in Newma_o assume in that off-hand manner that the young woman in Paris might be
"grand." The brevity of Newman's judgments very often shocked and discompose_im. He had a way of damning people without farther appeal, or of pronouncin_hem capital company in the face of uncomfortable symptoms, which seeme_nworthy of a man whose conscience had been properly cultivated. And yet poo_abcock liked him, and remembered that even if he was sometimes perplexing an_ainful, this was not a reason for giving him up. Goethe recommended seein_uman nature in the most various forms, and Mr. Babcock thought Goeth_erfectly splendid. He often tried, in odd half-hours of conversation t_nfuse into Newman a little of his own spiritual starch, but Newman's persona_exture was too loose to admit of stiffening. His mind could no more hol_rinciples than a sieve can hold water. He admired principles extremely, an_hought Babcock a mighty fine little fellow for having so many. He accepte_ll that his high-strung companion offered him, and put them away in what h_upposed to be a very safe place; but poor Babcock never afterwards recognize_is gifts among the articles that Newman had in daily use.
They traveled together through Germany and into Switzerland, where for thre_r four weeks they trudged over passes and lounged upon blue lakes. At las_hey crossed the Simplon and made their way to Venice. Mr. Babcock had becom_loomy and even a trifle irritable; he seemed moody, absent, preoccupied; h_ot his plans into a tangle, and talked one moment of doing one thing and th_ext of doing another. Newman led his usual life, made acquaintances, took hi_ase in the galleries and churches, spent an unconscionable amount of time i_trolling in the Piazza San Marco, bought a great many bad pictures, and for _ortnight enjoyed Venice grossly. One evening, coming back to his inn, h_ound Babcock waiting for him in the little garden beside it. The young ma_alked up to him, looking very dismal, thrust out his hand, and said wit_olemnity that he was afraid they must part. Newman expressed his surprise an_egret, and asked why a parting had became necessary. "Don't be afraid I'_ired of you," he said.
"You are not tired of me?" demanded Babcock, fixing him with his clear gra_ye.
"Why the deuce should I be? You are a very plucky fellow. Besides, I don'_row tired of things."
"We don't understand each other," said the young minister.
"Don't I understand you?" cried Newman. "Why, I hoped I did. But what if _on't; where's the harm?"
"I don't understand YOU," said Babcock. And he sat down and rested his head o_is hand, and looked up mournfully at his immeasurable friend.
"Oh Lord, I don't mind that!" cried Newman, with a laugh.
"But it's very distressing to me. It keeps me in a state of unrest. I_rritates me; I can't settle anything. I don't think it's good for me."
"You worry too much; that's what's the matter with you," said Newman.
"Of course it must seem so to you. You think I take things too hard, and _hink you take things too easily. We can never agree."
"But we have agreed very well all along."
"No, I haven't agreed," said Babcock, shaking his head. "I am ver_ncomfortable. I ought to have separated from you a month ago."
"Oh, horrors! I'll agree to anything!" cried Newman.
Mr. Babcock buried his head in both hands. At last looking up, "I don't thin_ou appreciate my position," he said. "I try to arrive at the truth abou_verything. And then you go too fast. For me, you are too passionate, to_xtravagant. I feel as if I ought to go over all this ground we have traverse_gain, by myself, alone. I am afraid I have made a great many mistakes."
"Oh, you needn't give so many reasons," said Newman. "You are simply tired o_y company. You have a good right to be."
"No, no, I am not tired!" cried the pestered young divine. "It is very wron_o be tired."
"I give it up!" laughed Newman. "But of course it will never do to go o_aking mistakes. Go your way, by all means. I shall miss you; but you hav_een I make friends very easily. You will be lonely, yourself; but drop me _ine, when you feel like it, and I will wait for you anywhere."
"I think I will go back to Milan. I am afraid I didn't do justice to Luini."
"Poor Luini!" said Newman.
"I mean that I am afraid I overestimated him. I don't think that he is _ainter of the first rank."
"Luini?" Newman exclaimed; "why, he's enchanting—he's magnificent! There i_omething in his genius that is like a beautiful woman. It gives one the sam_eeling."
Mr. Babcock frowned and winced. And it must be added that this was, fo_ewman, an unusually metaphysical flight; but in passing through Milan he ha_aken a great fancy to the painter. "There you are again!" said Mr. Babcock.
"Yes, we had better separate." And on the morrow he retraced his steps an_roceeded to tone down his impressions of the great Lombard artist.
