"Well," says he, thinking no more about that, and chuckling at his proofs
again. "But I am in print! The first flight of ambition emanating from
my father's lowly cot is realised at length! The golden bow"--he was
getting on,--"struck by the magic hand, has emitted a complete and
perfect sound! When did this happen, my Christopher?"

"Which happen, sir?"

"This," he held it out at arms length to admire it,--"this Per-rint."

When I had given him my detailed account of it, he grasped me by the hand
again, and said:

"Dear Christopher, it should be gratifying to you to know that you are an
instrument in the hands of Destiny. Because you _are_."

A passing Something of a melancholy cast put it into my head to shake it,
and to say, "Perhaps we all are."

"I don't mean that," he answered; "I don't take that wide range; I
confine myself to the special case. Observe me well, my Christopher!
Hopeless of getting rid, through any effort of my own, of any of the
manuscripts among my Luggage,--all of which, send them where I would,
were always coming back to me,--it is now some seven years since I left
that Luggage here, on the desperate chance, either that the too, too
faithful manuscripts would come back to me no more, or that some one less
accursed than I might give them to the world. You follow me, my
Christopher?"

"Pretty well, sir." I followed him so far as to judge that he had a weak
head, and that the Orange, the Boiling, and Old Brown combined was
beginning to tell. (The Old Brown, being heady, is best adapted to
seasoned cases.)

"Years elapsed, and those compositions slumbered in dust. At length,
Destiny, choosing her agent from all mankind, sent You here, Christopher,
and lo! the Casket was burst asunder, and the Giant was free!"

He made hay of his hair after he said this, and he stood a-tiptoe.

"But," he reminded himself in a state of excitement, "we must sit up all
night, my Christopher. I must correct these Proofs for the press. Fill
all the inkstands, and bring me several new pens."

He smeared himself and he smeared the Proofs, the night through, to that
degree that when Sol gave him warning to depart (in a four-wheeler), few
could have said which was them, and which was him, and which was blots.
His last instructions was, that I should instantly run and take his
corrections to the office of the present Journal. I did so. They most
likely will not appear in print, for I noticed a messa