A BURLESQUE AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

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TWO or three persons having at different
times intimated that if I would
write an autobiography they would read
it when they got leisure, I yield at last to this
frenzied public demand, and herewith tender
my history:

Ours is a noble old house, and stretches a
long way back into antiquity. The earliest ancestor
the Twains have any record of was a
friend of the family by the name of Higgins.
This was in the eleventh century, when our
people were living in Aberdeen, county of
Cork, England. Why it is that our long line
has ever since borne the maternal name (except
when one of them now and then took a playful
refuge in an alias to avert foolishness), instead
of Higgins, is a mystery which none of us has

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ever felt much desire to stir. It is a kind of
vague, pretty romance, and we leave it alone.
All the old families do that way.

Arthour Twain was a man of considerable
note—a solicitor on the highway in William
Rufus' time. At about the age of thirty he
went to one of those fine old English places of
resort called Newgate, to see about something,
and never returned again. While there he died
suddenly.

Augustus Twain seems to have made something
of a stir about the year 1160. He was
as full of fun as he could be, and used to take
his old sabre and sharpen it up, and get in a
convenient place on a dark night, and stick it
through people as they went by, to see them
jump. He was a born humorist. But he got
to going too far with it; and the first time he
was found stripping one of these parties, the
authorities removed one end of him, and put it
up on a nice high place on Temple Bar, where
it could contemplate the people and have a
good time. He never liked any situation so
much or stuck to it so long.

Then for the next two hundred years the

The House That Jack Built. [figure description] Page 005. Image of a story title-page. In the center of the image is a human with an enlarged donkey head, dressed in suit and glasses, holding onto the front of a train car. In the background are men working on building a house.[end figure description]

Our Family Tree [figure description] Page 006. Image of a scroll, curling at both ends. In the center is a gallows, with an owl perched on top and a man hanging from a noose. The caption at the bottom reads "our family tree".[end figure description]

family tree shows a succession of soldiers—
noble, high-spirited fellows, who always went
into battle singing, right behind the army, and
always went out a-whooping, right ahead of it.

This is a scathing rebuke to old dead Froissart's
poor witticism that our family tree never
had but one limb to it, and that that one stuck
out at right angles, and bore fruit winter and
summer.

Early in the fifteenth century we have Beau
Twain, called “the Scholar.” He wrote a beautiful,
beautiful hand. And he could imitate anybody's
hand so closely that it was enough to make
a person laugh his head off to see it. He had

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infinite sport with his talent. But by and by he
took a contract to break stone for a road, and the
roughness of the work spoiled his hand. Still,
he enjoyed life all the time he was in the stone
business, which, with inconsiderable intervals,
was some forty-two years. In fact, he died in
harness. During all those long years he gave
such satisfaction that he never was through
with one contract a week till government gave
him another. He was a perfect pet. And he
was always a favorite with his fellow-artists,
and was a conspicuous member of their benevolent
secret society, called the Chain Gang.
He always wore his hair short, had a preference
for striped clothes, and died lamented by
the government. He was a sore loss to his
country. For he was so regular.

Some years later we have the illustrious John
Morgan Twain. He came over to this country
with Columbus in 1492, as a passenger. He
appears to have been of a crusty, uncomfortable
disposition. He complained of the food all
the way over, and was always threatening to go
ashore unless there was a change. He wanted
fresh shad. Hardly a day passed over his head

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that he did not go idling about the ship with
his nose in the air, sneering about the commander,
and saying he did not believe Columbus
knew where he was going to or had ever
been there before. The memorable cry of
“Land ho!” thrilled every heart in the ship
but his. He gazed a while through a piece of
smoked glass at the penciled line lying on the
distant water, and then said: “Land be hanged,—
it's a raft!”

