A Cure for the Blues Part 3

The hero climbs up over "Sawney's Mountain," and down the other side,
making for an old Indian "castle"--which becomes "the red man's hut"
in the next sentence; and when he gets there at last, he "surveys
with wonder and astonishment" the invisible structure, "which time
has buried in the dust, and thought to himself his happiness was
not yet complete." One doesn't know why it wasn't, nor how near it
came to being complete, nor what was still wanting to round it up
and make it so. Maybe it was the Indian; but the book does not say.
At this point we have an episode:


Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man, about eighteen or twenty,
who seemed to be reading some favorite book, and who had a remarkably
noble countenance--eyes which betrayed more than a common mind.
This of course made the youth a welcome guest, and gained him
friends in whatever condition of his life he might be placed.
The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure which showed
strength and grace in every movement. He accordingly addressed
him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way
to the village. After he had received the desired information,
and was about taking his leave, the youth said, "Are you not
Major Elfonzo, the great musician [2]--the champion of a noble cause--
the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?"
"I bear that name," said the Major, "and those titles,
trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry
me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,"
continued the Major, "you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds,
I should like to make you my confidant and learn your address."
The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment,
and began: "My name is Roswell. I have been recently admitted
to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success
in that honorable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall
look down from the lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall
ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity,
and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be
called from its buried GREATNESS." The Major grasped him by the hand,
and exclaimed: "O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration--thou flame
of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare
of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede
your progress!"


There is a strange sort of originality about McClintock;
he imitates other people's styles, but nobody can imitate his,
not even an idiot. Other people can be windy, but McClintock blows
a gale; other people can blubber sentiment, but McClintock spews it;
other people can mishandle metaphors, but only McClintock knows
how to make a business of it. McClintock is always McClintock,
he is always consistent, his style is always his own style. He does
not make the mistake of being relevant on one page and irrelevant
on another; he is irrelevant on all of them. He does not make
the mistake of being lucid in one place and obscure in another;
he is obscure all the time. He does not make the mistake of slipping
in a name here and there that is out of character with his work;
he always uses names that exactly and fantastically fit his lunatics.
In the matter of undeviating consistency he stands alone in authorship.
It is this that makes his style unique, and entitles it to a name
of its own--McClintockian. It is this that protects it from being
mistaken for anybody else's. Uncredited quotations from other writers
often leave a reader in doubt as to their authorship, but McClintock
is safe from that accident; an uncredited quotation from him would
always be recognizable. When a boy nineteen years old, who had
just been admitted to the bar, says, "I trust, sir, like the Eagle,
I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man,"
we know who is speaking through that boy; we should recognize
that note anywhere. There be myriads of instruments in this
world's literary orchestra, and a multitudinous confusion of sounds
that they make, wherein fiddles are drowned, and guitars smothered,
and one sort of drum mistaken for another sort; but whensoever the
brazen note of the McClintockian trombone breaks through that fog
of music, that note is recognizable, and about it there can be no blur
of doubt.

The novel now arrives at the point where the Major goes home to see
his father. When McClintock wrote this interview he probably
believed it was pathetic.


The road which led to the town presented many attractions Elfonzo
had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was now wending
his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness. The south winds
whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed against the banks,
as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars. This brought him to
remember while alone, that he quietly left behind the hospitality
of a father's house, and gladly entered the world, with higher hopes
than are often realized. But as he journeyed onward, he was mindful
of the advice of his father, who had often looked sadly on the ground,
when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened his eyes. Elfonzo had
been somewhat a dutiful son; yet fond of the amusements of life--
had been in distant lands--had enjoyed the pleasure of the world,
and had frequently returned to the scenes of his boyhood,
almost destitute of many of the comforts of life. In this condition,
he would frequently say to his father, "Have I offended you,
that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon me with
stinging looks? Will you not favor me with the sound of your voice?
If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread a humid veil
of darkness around your expectations, send me back into the world,
where no heart beats for me--where the foot of man had never yet trod;
but give me at least one kind word--allow me to come into the presence
sometimes of thy winter-worn locks." "Forbid it, Heaven, that I
should be angry with thee," answered the father, "my son, and yet
I send thee back to the children of the world--to the cold charity
of the combat, and to a land of victory. I read another destiny
in thy countenance--I learn thy inclinations from the flame that has
already kindled in my soul a strange sensation. It will seek thee,
my dear ELFONZO, it will find thee--thou canst not escape that
lighted torch, which shall blot out from the remembrance of men
a long train of prophecies which they have foretold against thee.
I once thought not so. Once, I was blind; but now the path of life
is plain before me, and my sight is clear; yet, Elfonzo, return to thy
worldly occupation--take again in thy hand that chord of sweet sounds--
struggle with the civilized world and with your own heart;
fly swiftly to the enchanted ground--let the night-OWL send forth
its screams from the stubborn oak--let the sea sport upon the beach,
and the stars sing together; but learn of these, Elfonzo, thy doom,
and thy hiding-place. Our most innocent as well as our most lawful
DESIRES must often be denied us, that we may learn to sacrifice them
to a Higher will."

Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately
urged by the recollection of his father's family to keep moving.