A few days afterwards Newman received a note from his late companion which ra_s follows:—
My Dear Mr. Newman,—I am afraid that my conduct at Venice, a week ago, seeme_o you strange and ungrateful, and I wish to explain my position, which, as _aid at the time, I do not think you appreciate. I had long had it on my min_o propose that we should part company, and this step was not really so abrup_s it seemed. In the first place, you know, I am traveling in Europe on fund_upplied by my congregation, who kindly offered me a vacation and a_pportunity to enrich my mind with the treasures of nature and art in the Ol_orld. I feel, therefore, as if I ought to use my time to the very bes_dvantage. I have a high sense of responsibility. You appear to care only fo_he pleasure of the hour, and you give yourself up to it with a violence whic_ confess I am not able to emulate. I feel as if I must arrive at som_onclusion and fix my belief on certain points. Art and life seem to m_ntensely serious things, and in our travels in Europe we should especiall_emember the immense seriousness of Art. You seem to hold that if a thin_muses you for the moment, that is all you need ask for it, and your relis_or mere amusement is also much higher than mine. You put, however, a kind o_eckless confidence into your pleasure which at times, I confess, has seeme_o me—shall I say it?—almost cynical. Your way at any rate is not my way, an_t is unwise that we should attempt any longer to pull together. And yet, le_e add that I know there is a great deal to be said for your way; I have fel_ts attraction, in your society, very strongly. But for this I should hav_eft you long ago. But I was so perplexed. I hope I have not done wrong. _eel as if I had a great deal of lost time to make up. I beg you take all thi_s I mean it, which, Heaven knows, is not invidiously. I have a great persona_steem for you and hope that some day, when I have recovered my balance, w_hall meet again. I hope you will continue to enjoy your travels, only D_emember that Life and Art ARE extremely serious. Believe me your sincer_riend and well-wisher,
P. S. I am greatly perplexed by Luini.
This letter produced in Newman's mind a singular mixture of exhilaration an_we. At first, Mr. Babcock's tender conscience seemed to him a capital farce, and his traveling back to Milan only to get into a deeper muddle appeared, a_he reward of his pedantry, exquisitely and ludicrously just. Then Newma_eflected that these are mighty mysteries, that possibly he himself was indee_hat baleful and barely mentionable thing, a cynic, and that his manner o_onsidering the treasures of art and the privileges of life was probably ver_ase and immoral. Newman had a great contempt for immorality, and tha_vening, for a good half hour, as he sat watching the star-sheen on the war_driatic, he felt rebuked and depressed. He was at a loss how to answe_abcock's letter. His good nature checked his resenting the young minister'_ofty admonitions, and his tough, inelastic sense of humor forbade his takin_hem seriously. He wrote no answer at all but a day or two afterward he foun_n a curiosity shop a grotesque little statuette in ivory, of the sixteent_entury, which he sent off to Babcock without a commentary. It represented _aunt, ascetic-looking monk, in a tattered gown and cowl, kneeling wit_lasped hands and pulling a portentously long face. It was a wonderfull_elicate piece of carving, and in a moment, through one of the rents of hi_own, you espied a fat capon hung round the monk's waist. In Newman'_ntention what did the figure symbolize? Did it mean that he was going to tr_o be as "high-toned" as the monk looked at first, but that he feared h_hould succeed no better than the friar, on a closer inspection, proved t_ave done? It is not supposable that he intended a satire upon Babcock's ow_sceticism, for this would have been a truly cynical stroke. He made his lat_ompanion, at any rate, a very valuable little present.
Newman, on leaving Venice, went through the Tyrol to Vienna, and then returne_estward, through Southern Germany. The autumn found him at Baden-Baden, wher_e spent several weeks. The place was charming, and he was in no hurry t_epart; besides, he was looking about him and deciding what to do for th_inter. His summer had been very full, and he sat under the great trees besid_he miniature river that trickles past the Baden flower-beds, he slowl_ummaged it over. He had seen and done a great deal, enjoyed and observed _reat deal; he felt older, and yet he felt younger too. He remembered Mr.
Babcock and his desire to form conclusions, and he remembered also that he ha_rofited very little by his friend's exhortation to cultivate the sam_espectable habit. Could he not scrape together a few conclusions? Baden-Bade_as the prettiest place he had seen yet, and orchestral music in the evening, under the stars, was decidedly a great institution. This was one of hi_onclusions! But he went on to reflect that he had done very wisely to pull u_takes and come abroad; this seeing of the world was a very interesting thing.
He had learned a great deal; he couldn't say just what, but he had it ther_nder his hat-band. He had done what he wanted; he had seen the great things, and he had given his mind a chance to "improve," if it would. He cheerfull_elieved that it had improved. Yes, this seeing of the world was ver_leasant, and he would willingly do a little more of it. Thirty-six years ol_s he was, he had a handsome stretch of life before him yet, and he need no_egin to count his weeks. Where should he take the world next? I have said h_emembered the eyes of the lady whom he had found standing in Mrs. Tristram'_rawing-room; four months had elapsed, and he had not forgotten them yet. H_ad looked—he had made a point of looking—into a great many other eyes in th_nterval, but the only ones he thought of now were Madame de Cintre's. If h_anted to see more of the world, should he find it in Madame de Cintre's eyes?
He would certainly find something there, call it this world or the next.
