"This statue stood semi-erect, and strongly suggested an invalid kitten, leaning on a hot brick; or, a modern philosopher of the spread-eagle and Progressive school, when the contributions are small. The figure was labelled 'Tom Clark, as he was;' that is to say, soft, ductile, capable of being moulded into the Ruffian or the Man. Directly beside it was another statue, closely resembling the other in many points, but yet different. It was labelled 'Tom Clark, as he is!' that is to say, it looked as if abundantly capable of feeding on tenpenny nails, dining on files, and supping upon pigs of iron. It looked, for all the world, as if the greatest possible favor that could be done for it, would be to tread on the tail of its coat, or knock a chip off its shoulder, or as if its supreme delight would be to be permitted to wrap itself in a star-spangled banner; move across the room in three strides and a straddle; fire off two horse-pistols, and die like a son of a—gun, after having exercised a special penchant for divorced women—separating wives from their husbands, for the sake of position, wealth, beauty and passion. It looked as if it was troubled about stealing rain-producing theories—not for stealing, but for being caught at it. It looked as if its heart was breaking, because it had not brains enough to be a Pantarch—or the tenth-part of one. It looked as if its heart would burst with envy, because other men had friends, and power, and applause, and merit, in spite of its little, perked-up, seven-by-nine, skull-cracked soul—poor cambric, needle-eyed soul, twelve hundred and eighty trillions to the half ounce. It looked, for all the world, as Tom really did the very last time he came home, just before they lay down upon their couch, in the little chamber in which was the little window, whose upper sash was down—that is to say, short, crusty, crisp, and meaner than 'git;' as he felt before they both lay down, and dreamed such 'very funny' dreams—mean, despicable, iron-hearted Tom Clark, the plague of her life, bane of her existence, and source of all her troubles. So at least it seemed to the lady in her curious vision. Presently both these figures slowly faded from her sight, and in their stead there arose through the floor a third figure, labelled, 'Tom Clark, as he may be.' While she was admiring the vast superiority, in all respects, of this new statue, a fourth human figure entered the atelier; this figure was alive, and, mirabile dictu! the woman beheld the exact counterpart of—herself!—clad as a working artist—a sculptor, with apron, paper-cap, and dusty clothing, all complete, as if she had just left chiselling the dead marble. This lemur of herself appeared deeply gratified at the appearance of the statue; for, after surveying it awhile, she proceeded to arm herself with a flame-tipped baton, wherewith she touched the figure in various places, but mainly on the head, and over the region of the heart. The effect of these touches of flame was to make the figure move; and, in five minutes the dead mass was warm with life, vitality and genius—for the phantom-artiste appeared to endow the figure with a portion of her own life; and a closer inspection revealed the curious fact that the flame at the end of the staff—which was hollow—was fed from a deep well of subtle, fine and inflammable ether in her own heart.
"The statue lived. It was Tom Clark, and no mistake; but Heaven! what a change!—what a difference between the actual and the ideal man! His features fairly blazed with the fires of Genius and Ambition; and they beamed like a sun, with Friendship, Intelligence, Truth and Manhood—they all held high court in his soul, and radiated from his inspired features; his very presence charged the air with Mind, though his lips spoke never a word, breathed never a syllable. And now Betsey heard her alter ego speak; and it said to the living statue: 'Rise, Tom Clark; rise, and be a Man—be yourself. Rise!' And it rose; stepped from the pedestal, erected its head—and such a head!—while she, the phantom artiste, with careful tread, and anxiously holding her nether lip between her teeth, slowly retreated backward from the room, quitting it through the door by which she had entered a little while before. She was followed majestically by the statue, which moved with power and grace, as if charged to the brim by God's Galvanic Batteries.
"Scarcely had the two phantoms left the room, than the woman on the stool—the real Betsey Clark—followed their example with a sudden bound, exclaiming, as she did so, despite the warning of the Hermit of the Silver Girdle (for whom at that moment she didn't care;—not even a piece of a fig), 'My husband! my husband!' Human nature, especially woman nature, could stand the pressure no longer. She felt and acted as she felt—as every woman has, since the year ONE—and will, until Time and Eternity both grow grey. 'My husband!' there spake the woman. In an instant the Hermit of the Silver Girdle was in a very great and unprecedented fluster.
