among the wild tribes; he had philosophized about the despoilers of the kingdoms of the earth, and found out—­the cunning creature —­that they refer their differences to the learned for settlement; he had achieved a vast fame as a military chieftain, the Achilles of the Florida campaigns, and then had got him a spelling-book and started to school; he had fallen in love with Ambulinia Valeer while she was teething, but had kept it to himself awhile, out of the reverential awe which he felt for the child; but now at last, like the unyielding Deity who follows the storm to check its rage in the forest, he resolves to shake off his embarrassment, and to return where before he had only worshiped.  The Major, indeed, has made up his mind to rise up and shake his faculties together, and to see if he can’t do that thing himself.  This is not clear.  But no matter about that:  there stands the hero, compact and visible; and he is no mean structure, considering that his creator had never structure, considering that his creator had never created anything before, and hadn’t anything but rags and wind to build with this time.  It seems to me that no one can contemplate this odd creature, this quaint and curious blatherskite, without admiring McClintock, or, at any rate, loving him and feeling grateful to him; for McClintock made him, he gave him to us; without McClintock we could not have had him, and would now be poor.

But we must come to the feast again.  Here is a courtship scene, down there in the romantic glades among the raccoons, alligators, and things, that has merit, peculiar literary merit.  See how Achilles woos.  Dwell upon the second sentence (particularly the close of it) and the beginning of the third.  Never mind the new personage, Leos, who is intruded upon us unheralded and unexplained.  That is McClintock’s way; it is his habit; it is a part of his genius; he cannot help it; he never interrupts the rush of his narrative to make introductions.

It could not escape Ambulinia’s penetrating eye that he sought an interview with her, which she as anxiously avoided, and assumed a more distant calmness than before, seemingly to destroy all hope.  After many efforts and struggles with his own person, with timid steps the Major approached the damsel, with the same caution as he would have done in a field of battle.  “Lady Ambulinia,” said he, trembling, “I have long desired a moment like this.  I dare not let it escape.  I fear the consequences; yet I hope your indulgence will at least hear my petition.  Can you not anticipate what I would say, and what I am about to express?  Will not you, like Minerva, who sprung from the brain of Jupiter, release me from thy winding chains or cure me—­” “Say no more, Elfonzo,” answered Ambulinia, with a serious look, raising her hand as if she intended to swear eternal hatred against the whole world; “another lady in my place would have perhaps answered your question in bitter coldness.  I know not the little arts