I looked at him earnestly, and was gladdened to see that the terrible blight of his face had almost departed. ‘Boy, there’s not much left in an old world for an old man to invent.’ I said nothing. ‘Boy, take my advice, and never try to invent anything but--happiness.’ I said nothing. ‘Boy, about ship, and pull back for the box.’ ‘Dear uncle!’ ‘It will make a good wood-box, boy. And faithful old Yorpy can sell the old iron for tobacco-money.’ ‘Dear massa! dear old massa! dat be very fust time in de ten long ’ear yoo hab mention kindly old Yorpy. I tank yoo, dear old massa; I tank yoo so kindly. Yoo is yourself agin in de ten long ’ear.’ ‘Ay, long ears enough,’ sighed my uncle; ‘Esopian ears. But it’s all over now. Boy, I’m glad I’ve failed. I say, boy, failure has made a good old man of me. It was horrible at first, but I’m glad I’ve failed. Praise be to God for the failure!’ His face kindled with a strange, rapt earnestness. I have never forgotten that look. If the event made my uncle a good old man, as he called it, it made me a wise young one. Example did for me the work of experience. When some years had gone by, and my dear old uncle began to fail, and, after peaceful days of autumnal content, was gathered gently to his fathers--faithful old Yorpy closing his eyes--as I took my last look at his venerable face, the pale resigned lips seemed to move. I seemed to hear again his deep, fervent cry--‘Praise be to God for the failure!’ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE FIDDLER So my poem is damned, and immortal fame is not for me! I am nobody forever and ever. Intolerable fate! Snatching my hat, I dashed down the criticism, and rushed out into Broadway, where enthusiastic throngs were crowding to a circus in a side-street near by, very recently started, and famous for a capital clown. Presently my old friend Standard rather boisterously accosted me. ‘Well met, Helmstone, my boy! Ah! what’s the matter? Haven’t been committing murder? Ain’t flying justice? You look wild!’ ‘You have seen it, then?’ said I, of course referring to the criticism. ‘Oh yes, I was there at the morning performance. Great clown, I assure you. But here comes Hautboy. Hautboy--Helmstone.’ Without having time or inclination to resent so mortifying a mistake, I was instantly soothed as I gazed on the face of the new acquaintance so unceremoniously introduced. His person was short and full, with a juvenile, animated cast to it. His complexion rurally ruddy; his eye sincere, cheery, and gray. His hair alone betrayed that he was not an overgrown boy. From his hair I set him down as forty or more. ‘Come, Standard,’ he gleefully cried to my friend, ‘are you not going to the circus? The clown is inimitable, they say. Come; Mr. Helmstone, too--come both; and circus over, we’ll take a nice stew and punch at Taylor’s.’