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ABOU BEN ADHEM was called upon one morning
in the last moon by a young man of nineteen,
who had walked all the way from Sussex County to
consult him.

Abou was not in the humor to shed wisdom, for
he had been disappointed. He had been trying the
experiment of transmuting metals, hoping to arrive
at the secret of manufacturing gold. He had the
required ingredients in the crucible, he had repeated
the magic formula, and at the critical moment, when
the star Xermes was entering the remote apex of the
sublunar constellation Capsicum, he had dropped
into the seething metals the required ounce of virgin
gold.

For the sake of effect he had used for this purpose
the head of a cane, which had been presented to him
by a certain corporation, for his services in lobbying
through the Legislature a most villanous fraud in
which it was interested. He could have used other
gold, but he thought the effect would be better to
use this. He wanted to see a picture of himself in

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the illustrated papers, breaking off this gold head,
with an account of how he had spent all his means to
carry on the experiments, until finally, just at the
threshold of success, he had to have an ounce of
gold. Where was he to get it? Ha! There was
the cane! True, it was a valued memento, but, in
the interest of science, it must go! That was his
idea.

To his surprise the result was not gold, and he
wondered at it till he investigated. Then he discovered
that the head of that cane was nothing but
Milton gold, and that the whole affair had been bought
at a dollar store. Then did Abou inveigh against the
frauds and deceptions of a wicked world.

Abou looked up and saw the young man, and knew
his errand at once. He had a broad, white forehead,
a turn-over collar, and wore his hair long in ringlets.

“Well,” said the magician, with an unusual degree
of acerbity, “what wouldst thou with me?”

“Mighty Abou,” replied the youth, prostrating
himself three times, “my name is James Parkinson
Peters. My first business is to offer, as a tribute to
your genius, — which is only equalled by your goodness, —
this package of the distilled product of the
New Jersey orchard.”

Abou unrolled it, smelled it, and remarking to
himself, “Apple-jack,” said, —

“I accept it in the spirit in which it is tendered.
Dear to the heart of the sage are the words of approval
of young men of taste; dearer is the distilled juice
of the apple — when it is old and mellow. But what

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else dost come for? What says Hafiz, the Seer of
Sangamon County? `He who comes full-handed
expects to go away fuller-handed.' Be modest in your
asking, young man, lest I repent me of taking your
nectar. Drive on your cart, gentle youth.”

Mighty Abou, tell me, ah! tell me, is there any
such thing as winning a name that will echo down the
ages?”

“Echo down the what?”

“Down the ages, which is to say, Is there such a
thing as imperishable fame?”

“Young man, I understand you. You hanker for
immortality; you would have the name of J. Parkinson
Peters remembered to the end of time, as it
were. Is that the desire that is consuming you?”

“Mighty Abou, it is.”

“J. Parkinson Peters, a more asinine thought
never entered an idiot's head; but we all have it at
some period of our respective lives. I know of but
one cure for it, and this fortunately I have about my
person. Here, J. P. P., is a brick. That brick is
from Egypt and is only perhaps five thousand years
old. You see those characters? You can't read
them — I can. That brick has on it a record of
the kings of the old Memphian monarchy which
preceded the Ptolemies. Those Memphian monarchs
were no small potatoes. In the art of scooping other
nations they were equalled by few and excelled by
none. Their names filled the world in their day, and
every monarch of them died supposing his name
would go echoing down the ages. Now, you are a

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young man of ordinary intelligence. Well, did you
ever hear of Wunpare? He was the first of them.
No! Well, he had armies, and generals, and commissaries,
and was actually a great king. He gave battle
to Toopare and was beaten. Toopare was in turn
beaten by Threeze, who was ignominiously routed by
Strate, who succumbed in turn to Phlush, who was
beaten by Acephull, who held on a little while, laying
out Forephlush and Threjax, only to meet his
doom at the hands of Foreuvakind, who in turn was
made a cold corpse by Stratephlush.

“Now, my young friend, the great Stratephlush,
being the best of them all, was sure of his immortality,
and he really believed that future ages would
celebrate his deeds in prose and verse; and the egregious
ass built a pyramid or two to perpetuate his
name.

“Where now, O idiot! is Stratephlush and his memory?
A few sages like myself, who know all things,
know the name, but no more; and only such of us
as can decipher cuneiform writing. Practically the
great conqueror Stratephlush is no more known than
is the tailor who made the breeches in which he went
forth to do battle. He made history, and what is it?
A line in a dull book, and a brick! Even we sages
cannot come at the time of his reign into a thousand
years. He lived, fought, ruled, and died. He went
to death with philanthropists, tailors, dentists, lightning-rod
men, reformers, life-insurance agents, missionaries,
cabinet officers, prostitutes, explorers, advertising
agents, preachers, auctioneers, and

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lecturers. The cold waters of oblivion cover them all.
Stratephlush is no more remembered than is the Ben
Butler of his Congress, and neither of them are any
better known than are the people they swindled.
The skull of Stratephlush and that of his shoemaker
cannot to-day be distinguished. We thought we had
Stratephlush's skull, but it turned out afterward that
it was a woman's skull, which was determined by the
filling in the teeth. Imagine the feelings of the ghost
of Stratephlush when he saw the savans worshipping
a woman's skull supposing it to be his!

“As it was with the ancients, so will it be with the
moderns. The Brobinding nag of to-day will be the
Liliputian of the next century. I do not suppose
that even my name will live forever.

“My son, all this that you are hankering after is a
delusion and snare; but life is not barren for all that.
I believe there is a future (as everybody does), for
the reason that I hold this life to be altogether too
short to reward me for my virtues, and that an eternity
is not too long to punish my enemies. I make
this life of use in getting up my moral muscle. I am
in training in this world to make as respectable a
ghost as possible in the next. But I am not going
for fame to any extent, nor do I care about being
noted. I leave that for showmen and patent medicine
men. I indulge in no visions of monuments
and vanities of that nature. I would n't give a brass
sequin for all the stone that could be piled up to commemorate
my virtues. If a grateful people want to
build a monument for me, after I am gone, let them

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come to me now, and say so, and I will discount the
cost of it twenty-five per cent for cash in hand. I
can use the shekels now: after I am gone they will
never do me a particle of good. The statue will not
be like me, and if it is I shall not have the ability to
thank them.

“Go home, young man, go home. Go about your
legitimate vocation, whatever it may be, and stick
by it. Live right along, take all the comfort you
can, be as happy as possible, and when you die,
count it as certain that, so far as this world is concerned,
you have died all over. Go and be
happy!”

And Abou dismissed him, and resumed his experiments.

p632-108

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