When this questionable passenger came on
board the ship, he brought nothing with him
but an old newspaper containing a handkerchief
marked “B. G.,” one cotton sock marked
“L. W. C.” one woollen one marked “D. F.”
and a night-shirt marked “O. M. R.” And yet
during the voyage he worried more about his
“trunk,” and gave himself more airs about it,
than all the rest of the passengers put together.
If the ship was “down by the head,” and would
not steer, he would go and move his “trunk”
further aft, and then watch the effect. If the
ship was “by the stern,” he would suggest to
Columbus to detail some men to “shift that
baggage.” In storms he had to be gagged, be

This is the House that Jack built. [figure description] Page 009. Image of large train depot, with ERIE on the front. There are three cavernous openings, out of which a train is leaving with smoke plumes pouring out of its stack.[end figure description]

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cause his wailings about his “trunk” made it
impossible for the men to hear the orders.
The man does not appear to have been openly
charged with any gravely unbecoming thing,
but it is noted in the ship's log as a “curious
circumstance” that albeit he brought his baggage
on board the ship in a newspaper, he took
it ashore in four trunks, a queensware crate, and
a couple of champagne baskets. But when he
came back insinuating in an insolent, swaggering
way, that some of his things were missing,
and was going to search the other passengers'
baggage, it was too much, and they threw him
overboard. They watched long and wonderingly
for him to come up, but not even a bubble
rose on the quietly ebbing tide. But while
every one was most absorbed in gazing over the
side, and the interest was momentarily increasing,
it was observed with consternation that the
vessel was adrift and the anchor cable hanging
limp from the bow. Then in the ship's dimmed
and ancient log we find this quaint note:

“In time it was discouvered yt ye troblesome passenger
hadde gonne downe and got ye anchor, and toke ye same and
solde it to ye dam sauvages from ye interior, saying yt he hadde
founde it ye sonne of a ghun!”

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Yet this ancestor had good and noble instincts,
and it is with pride that we call to
mind the fact that he was the first white person
who ever interested himself in the work of
elevating and civilizing our Indians. He built
a commodious jail and put up a gallows, and to
his dying day he claimed with satisfaction that
he had had a more restraining and elevating
influence on the Indians than any other reformer
that ever labored among them. At this
point the chronicle becomes less frank and
chatty, and closes abruptly by saying that the
old voyager went to see his gallows perform
on the first white man ever hanged in America,
and while there received injuries which terminated
in his death.

The great grandson of the “Reformer” flourished
in sixteen hundred and something, and
was known in our annals as “the old Admiral,”
though in history he had other titles. He was
long in command of fleets of swift vessels, well
armed and manned, and did great service in
hurrying up merchantmen. Vessels which he
followed and kept his eagle eye on, always made
good fair time across the ocean. But if a ship

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still loitered in spite of all he could do, his indignation
would grow till he could contain himself
no longer—and then he would take that
ship home where he lived and keep it there
carefully, expecting the owners to come for it,
but they never did. And he would try to get
the idleness and sloth out of the sailors of that
ship by compelling them to take invigorating
exercise and a bath. He called it “walking a
plank.” All the pupils liked it. At any rate,
they never found any fault with it after trying
it. When the owners were late coming for their
ships, the Admiral always burned them, so that
the insurance money should not be lost. At
last this fine old tar was cut down in the fulness
of his years and honors. And to her dying
day, his poor heart-broken widow believed that
if he had been cut down fifteen minutes sooner
he might have been resuscitated.

Charles Henry Twain lived during the latter
part of the seventeenth century, and was a zealous
and distinguished missionary. He converted
sixteen thousand South Sea islanders, and taught
them that a dog-tooth necklace and a pair of
spectacles was not enough clothing to come to

This is the Malt that lay in the
House that Jack built. [figure description] Page 013. Image of sacks of money. Each sack is humanized with smiling faces.[end figure description]

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divine service in. His poor flock loved him
very, very dearly; and when his funeral was
over, they got up in a body (and came out of
the restaurant) with tears in their eyes, and
saying, one to another, that he was a good
tender missionary, and they wished they had
some more of him.