"'Silly girl! didn't I tell you not to speak? Only look! see how you have gone and done it!—done me! Oh, dear! if I warn't a Rosicrucian, I'd get excessively angry, Dorg on it, if I wouldn't!' and in his trouble, he pronounced 'dog,' with an r. Commend me to a female for upsetting the best calculation of the wisest Rosicrucian that ever lived. I speak from experience.
"'I told you not to open your lips, and here you've gone and spoken right out! What's the consequence?' exclaimed the venerable grey-beard. 'Why, the spell is broken—the charm fled—nor can either be recalled before the sun has set and rose again, and once more declined toward the western sea. Familiar as I am with the secrets of Galæ and the mysteries of magic crystals, I know that you have done very wrong; for no one is fit to consult Destiny by their aid who is not competent to keep silence for an hour, no matter what the temptation or provocation to break it may be. Now hie thee homeward. To-morrow thou mayest return again, provided thou wilt obey me, and speak not a syllable while the phantasmal game of Fate is being played before thine eyes.'
"The Hermit of the Silver Girdle had spoken truly; for at the very first movement of her lips, the whole scene of enchantment vanished into thin air, leaving only a three-cornered table and a little glossy-looking ball behind.
"To depict her chagrin and disappointment at this abrupt termination of a very strange affair, is a task totally beyond my capacities. She bounced out of the grotto in a miff, tossing her pretty head in a manner peculiarly adapted to play the very Old Scratch with the soft and susceptible heads and hearts of the male 'sect'—especially their heads; but she had no idea of abandoning the adventure at that point—not she; but was fully resolved to see it out next day, even if she bit her tongue in two, in the endeavor to keep still. Warriors, statesmen, philosophers, and well-read men can comprehend the sublimity of her resolution, because they know that of all earthly tasks, the one assigned herself was the greatest, most heroic, and one compared to which the twelve labors of the Greek god were mere child's pastime. At all events, to keep perfectly silent she would certainly—'Try,' said a voice, right beside her ear! She started, attributing the circumstance to mere fancy; but again the magic word was, by unseen lips, gently, softly whispered in her ear. 'Try,' it said—and the word went echoing through her very soul. Whence came the voice? Who was it—what was it that spoke? Certainly not herself, nor the Hermit. When was it, where was it, that she had heard that voice and word before? When, how, where had it made so deep an impression on her mind? Was it in a dream? Who can tell? she could not. My hearers, can you?
"Next morning, bright and early, the young girl returned once more to the grotto of the Hermit of the Silver Girdle, who dwelt on the shady borders of a forest wild. An hour or two elapsed in friendly converse and admonition; and now again behold the dissimilar twain once more seated silently before the little table, on which glittered, as before, the rare, pearl-disked, magic, wonder-working crystal globe. Again, as before, the glorious play of colors came and went. Again it faded, and she saw the atelier, the artiste, and the artiste's living statue; but this time Betsey could look right through its body, as if it were made of finely-polished glass. Tom Clark stood before her. She saw and comprehended him on all sides—soul, spirit, body; and though she was neither a strong-minded woman, a lecturess on philosophy, 'The good time coming,' nor 'Woman's sacred and delicate work,'—and though she knew but little of the human organism, beyond a few familiar commonplaces—yet she comprehended enough of the glorious mystery before her to be aware that the red, pulsing lump just beneath its throat was technically known and considered as the heart; and she couldn't help admiring its wonderful and mighty mechanism; its curious movements, mystical arrangements of parts, and adaptation of means to ends; its auricles, valves, and veins; its ventricles, and its pump—tapping the well of life, and forcing its water through a million yards of hose, plentifully irrigating the loftiest gardens of man's body, and hence, of his imperishable soul. The inspection was almost too much for the girl, who had liked to have screamed out her wonderment and delight; but having made up her mind to keep still this time, she, by dint of much handkerchief and tongue-biting, succeeded, to the eternal credit of herself—or any other woman!
