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However, I will take that precaution with the next lot I have printed."

66

Majah Dennett would like to speak with you, sah," said Martin, the porter.

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Although I am very busy with this mail, you may show him in," remarked Major Hurlbut.

Major Dennett pigeon-toed his way into the new editor's presence, and was loftily waved to a chair, in which he dropped, and sat with his toes turned in. Major Hurlbut heaved a weary sigh, ran his fingers through his hair, and regarded his visitor with a condescending stare.

"This is a busy hour with us editors," said Major Hurlbut, "therefore I hope you will state your business as succinctly as possible."

"I merely called to receive orders," explained Major Dennett, with an astonished look.

"Perhaps you

"Orders for what?" cried Major Hurlbut. forget, sir, that I am out of the drug business, and am an editor. Permit me, sir, to hand you one of my professional cards."

"You mistake me, sir," replied Major Dennett; "I am connected with this paper, and have been managing editor for years." Major Hurlbut's manner changed instantly. His cold reserve melted at once, and he became docile as a sucking-dove.

"My dear Major," he exclaimed cordially, "I am overjoyed to meet you. Draw your chair closer, and let us converse together upon matters which concern us both. Each of us has the interests of this great paper at heart; but I, as the head of the institution, have a fearful responsibility resting upon my shoulders. It behooves you to assist me; and, as the first and most important step, I must beg of you to inform me what is expected of me as an editor. I am willing and anxious to edit, but how can I?"

Major Dennett undertook to explain a few of the duties which would fall upon the editor's shoulders, and would have continued talking all day, had not the venerable Major Andre Matteson been ushered into the room, thereby interrupting the conversation. Upon being formally introduced to the new editor, Major Matteson inquired what the policy of The Times would be henceforward touching the tariff, the civil service, the war in the Soudan, and the doctrine of the transmigration of souls.

"I have not decided fully what the policy of the paper will be in these minor matters," quoth Major Hurlbut, "except that we shall favor the abolition of the tariff on quinine, cochineal, and other drugs and dyestuffs. I have made up my mind, however, to advocate the opening of a boulevard in Fleabottom subdivision; and, as you are one of the editorial writers, Major Matteson, I would like to have you compose a piece about the folly of extending the Thirtieth Street sewer through the Bosbyshell subdivision. And you may give the firm of Brown, Jones & Co. a raking over, for they have seriously interfered with the sale of my lots out in that part of the city."

Major George McConnell and Major Guy Magee filed into the room at this juncture, and were formally presented to

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editor Hurlbut, who looked impressive, and received them with a dignity that would have

done credit to a pagan court.

HIS FIRST DAY AT EDITING.

"I had hoped to be in a position to boom the city department of the paper," said Major Magee, "but I find that three of the reporters are sick with headache to-day."

"Sick? What appears to be the matter?" asked the editor. "I did'nt ask them," replied Major Magee; "but they said they had headaches."

"They should try bromide of potassium, tincture of valerian. and aromatic spirits of ammonia," observed Major Hurlbut. "By the way, whenever any of our editors or reporters get sick, they should come to me; for I can give them prescriptions that will fix them up in less than no time."

"I presume the policy of the paper touching the theatres will remain unchanged?" inquired Major McConnell.

"That reminds me," said Major Hurlbut: "who gets the show-tickets?"

"Well, I have attended to that detail heretofore," replied Major McConnell.

"We get as many as we want, don't we?" asked Major Hurlbut. "Certainly," said Major McConnell.

"Well, then, we must give the shows good notices," said the editor;" and, by the way, I would like to have you leave six tickets with me every morning; they will come in mighty handy, you know, among friends. Do we get railroad-passes too?

"Yes, all we want," said Major Dennett.

“I am glad I am an editor," said Major Hurlbut, softly but feelingly.

The foreman came in.

"Shall we set it in nonpareil to-night?" he asked.

"Eh?" ejaculated Editor Hurlbut.

"Does nonpareil go?" repeated the foreman.

"What has he been doing?" inquired Editor Hurlbut.

"The minion is so bad that we ought to put the paper in nonpareil," exclaimed the foreman.

"It must be understood," thundered Major Hurlbut, "that no bad minions will be tolerated on the premises. If there is any minion here who is dissatisfied, let him quit at once."

"Then I am to fire the minion?" asked the foreman.

