"My great-grandfather was a philosopher, and why should not his descendants be allowed the privilege of cogitating for themselves? I tell you that Sir Isaac Newton was mistaken. There is no such thing as the attraction of gravitation."

This was said by Toney Belton, a young lawyer, in reply to his friend Tom Seddon, a junior member of the same profession.

They were seated on the veranda of a hotel in the town of Bella Vista, gazing at the starry heavens; and Tom had made some remark about the wonderful revelations of science.

"What a pity it is, Toney Belton, that you are not a subject of her Majesty of England. Your extraordinary discovery would entitle you to the honors of knighthood, and we might read of a Sir Anthony Belton as well as of a Sir Isaac Newton. But how will you demonstrate to the world that there is no such thing as the attraction of gravitation?"

"Demonstrate it, Tom Seddon! Why, I can make it as plain as the proboscis on the countenance of an elephant."

"Do you mean to say that bodies do not fall to the earth by the power of attraction?"

"That is precisely what I mean. I assert that a heavy body may fall upward as well as downward."

"Ha, ha, ha!"

"As the old Greek said, Strike, but hear, so I say, Laugh, but listen. Will you allow me to suppose a case?"

"That is the privilege of all philosophers. The cosmology of the Oriental sage would have fallen into the vast vacuity of space had he not brought to its support a hypothetical foundation. Proceed with your demonstration."

"Suppose, then, that an immense well should be dug from the surface of the American continent entirely through the earth. We will not stop to inquire into the possibility of such an excavation, but will suppose that the work has been accomplished."

"Be it so. Your well has been dug, and extends entirely through the earth, from the United States of America to the Celestial Empire. What then?"

"Suppose that Clarence Hastings should be walking home about twelve o'clock at night. It would then be broad daylight in the dominions of his Majesty the Brother of the Sun and the Cousin of the Moon, and the Celestials would be picking tea-leaves or parboiling puppies. Suppose, I say, that Clarence should be walking home after having spent the last four or five hours in the delightful society of the lovely Claribel. Now, it is highly probable that Clarence would be gazing upward at the lunar orb and meditating a sonnet."

"Nay; Harry Vincent is the sonneteer. I verily believe that he has dedicated a little poem of fourteen lines to nearly every visible star in the heavens, and solemnly swears in the most mellifluous verses that none of them are half so bright as the eyes of the bewitching Imogen."

"Let it be Harry Vincent, then, who is walking home and making his astronomical observations with a view to the disparagement of the stars, when brought in comparison with the optical orbs of his lady-love. We will suppose that he is gazing at yonder star which is now winking at us, as if it heard every word of our conversation. He would take but little heed to his footsteps while his gaze was fixed upon the star and his thoughts were wandering away to Imogen. As he exclaimed, 'Oh, Imogen! thine eyes exceed in brightness all the glittering gems that bespangle the garments of the glorious night,' he would tumble into the well."

"Ha, ha, ha! Good-by, Harry."

"Would he not rapidly descend?"

"I should think that he would."

"Would he stop falling when there was no bottom to the well?"

"It is impossible to suppose that he would."

"Then he would fall entirely through the well and would be falling upward when he issued from the other end, and our worthy antipodes, the tea-pickers, would open their eyes in amazement, and their pig-tails would stand erect when they beheld the handsome Harry Vincent falling upward, and heard him loudly exclaiming, 'Oh, Imogen!' and he would continue to fall upward until he was intercepted by the earth's satellite and became the guest of the man in the moon."

"A most delightful abode for a romantic lover. But, as you do not believe in the attraction of gravitation, what have you to say about the attraction of love?"

"The attraction of love? Another of your delusions, Thomas. Now, if you had ever seen my definition of love, in the dictionary which I have in manuscript, and intend to publish some day when Noah Webster shall have become obsolete, you would not talk of attraction in that connection."

"What is your definition of love?"

"Love is a state of hostility between two persons of opposite sexes."

"Of hostility?"

"Yes; in which each belligerent endeavors to subjugate the other, regardless of the sufferings inflicted."

"This is as queer a paradox as that in relation to the possibility of a man falling upward."

"No paradox at all, but a most obvious truth. There is Claribel Carrington, who looks like an innocent and enchanting little fairy."

"She is superbly beautiful, and Clarence Hastings would barter his existence for a soft, kindly glance from her deep blue eye. They are in love with one another, that is evident."