"'That which you see,' said the Hermit, who of course had the privilege of talking as he pleased, 'is a man's heart, in full play. It is, as you perceive, filled with blood, whose office is to give life to the body and vigor to the mind. But the heart has other chambers than those containing the venous and arterial fluids; for all its walls and valves contain innumerable small cells; and these cells secrete and contain certain aëriform fluids far more potential than blood, and which subserve the ends of a higher and far more wonderful economy. There are two kinds of blood; so also are there two kinds of the subtle fluid I have mentioned: one sort is born with us, and we come into the world with exactly one half of these cells full, while the other half are entirely empty; and so they must remain until they are filled from the heart of some one else. Males are born with the cells of the left side empty, females with those of the right unfilled, while the other cells of each are always full. These fluids are real, actual, perceptible, but imponderable. Their name is Love; and when things take their proper and natural course, the fluid flows out from the cells of a woman's heart into the empty ones of a man's; and the full cells of a man's heart fill the empty ones of a woman's, in which case they are said to "love each other." Two men cannot thus love; nor can two females. Many of either sex travel from the cradle to the grave without either filling, or being filled in turn; for it is a law that love cannot flow unless it be tapped by the opposite party; and it can only be tapped by Kindness, Gentleness, Respect—these three! The unloved and unloving are only half men and half women—and, believe me, my child, there's a mighty sight of Halfness in this world of ours! Much of it comes of not Trying to have it otherwise. People—married people, especially—devote half their days to growling because they have not got somebody else's wife or husband, when the fact is that their own partners are quite good enough—as they would find out with a little proper endeavor. Men expect a woman's love to bubble up all the time. Fools! why don't they sound its depth, and bring it to the surface? There are altogether too many divorces—a divorce first, and the next step—is dangerous. I knew a wife of three divorces; I knew a man the husband of two consecutive divorcees. Good intentions! Bah! Hell is paved with such. I know of fifty broken-hearted women whose husbands, after wearing them out, sneaked off to Indiana and robbed them of name, fame, life, and hope;—the demons! Out upon the wretches! The woman who has wasted her youth and bloom upon a man who then wants a divorce, and permits him to obtain it, is a fool. He promised for life. Make him keep it, even if you invoke the law's strong arm. If both agree, that alters the case. I have a legal acquaintance in New York who drives a large trade in the divorce line, at twenty-five dollars a head. I feel called upon to expose the infernal methods by means of which it is done, and I call upon the Legislature to see to it that the thing is not suffered to go on. A. is a lawyer; B. and C. are husband and wife. B. wants a "divorce without publicity;" goes to A. and pays a fee to secure it, but has no legal quibble by means of which to obtain it. A. gives him the following counsel: "Go to a brothel, take up with an inmate thereof; call her D.; make three or four male and female acquaintances (E., F., G., and H.), introduce them to D. as your wife; leave town a day or two, but take care that D. is well watched in the interim. Of course she will avail herself of your absence to ply her vocation. E., F., G., and H. furnish the most incontestable and damning proof of her supposed guilt. The witnesses may or may not know your precious scheme. You prosecute the leman under your wife's name—she, of course, knowing nothing about the proceedings—poor thing! The court takes the evidence, hands it over to a referee, who passes on it; returns it, affirmed, to the court, which forthwith enters a decree of perpetual divorce. A scoundrel goes unwhipped of justice, and an honest woman's reputation is forever damned!
"'Legislators, I tell you that these things are done every day! I was told it—could not believe it—and assuming to be desirous of such a decree, received the above counsel, word for word, from a practitioner at the New York bar. Legislators, here is a crime worse than murder! Will you sanction it longer? How prevent it? Summon the witnesses and performer of this marriage; or at least prove the identity of the woman or the man, as the case may be—for women practice in that court also!