Pah-go-to-wah-wah-pukketekeewis (Mighty-Hunter-with-a-Hog-Eye)
Twain adorned the
middle of the eighteenth century, and aided
Gen. Braddock with all his heart to resist the
oppressor Washington. It was this ancestor
who fired seventeen times at our Washington
from behind a tree. So far the beautiful romantic
narrative in the moral story-books is correct;
but when that narrative goes on to say
that at the seventeenth round the awe-stricken
savage said solemnly that that man was being
reserved by the Great Spirit for some mighty
mission, and he dared not lift his sacrilegious
rifle against him again, the narrative seriously
impairs the integrity of history. What he did
say was:

“It ain't no (hic!) no use. 'At man's so drunk
he can't stan' still long enough for a man to hit

This is the Rat that ate the Malt that lay in the
House that Jack built. [figure description] Page 015. Image of a giant rat with a moustached man's head. The rat is dressed in the garb of an officer, complete with sword, and is feeding off the sacks of money. In the background are two buildings, one labeled harem and one opera.[end figure description]

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him. I (hic!) I can't 'ford to fool away any
more am'nition on him!”

That was why he stopped at the seventeenth
round, and it was a good plain matter-of-fact
reason, too, and one that easily commends itself
to us by the eloquent, persuasive flavor of probability
there is about it.

I always enjoyed the story-book narrative, but
I felt a marring misgiving that every Indian at
Braddock's Defeat who fired at a soldier a
couple of times (two easily grows to seventeen
in a century), and missed him, jumped to the
conclusion that the Great Spirit was reserving
that soldier for some grand mission; and so I
somehow feared that the only reason why
Washington's case is remembered and the
others forgotten is, that in his the prophecy
came true, and in that of the others it didn't.
There are not books enough on earth to contain
the record of the prophecies Indians and
other unauthorized parties have made; but one
may carry in his overcoat pockets the record
of all the prophecies that have been fulfilled.

I will remark here, in passing, that certain
ancestors of mine are so thoroughly well known

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in history by their aliases, that I have not felt
it to be worth while to dwell upon them, or
even mention them in the order of their birth.
Among these may be mentioned Richard
Brinsley Twain, alias Guy Fawkes; John
Wentworth Twain, alias Sixteen-String Jack;
William Hogarth Twain, alias Jack Sheppard;
Ananias Twain, alias Baron Munchausen; John
George Twain, alias Capt. Kydd; and then
there are George Francis Train, Tom Pepper,
Nebuchadnezzar and Baalam's Ass—they all
belong to our family, but to a branch of it
somewhat distantly removed from the honorable
direct line—in fact, a collateral branch, whose
members chiefly differ from the ancient stock
in that, in order to acquire the notoriety we
have always yearned and hungered for, they
have got into a low way of going to jail instead
of getting hanged.

It is not well, when writing an autobiography,
to follow your ancestry down too close to your
own time—it is safest to speak only vaguely of
your great-grandfather, and then skip from there
to yourself, which I now do.

I was born without teeth—and there Richard

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III had the advantage of me; but I was born
without a humpback, likewise, and there I had
the advantage of him. My parents were neither
very poor nor conspicuously honest.

But now a thought occurs to me. My own
history would really seem so tame contrasted
with that of my ancestors, that it is simply wisdom
to leave it unwritten until I am hanged.
If some other biographies I have read had
stopped with the ancestry until a like event
occurred, it would have been a felicitous thing
for the reading public. How does it strike
you?

This is the Cat that caught the rat that ate the malt
that lay in the House that Jack built. [figure description] Page 019. Image of a cat, with giant human head, chasing the rat out of the sacks of money. The cat is wearing a long jacket and wide-brimmed hat. The head is that of a balding gentleman with full beard and glasses.[end figure description]

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AWFUL, TERRIBLE MEDIEVAL ROMANCE.

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CHAPTER I. THE SECRET REVEALED.

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IT was night. Stillness reigned in the
grand old feudal castle of Klugenstein.
The year 1222 was drawing to a close.
Far away up in the tallest of the castle's
towers a single light glimmered. A secret
council was being held there. The stern old
lord of Klugenstein sat in a chair of state
meditating. Presently he said, with a tender
accent:

“My daughter!”

A young man of noble presence, clad from
head to heel in knightly mail, answered:

“Speak, father!”