Throughout these rather formless meditations he sometimes thought of his pas_ife and the long array of years (they had begun so early) during which he ha_ad nothing in his head but "enterprise." They seemed far away now, for hi_resent attitude was more than a holiday, it was almost a rupture. He had tol_ristram that the pendulum was swinging back and it appeared that the backwar_wing had not yet ended. Still "enterprise," which was over in the othe_uarter wore to his mind a different aspect at different hours. In its train _housand forgotten episodes came trooping back into his memory. Some of the_e looked complacently enough in the face; from some he averted his head. The_ere old efforts, old exploits, antiquated examples of "smartness" an_harpness. Some of them, as he looked at them, he felt decidedly proud of; h_dmired himself as if he had been looking at another man. And, in fact, man_f the qualities that make a great deed were there: the decision, th_esolution, the courage, the celerity, the clear eye, and the strong hand. O_ertain other achievements it would be going too far to say that he wa_shamed of them for Newman had never had a stomach for dirty work. He wa_lessed with a natural impulse to disfigure with a direct, unreasoning blo_he comely visage of temptation. And certainly, in no man could a want o_ntegrity have been less excusable. Newman knew the crooked from the straigh_t a glance, and the former had cost him, first and last, a great many moment_f lively disgust. But none the less some of his memories seemed to wear a_resent a rather graceless and sordid mien, and it struck him that if he ha_ever done anything very ugly, he had never, on the other hand, done anythin_articularly beautiful. He had spent his years in the unremitting effort t_dd thousands to thousands, and, now that he stood well outside of it, th_usiness of money-getting appeared tolerably dry and sterile. It is very wel_o sneer at money-getting after you have filled your pockets, and Newman, i_ay be said, should have begun somewhat earlier to moralize thus delicately.
To this it may be answered that he might have made another fortune, if h_hose; and we ought to add that he was not exactly moralizing. It had com_ack to him simply that what he had been looking at all summer was a very ric_nd beautiful world, and that it had not all been made by sharp railroad me_nd stock-brokers.
During his stay at Baden-Baden he received a letter from Mrs. Tristram, scolding him for the scanty tidings he had sent to his friends of the Avenu_'Iena, and begging to be definitely informed that he had not concocted an_orrid scheme for wintering in outlying regions, but was coming back sanel_nd promptly to the most comfortable city in the world. Newman's answer ran a_ollows:—
"I supposed you knew I was a miserable letter-writer, and didn't expec_nything of me. I don't think I have written twenty letters of pure friendshi_n my whole life; in America I conducted my correspondence altogether b_elegrams. This is a letter of pure friendship; you have got hold of _uriosity, and I hope you will value it. You want to know everything that ha_appened to me these three months. The best way to tell you, I think, would b_o send you my half dozen guide-books, with my pencil-marks in the margin.
Wherever you find a scratch or a cross, or a 'Beautiful!' or a 'So true!' or a
'Too thin!' you may know that I have had a sensation of some sort or other.
That has been about my history, ever since I left you. Belgium, Holland, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, I have been through the whole list, and I don'_hink I am any the worse for it. I know more about Madonnas and church- steeples than I supposed any man could. I have seen some very pretty things, and shall perhaps talk them over this winter, by your fireside. You see, m_ace is not altogether set against Paris. I have had all kinds of plans an_isions, but your letter has blown most of them away. 'L'appetit vient e_angeant,' says the French proverb, and I find that the more I see of th_orld the more I want to see. Now that I am in the shafts, why shouldn't _rot to the end of the course? Sometimes I think of the far East, and kee_olling the names of Eastern cities under my tongue: Damascus and Bagdad, Medina and Mecca. I spent a week last month in the company of a returne_issionary, who told me I ought to be ashamed to be loafing about Europe whe_here are such big things to be seen out there. I do want to explore, but _hink I would rather explore over in the Rue de l'Universite. Do you ever hea_rom that pretty lady? If you can get her to promise she will be at home th_ext time I call, I will go back to Paris straight. I am more than ever in th_tate of mind I told you about that evening; I want a first-class wife. I hav_ept an eye on all the pretty girls I have come across this summer, but non_f them came up to my notion, or anywhere near it. I should have enjoyed al_his a thousand times more if I had had the lady just mentioned by my side.
The nearest approach to her was a Unitarian minister from Boston, who ver_oon demanded a separation, for incompatibility of temper. He told me I wa_ow-minded, immoral, a devotee of 'art for art'—whatever that is: all of whic_reatly afflicted me, for he was really a sweet little fellow. But shortl_fterwards I met an Englishman, with whom I struck up an acquaintance which a_irst seemed to promise well—a very bright man, who writes in the Londo_apers and knows Paris nearly as well as Tristram. We knocked about for a wee_ogether, but he very soon gave me up in disgust. I was too virtuous by half; I was too stern a moralist. He told me, in a friendly way, that I was curse_ith a conscience; that I judged things like a Methodist and talked about the_ike an old lady. This was rather bewildering. Which of my two critics was _o believe? I didn't worry about it and very soon made up my mind they wer_oth idiots. But there is one thing in which no one will ever have th_mpudence to pretend I am wrong, that is, in being your faithful friend,