I took it to an attorney, and requested him, under certain strict conditions, to obtain it for me with all its rights.

“What is it?”

“It is the minute account, written by one of the travelers, a pretty little Creole maiden of seventeen, of an adventurous journey made, in 1795, from New Orleans through the wilds of Louisiana, taking six weeks to complete a tour that could now be made in less than two days.”

But this is written by some one else; see, it says

[Handwriting:  Voyage de ma grand’mere]

“Yes,” I rejoined, “it purports to be a copy.  We must have the little grandmother’s original manuscript, written in 1822; that or nothing.”

So a correspondence sprang up with a gentle and refined old Creole lady with whom I later had the honor to become acquainted and now count among my esteemed friends—­grand-daughter of the grandmother who, after innumerable recountings by word of mouth to mother, sisters, brothers, friends, husband, children, and children’s children through twenty-seven years of advancing life, sat down at last and wrote the oft-told tale for her little grand-children, one of whom, inheriting her literary instinct and herself become an aged grandmother, discovers the manuscript among some old family papers and recognizes its value.  The first exchange of letters disclosed the fact that the “New Orleans Bee” ("L’Abeille”) had bought the right to publish the manuscript in French; but the moment its editors had proper assurance that there was impending another arrangement more profitable to her, they chivalrously yielded all they had bought, on merely being reimbursed.

The condition that required the delivery of the original manuscript, written over sixty years before, was not so easily met.  First came the assurance that its spelling was hideous, its writing bad and dimmed by time, and the sheets tattered and torn.  Later followed the disclosure that an aged and infirm mother of the grandmother owned it, and that she had some time before compelled its return to the private drawer from which the relic-loving daughter had abstracted it.  Still later came a letter saying that since the attorney was so relentlessly exacting, she had written to her mother praying her to part with the manuscript.  Then followed another communication,—­six large, closely written pages of despair,—­inclosing a letter from the mother.  The wad of papers, always more and more in the way and always “smelling bad,” had been put into the fire.  But a telegram followed on the heels of the mail, crying joy!  An old letter had been found and forwarded which would prove that such a manuscript had existed.  But it was not in time to intercept the attorney’s letter saying that, the original manuscript being destroyed, there could be no purchase or any need of further correspondence.  The old letter came.  It was genuine beyond a doubt, had been written by one of the party making the journey, and was itself forty-seven years old.  The paper was poor and sallow, the hand-writing large, and the orthography—!