“My daughter, the time is come for the revealing
of the mystery that hath puzzled all

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your young life. Know, then, that it had its
birth in the matters which I shall now unfold.
My brother Ulrich is the great Duke
of Brandenburgh. Our father, on his deathbed,
decreed that if no son were born to
Ulrich, the succession should pass to my house,
provided a son were born to me. And further,
in case no son were born to either, but only
daughters, then the succession should pass to
Ulrich's daughter, if she proved stainless; if
she did not, my daughter should succeed,
if she retained a blameless name. And so I,
and my old wife here, prayed fervently for
the good boon of a son, but the prayer was
vain. You were born to us. I was in despair.
I saw the mighty prize slipping from
my grasp, the splendid dream vanishing away.
And I had been so hopeful! Five years had
Ulrich lived in wedlock, and yet his wife had
borne no heir of either sex.

“ `But hold,' I said, `all is not lost.' A
saving scheme had shot athwart my brain.
You were born at midnight. Only the leech,
the nurse, and six waiting-women knew your
sex. I hanged them every one before an hour

This is the Dog that "worried" the cat that caught
the rat that ate the malt that lay in the House
that Jack built. [figure description] Page 025. Image of the cat sitting at a desk writing on a scroll with a quill pen grasped in his paws, with paper spread around his feet and the Tribune sticking out of his jacket pocket. Near his feet is a very tiny dog, with a human head, barking at him. The head is that of a balding man with a rather large beard. The collar on the dog says "SUN".[end figure description]

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had sped. Next morning all the barony went
mad with rejoicing over the proclamation that
a son was born to Klugenstein, an heir to
mighty Brandenburgh! And well the secret
has been kept. Your mother's own sister nursed
your infancy, and from that time forward we
feared nothing.

“When you were ten years old, a daughter
was born to Ulrich. We grieved, but hoped
for good results from measles, or physicians, or
other natural enemies of infancy, but were always
disappointed. She lived, she throve—
Heaven's malison upon her! But it is nothing.
We are safe. For, Ha-ha! have we not a son?
And is not our son the future Duke? Our
well-beloved Conrad, is it not so?—for, woman
of eight-and-twenty years as you are, my child,
none other name than that hath ever fallen to
you!

“Now it hath come to pass that age hath
laid its hand upon my brother, and he waxes
feeble. The cares of state do tax him sore.
Therefore he wills that you shall come to him
and be already Duke in act, though not yet in

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name. Your servitors are ready—you journey
forth to-night.

“Now listen well. Remember every word I
say. There is a law as old as Germany that if
any woman sit for a single instant in the great
ducal chair before she hath been absolutely
crowned in presence of the people, SHE SHALL
DIE! So heed my words. Pretend humility.
Pronounce your judgments from the Premier's
chair, which stands at the foot of the throne.
Do this until you are crowned and safe. It is
not likely that your sex will ever be discovered;
but still it is the part of wisdom to make
all things as safe as may be in this treacherous
earthly life.”

“Oh, my father, is it for this my life hath
been a lie! Was it that I might cheat my unoffending
cousin of her rights? Spare me,
father, spare your child!”

“What, huzzy! Is this my reward for the
august fortune my brain has wrought for thee?
By the bones of my father, this puling sentiment
of thine but ill accords with my humor.

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Betake thee to the Duke, instantly! And beware
how thou meddlest with my purpose!”

Let this suffice, of the conversation. It is
enough for us to know that the prayers, the
entreaties and the tears of the gentle-natured
girl availed nothing. They nor anything could
move the stout old lord of Klugenstein. And
so, at last, with a heavy heart, the daughter
saw the castle gates close behind her, and
found herself riding away in the darkness surrounded
by a knightly array of armed vassals
and a brave following of servants.

The old baron sat silent for many minutes
after his daughter's departure, and then he
turned to his sad wife and said:

“Dame, our matters seem speeding fairly. It
is full three months since I sent the shrewd
and handsome Count Detzin on his devilish
mission to my brother's daughter Constance.
If he fail, we are not wholly safe;
but if he do succeed, no power can bar
our girl from being Duchess e'en though
ill fortune should decree she never should be
Duke!”

