"_Interview_ you."
"Ah! I see. Yes--yes. Um! Yes--yes."
I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said,--
"How do you spell it?"
"Spell what?"
"Interview."
"Oh, my goodness? What do you want to spell it for?"
"I don"t want to spell it: I want to see what it means."
"Well, this is astonishing, I must say. _I_ can tell you what it means, if you--if you"--
"Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."
"In, _in_, ter, _ter_, _inter_"--
"Then you spell it with an _I_?"
"Why, certainly!"
"Oh, that is what took me so long!"
"Why, my _dear_ sir, what did _you_ propose to spell it with?"
"Well, I--I--I hardly know. I had the Unabridged; and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it"s a very old edition."
"Why, my friend, they wouldn"t have a _picture_ of it in even the latest e---- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look as--as--intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm,--I mean no harm at all."
"Oh, don"t mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes--yes: they always speak of it with rapture."
"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."
"Indeed! I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?"
"Ah, well--well--well--this is disheartening. It _ought_ to be done with a club, in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?"
"Oh, with pleasure,--with pleasure. I have a very bad memory; but I hope you will not mind. That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight pa.s.sing a given point. This is a great grief to me."
"Oh! it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can."
"I will! I will put my whole mind on it."
"Thanks! Are you ready to begin?"
"Ready."
_Question._ How old are you?
_Answer._ Nineteen in June.
_Q._ Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?
_A._ In Missouri.
_Q._ When did you begin to write?
_A._ In 1836.
_Q._ Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now?
_A._ I don"t know. It does seem curious, somehow.
_Q._ It does indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?
_A._ Aaron Burr.
_Q._ But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years----
_A._ Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?
_Q._ Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr?
_A._ Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day; and he asked me to make less noise, and----
_Q._ But, good heavens! If you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; and, if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not?
_A._ I don"t know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.
_Q._ Still, I don"t understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead?
_A._ I didn"t say he was dead.
_Q._ But wasn"t he dead?
_A._ Well, some said he was, some said he wasn"t.
_Q._ What do _you_ think?
_A._ Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn"t any of my funeral.
_Q._ Did you--However we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask about something else. What was the date of your birth?
_A._ Monday, October 31, 1693.