And the misty, intangible, indefinite Presence spoke. BOOK IV MYSELF After the events related in the last chapter, the reader will perceive that nothing was easier than to reconcile Sir Edward to his son Lionel, nor to resuscitate the beautiful Italian girl, who, it appears, was not dead, and to cause Sir Edward to marry his first and boyish love, whom he had deserted. They were married in St. George’s, Hanover Square. As the bridal party stood before the altar, Sir Edward, with a sweet, sad smile, said in quite his old manner,— “The Sublime and Beautiful are the Real; the only Ideal is the Ridiculous and Homely. Let us always remember this. Let us through life endeavor to personify the virtues, and always begin ’em with a capital letter. Let us, whenever we can find an opportunity, deliver our sentiments in the form of roundhand copies. Respect the Aged. Eschew Vulgarity. Admire Ourselves. Regard the Novelist.” N N. BEING A NOVEL IN THE FRENCH PARAGRAPHIC STYLE —Mademoiselle, I swear to you that I love you. —You who read these pages. You who turn your burning eyes upon these words—words that I trace—ah, heaven! the thought maddens me. —I will be calm. I will imitate the reserve of the festive Englishman, who wears a spotted handkerchief which he calls a Belchio, who eats biftek, and caresses a bulldog. I will subdue myself like him. —Ha! Poto-beer! All right—Goddam! —Or, I will conduct myself as the free-born American—the gay Brother Jonathan. I will whittle me a stick. I will whistle to myself “Yankee Doodle,” and forget my passion in excessive expectoration. —Ho! ho!—wake snakes and walk chalks. The world is divided into two great divisions,—Paris and the provinces. There is but one Paris. There are several provinces, among which may be numbered England, America, Russia, and Italy. N N. was a Parisian. But N N. did not live in Paris. Drop a Parisian in the provinces, and you drop a part of Paris with him. Drop him in Senegambia, and in three days he will give you an omelette soufflee, or a pate de foie gras, served by the neatest of Senegambian filles, whom he will call mademoiselle. In three weeks he will give you an opera. N N. was not dropped in Senegambia, but in San Francisco,—quite as awkward. They find gold in San Francisco, but they don’t understand gilding. N N. existed three years in this place. He became bald on the top of his head, as all Parisians do. Look down from your box at the Opera Comique, mademoiselle, and count the bald crowns of the fast young men in the pit. Ah—you tremble! They show where the arrows of love have struck and glanced off. N N. was almost near-sighted, as all Parisians finally become. This is a gallant provision of nature to spare them the mortification of observing that their lady friends grow old. After a certain age every woman is handsome to a Parisian. One day, N N. was walking down Washington Street. Suddenly he stopped.