This is the Cow with the crumpled horn that tossed
the dog that worried the cat that caught the rat that ate
the malt that lay in the House that Jack built.
NOTE.—The brand ‘T G. P.’ may possibly refer to The Great Public or The
Great People, or something like that. [figure description] Page 029. Image of a cow with a twisted horn standing in front of a church with a very tall steeple. The cow is looking up into the sky at the dog, which she has just tossed into the air. In the distance is a hot-air balloon. The cow's crumpled horn has "Barnad's Court" written upon it, and on her back are the letters TGP. There is a note to the image that reads, "NOTE.—The brand `T.G.P.' may possibly refer to The Great Public or The Great People, or something like that."[end figure description]

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“My heart is full of bodings, yet all may still
be well.”

“Tush, woman! Leave the owls to croak.
To bed with ye, and dream of Brandenburgh
and grandeur!”

CHAPTER II. FESTIVITY AND TEARS.

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SIX days after the occurrences related in
the above chapter, the brilliant capital
of the Duchy of Brandenburgh was resplendent
with military pageantry, and noisy
with the rejoicings of loyal multitudes; for Conrad,
the young heir to the crown, was come.
The old Duke's heart was full of happiness, for
Conrad's handsome person and graceful bearing
had won his love at once. The great halls of
the palace were thronged with nobles, who welcomed
Conrad bravely; and so bright and
happy did all things seem, that he felt his
fears and sorrows passing away and giving
place to a comforting contentment.

But in a remote apartment of the palace a
scene of a different nature was transpiring. By

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a window stood the Duke's only child, the Lady
Constance. Her eyes were red and swollen, and
full of tears. She was alone. Presently she fell
to weeping anew, and said aloud:

“The villain Detzin is gone—has fled the
dukedom! I could not believe it at first, but
alas! it is too true. And I loved him so. I
dared to love him though I knew the Duke my
father would never let me wed him. I loved
him—but now I hate him! With all my soul
I hate him! Oh, what is to become of me! I
am lost, lost, lost! I shall go mad!

CHAPTER III. THE PLOT THICKENS.

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AFEW months drifted by. All men published
the praises of the young Conrad's
government and extolled the wisdom of
his judgments, the mercifulness of his sentences,
and the modesty with which he bore himself in
his great office. The old Duke soon gave everything
into his hands, and sat apart and listened
with proud satisfaction while his heir delivered
the decrees of the crown from the seat of the
premier. It seemed plain that one so loved and
praised and honored of all men as Conrad was,
could not be otherwise than happy. But strangely
enough, he was not. For he saw with dismay
that the Princess Constance had begun to
love him! The love of the rest of the world
was happy fortune for him, but this was freighted

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with danger! And he saw, moreover, that the
delighted Duke had discovered his daughter's
passion likewise, and was already dreaming of
a marriage. Every day somewhat of the deep
sadness that had been in the princess' face faded
away; every day hope and animation beamed
brighter from her eye; and by and by even
vagrant smiles visited the face that had been so
troubled.

Conrad was appalled. He bitterly cursed himself
for having yielded to the instinct that had
made him seek the companionship of one of his
own sex when he was new and a stranger in
the palace—when he was sorrowful and yearned
for a sympathy such as only women can give
or feel. He now began to avoid his cousin.
But this only made matters worse, for, naturally
enough, the more he avoided her, the more she
cast herself in his way. He marvelled at this
at first; and next it startled him. The girl
haunted him; she hunted him; she happened
upon him at all times and in all places, in the
night as well as in the day. She seemed singularly
anxious. There was surely a mystery
somewhere.