"No," said Major Hurlbut, "do not fire him, for that would constitute arson; discharge him, but use no violence."

We deeply regret that this astute mandate was followed by an interchange of sundry smiles, nods and winks between the foreman and the members of the editorial staff, which, however, Major Hurlbut did not see, or he most assuredly would have reproved this unseemly and mal-apropos levity.

And so they talked and talked. And each moment Major Hurlbut became more and more impressed with the importance and solemnity of the new dignity he had attained, and each moment he became more and more impressive in his mien and conversation. And each moment, too, he silently and devoutly thanked High Heaven that in its goodness and mercy it had called him to the ennobling profession of journalism.

ABELARD AND HELOISE

BY MARK TWAIN.

AMONG the thousands and thousands of tombs in Père la Chaise, there is one that no man, no woman, no youth of either sex ever passes by without stopping to examine. Every visitor has a sort of indistinct idea of the history of its dead, and comprehends that homage is due there, but not one in twenty thousand clearly remembers the story of that tomb and its romantic occupants. This is the grave of Abelard and Heloise-a grave which has been more revered, more widely known, more written and sung about and wept over for seven hundred years than any other in Christendom, save only that of the Saviour. All visitors linger pensively about it; all young people capture and carry away keepsakes and mementoes of it; all Parisian youths and maidens who are disappointed in love come there to bail out when they are full of tears; yea, many stricken lovers make pilgrimages to this shrine from distant provinces to weep and wail and "grit" their teeth over their heavy sorrows, and to purchase the sympathies of the chastened spirits of that tomb with offerings of immortelles and budding flowers.

Go when you will, you find somebody snuffling over that tomb. Go when you will, you find it furnished with those bouquets and immortelles. Go when you will, you find a gravel-train from Marseilles arriving to supply the deficiencies caused by mementocabbaging vandals whose affections have miscarried.

Yet who really knows the story of Abelard and Heloise? Precious few people. The names are perfectly familiar to everybody, and that is about all. With infinite pains I have acquired a knowledge of that history, and I propose to narrate it here, partly for the honest information of the public, and partly to show that public that they have been wasting a good deal of marketable sentiment very unnecessarily.

STORY OF ABELARD AND HELOISE.

Heloise was born seven hundred and sixty-six years ago. She may have had parents. There is no telling. She lived with her uncle Fulbert, a canon of the Cathedral of Paris. I do not know

what a canon of a cathedral is, but that is what he was. He was nothing more than a sort of mountain howitzer, likely; because they had no heavy artillery in those days. Suffice it, then, that Heloise lived with her uncle, the howitzer, and was happy. She spent the most of her childhood in the convent of Argenteuil. (Never heard of Argenteuil before, but suppose there was really such a place.) She then returned to her uncle, the old gun-or son of a gun, as the case may be-and he taught her to write and speak Latin, which was the language of literature and polite society at that period.

Just at this time Pierre Abelard, who had already made himself widely famous as a rhetorician, came to found a school of rhetoric in Paris. The originality of his principles, his eloquence, and his great physical strength and beauty created a profound sensation. He saw Heloise, and was captivated by her blooming youth, her beauty and her charming disposition. He wrote to her; she answered. He wrote again; she answered again. He was now in love. He longed to know her to speak to her face to face.

His school was near Fulbert's house. He asked Fulbert to allow him to call. The good old swivel saw here a rare opportunity; his niece, whom he so much loved, would absorb knowledge from this man, and it would not cost him a cent. Such was Fulbert-penurious.

Fulbert's first name is not mentioned by any author, which is unfortunate. However, George W. Fulbert will answer for him as well as any other. We will let him go at that. He asked Abelard to teach her.

Abelard was glad enough of the opportunity. He came often and stayed long. A letter of his shows in its very first sentence that he came under that friendly roof like a cold-hearted villain, as he was, with the deliberate intention of debauching a confiding, innocent girl. This is the letter:

"I cannot cease to be astonished at the simplicity of Fulbert; I was as much surprised as if he had placed a lamb in the power of a hungry wolf. Heloise and I, under pretext of study, gave ourselves up wholly to love, and the solitude that love seeks our studies procured for us. Books were open

before us; but we spoke oftener of love than philosophy, and kisses came more readily from our lips than words."

And so, exulting over an honorable confidence, which, to his

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