"And being in love, hostilities have commenced; and, if I mistake not, the war will be conducted by the lady with unexampled barbarity. When we enter the ball-room to-night, you will perceive this angelic creature inflicting more torture on poor Clarence than a pitiless savage inflicts with his scalping-knife on his victim; and all because she is dead in love with him, and he with her."

"Toney Belton, you deserve to have your eyes scratched out by a bevy of beautiful damsels for your disparaging opinion of the last best gift."

"Let them scratch; for women are like cats."

"Like cats?"

"There is a striking similitude between them; and when a man with a pulpy brain and a penetrable bosom falls into the hands of a beautiful and fascinating woman, he is much in the condition of an unfortunate mouse in the paws of a remorseless pussy. Indeed, nearly all truly faithful and devoted lovers have to undergo an ordeal like that of the helpless captive in feline clutches. The cruel cat will at one moment pat her victim softly on the head, and fondle it with the utmost affection, as if it were the most precious treasure she had in the world; she will apparently repent of her intention to hold it in captivity, and will permit it to escape and run half-way over the floor, when, with a sudden spring, she will pounce upon it again and hold it fast, regardless of its squeals for mercy. Just so with a pretty woman and her lover. Next to a tabby cat, the most remorseless and cruel creature in the world is a woman who has a man completely in her power. Indeed, there is so great a congeniality of disposition between the female sex and the feline species that maidens, when they become elderly and are not otherwise occupied, almost invariably take to nursing cats,—there being a mysterious affinity which draws them together."

"Do you want me to believe that a woman will not marry a man until she has first tortured the soul out of him, and made him utterly miserable? Why, they say that marriages are made in heaven."

"In heaven they may be made, Thomas; but, if so, they are caught on the horns of the moon as they are coming down; for I tell you that hardly any woman ever marries the right man, and hardly any man ever marries the right woman. You have only to open your eyes and you will perceive this without the aid of an opera-glass."

"My observations have led me to no such conclusions."

"Have you never observed, oh, most sagacious Thomas, that no pretty woman ever had an adorer without wishing to torment him with a rival? And is it not a singular fact that she usually selects some male animal to occupy that position who is in every respect the inferior of the worthy man whom she is endeavoring to drive to distraction? Does she not take every occasion to inflate the vanity of him whom she cares nothing about, and to humiliate the man whom she really loves? Now, there are Claribel Carrington and Imogen Hazlewood,—they are both pretty women."

"Pretty! They are both surpassingly beautiful, though not at all alike!—the former a blonde, with deep blue eyes and golden tresses; the latter a brunette, with locks as dark as a feather fallen from the wings of night, and black eyes, from which Cupid, who continually lurks under the long lashes, borrows the barbs for the arrows with which he mortally wounds multitudes of unlucky swains."

"Do not be poetical, Thomas. Pray take your foot from the stirrup and dismount before Pegasus carries you to the clouds, and you lose an opportunity of listening to plain, sensible prose. Each one of these young ladies has a devoted lover."

"You may well say devoted; for if Claribel or Imogen were to wish for an icicle from the end of the North Pole with which to cool a lemonade, either Harry Vincent or Clarence Hastings would hurry thither and slip off into the unfathomable abyss of space in a desperate attempt to obtain it."

"Your imagination is both hyperborean and hyperbolical. But let us return from the North Pole to the ladies. Claribel loves Clarence, and Imogen Harry, and yet neither will marry the man she loves."

"And why not, oh, prophet?"

"Because no pretty woman ever does. Each lady will select some nonentity of the masculine gender, and expect her lover to enter into a contest of rivalry. Each gentleman will decline the contest."

"Why so?"

"I know them both. Each is a proud man, and has an abundance of self-respect. No daughter of Eve can comprehend a proud man, though every woman knows how to manage a vain one to perfection. Although either Harry or Clarence would, as you say, go to the North Pole in obedience to the wishes of the woman he adores, neither of them will consent to humiliation for her sake. She will persist in her course, and will ultimately find herself abandoned by her lover. Then, after a few years——"

"Well, what after a few years?"

"You will behold the once fairy-like Claribel a matron of robust proportions, married to a plain man, who made her an offer in a business-like manner."

"And Clarence?"

"A bald-headed man, who, having worked like a beaver and made a large fortune, is enjoying it with a wife who is as ugly as sin, but is a most excellent manager of his domestic affairs."

"Toney, when do you intend to publish your book of prophecies?"

"A prophet has no honor in his own country. But, do you not hear the sound of music in the ball-room? Let us go in,—