This is the Maiden all forlorn that milked the cow with
the crumpled horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat
that caught the rat that ate the malt that lay in the House
that Jack built. [figure description] Page 035. Image of a man with a long handlebar moustache, wearing a dress and slippers, sitting on a stool and milking the cow. On the cow's back is written TGP and on its udder is written public honor.[end figure description]

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This could not go on forever. All the world
was talking about it. The Duke was beginning
to look perplexed. Poor Conrad was becoming
a very ghost through dread and dire distress.
One day as he was emerging from a private
ante-room attached to the picture gallery, Constance
confronted him, and seizing both his
hands in hers, exclaimed:

“Oh, why do you avoid me? What have I
done—what have I said, to lose your kind opinion
of me—for surely I had it once? Conrad, do
not despise me, but pity a tortured heart? I
cannot, cannot hold the words unspoken longer,
lest they kill me—I love you, Conrad! There,
despise me if you must, but they would be uttered!”

Conrad was speechless. Constance hesitated
a moment, and then, misinterpreting his silence,
a wild gladness flamed in her eyes, and she flung
her arms about his neck and said:

“You relent! you relent! You can love me—
you will love me! Oh, say you will, my own,
my worshipped Conrad!”

Conrad groaned aloud. A sickly pallor over-spread
his countenance, and he trembled like

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an aspen. Presently, in desperation, he thrust
the poor girl from him, and cried:

“You know not what you ask! It is forever
and ever impossible!” And then he fled like a
criminal and left the princess stupefied with
amazement. A minute afterward she was crying
and sobbing there, and Conrad was crying
and sobbing in his chamber. Both were in despair.
Both saw ruin staring them in the face.

By and by Constance rose slowly to her feet
and moved away, saying:

“To think that he was despising my love at
the very moment that I thought it was melting
his cruel heart! I hate him! He spurned me—
did this man—he spurned me from him like a
dog!”

CHAPTER IV. THE AWFUL REVELATION.

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TIME passed on. A settled sadness rested
once more upon the countenance of
the good Duke's daughter. She and
Conrad were seen together no more now. The
Duke grieved at this. But as the weeks wore
away, Conrad's color came back to his cheeks
and his old-time vivacity to his eye, and he administered
the government with a clear and
steadily ripening wisdom.

Presently a strange whisper began to be heard
about the palace. It grew louder; it spread
farther. The gossips of the city got hold of it.
It swept the dukedom. And this is what the
whisper said:

“The Lady Constance hath given birth to a
child!”

This is the Man all "tattered and torn" that loved the
maiden all forlorn that milked the cow with the crumpled
horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that caught
the rat that ate the malt that lay in the House that Jack
built. [figure description] Page 039. Image of the private office of the Board of Directors of the Erie railroad. Sitting in a plush chair is a five-headed man, holding a cigar in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. At his feet is a spitoon with ERIE written on front, and at his side is a bucket chilling more bottles of champagne. The five heads are deep in coversation with each other.[end figure description]

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When the lord of Klugenstein heard it, he
swung his plumed helmet thrice around his head
and shouted:

“Long live Duke Conrad!—for lo, his crown
is sure, from this day forward! Detzin has
done his errand well, and the good scoundrel
shall be rewarded!”

And he spread the tidings far and wide, and
for eight-and-forty hours no soul in all the barony
but did dance and sing, carouse and illuminate,
to celebrate the great event, and all at
proud and happy old Klugenstein's expense.

CHAPTER V. THE FRIGHTFUL CATASTROPHE.

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THE trial was at hand. All the great
lords and barons of Brandenburgh were
assembled in the Hall of Justice in the
ducal palace. No space was left unoccupied
where there was room for a spectator to stand
or sit. Conrad, clad in purple and ermine, sat
in the premier's chair, and on either side sat the
great judges of the realm. The old Duke had
sternly commanded that the trial of his daughter
should proceed, without favor, and then had
taken to his bed broken-hearted. His days were
numbered. Poor Conrad had begged, as for his
very life, that he might be spared the misery of
sitting in judgment upon his cousin's crime, but
it did not avail.

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The saddest heart in all that great assemblage
was in Conrad's breast.

The gladdest was in his father's. For, unknown
to his daughter “Conrad,” the old Baron
Klugenstein was come, and was among the crowd
of nobles, triumphant in the swelling fortunes of
his house.

After the heralds had made due proclamation
and the other preliminaries had followed, the
venerable Lord Chief Justice said:

“Prisoner, stand forth!”

The unhappy princess rose and stood unveiled
before the vast multitude. The Lord Chief
Justice continued:

“Most noble lady, before the great judges of
this realm it hath been charged and proven that
out of holy wedlock your Grace hath given birth
unto a child, and by our ancient law the penalty
is death, excepting in one sole contingency,
whereof his Grace the acting Duke, our good
Lord Conrad, will advertise you in his solemn
sentence now; wherefore, give heed.”

Conrad stretched forth the reluctant sceptre,
and in the self-same moment the womanly heart
beneath his robe yearned pityingly toward the

This is the Priest (not) shaven and shorn, that married
the man all tattered and torn unto the maiden all forlorn
that milked the cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the
dog that worried the cat that caught the rat that ate the
malt that lay in the House that Jack built. [figure description] Page 043. Image of the manly maiden, in a sailor dress and slippers with a wreath of flowers in his hair, giving his hand to the five-headed man in marriage. The five-headed man is holding a large ring, that looks more like a collar, which has ERIE etched on the side. In the background is the Priest, wearing a long white robe upon which the vows have been inscribed, lifting his arms as if in flight. His hands are like claws, with long hooked nails.[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

doomed prisoner, and the tears came into his
eyes. He opened his lips to speak, but the
Lord Chief Justice said quickly:

“Not there, your Grace, not there! It is not
lawful to pronounce judgment upon any of the
ducal line SAVE FROM THE DUCAL THRONE!”

A shudder went to the heart of poor Conrad,
and a tremor shook the iron frame of his old
father likewise. Conrad had not been crowned—
dared he profane the throne? He hesitated
and turned pale with fear. But it must
be done. Wondering eyes were already upon
him. They would be suspicious eyes if he hesitated
longer. He ascended the throne. Presently
he stretched forth the sceptre again, and
said:

“Prisoner, in the name of our sovereign lord,
Ulrich, Duke of Brandenburgh, I proceed to the
solemn duty that hath devolved upon me. Give
heed to my words. By the ancient law of the
land, except you produce the partner of your
guilt and deliver him up to the executioner, you
must surely die. Embrace this opportunity—
save yourself while yet you may. Name the
father of your child!”

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

A solemn hush fell upon the great court—a
silence so profound that men could hear their
own hearts beat. Then the princess slowly
turned, with eyes gleaming with hate, and pointing
her finger straight at Conrad, said:

“Thou art the man!”

An appalling conviction of his helpless, hopeless
peril struck a chill to Conrad's heart like
the chill of death itself. What power on earth
could save him! To disprove the charge, he
must reveal that he was a woman; and for an
uncrowned woman to sit in the ducal chair was
death! At one and the same moment, he and
his grim old father swooned and fell to the
ground.

[The remainder of this thrilling and eventful
story will NOT be found in this or any other
publication, either now or at any future time.]

The truth is, I have got my hero (or heroine)
into such a particularly close place, that I do
not see how I am ever going to get him (or
her) out of it again—and therefore I will wash
my hands of the whole business, and leave that
person to get out the best way that offers—or
else stay there. I thought it was going to be

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

easy enough to straighten out that little difficulty,
but it looks different now.

[If Harper's Weekly or the New York Tribune
desire to copy these initial chapters into the
reading columns of their valuable journals, just
as they do the opening chapters of Ledger and
New York Weekly novels, they are at liberty to
do so at the usual rates, provided they “trust.”]

Mark Twain.

This is the Cock that crowed in the morn to wake
(into existence) the man all tattered and torn that married
the maiden all forlorn that milked the cow with the crumpled
horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that
caught the rat that ate the malt that lay in the House
that Jack built. [figure description] Page 047. Image of a rooster with a human head and hands, who is wearing a suit and standing on a large plush chair inscribed with the word excelsior, crowing out the phrase "Perpetual Board of Directors. Whoop de Doodle Doo!"[end figure description]