Sir: I have read Mr. Charles Reade’s note, & smiled a smile of limitless irony to see him talk along so innocently & hopefully & confidently about those Shakspeare-mulberry slips, which have been “received this morning from the mayor of Stratford-on-Avon,” and are “promised to an American young lady,” who desires to “present them to the city of New York” where they’ll be planted in that city’s park, if “the consent of the authorities” can be had. ravished from them. Yes, & then there’s all a that about the object seeming “innocent & laudable”—which it is, as long as you don’t know anything about those Shakspeare-mulberry trees; —& there’s all that about indulging & gratifying our “fair young country-woman’sⒶemendation enthusiasm” by directing that the said slips be planted in the said place aforesaid; & finally—well, finally, you know, Mr. Reade, like the conscientious man that he is, lowers his voice down to just a bare whisper, (though you wo couldn’t notice it, because he didn’t follow his habit, this time, of reducing the size of his type to express the whisper,) & says: “I fear mulberry slips fail oftener than they succeed”—aha! Simply “gave himself away,” you see.

Now I am going to be perfectly honorable with you, & reveal what I know about Shakspeare mulberry slips. When I was a guest in the hospitable home of the Mayor of Stratford-on-Avon a little more than seven years ago, he gave me one of those slips, in a large earthenware pot—a slip which was in full leaf & flourishing finely. I prized it then, for its great lineage; I prize it yet—for other reasons. The mayor told me to never be discouraged about that slip; said he, “she will generally seem to be dead; but not so; she only sleepeth.” It was a prophetic voice.

It I took her to London, & in about a week she did seem to be dead; all her leaves dropped off, & her stem and branches turned black—nothing ever looked deader. except the democratic party in the fall of 1880. Still, I brought her home & set the experts to work on her. They tried her in a green house, but she wouldn’t go; they tried her in the back yard; in the front yard; in the stable; in the cellar; on top of the house; in the kitchen; in bed—everywhere, dear, sir, but she was calm, she was indifferent, she gave no sign. We even set her in that apartment of ours which we call the “department of household expenses;” but even there, by a superhuman struggle, she made out to not to grow. We tried different kinds of earth—all the different kinds there are, sending to the remote islands of the sea & the far lands of the globe for supplies; but they roused no more emotion in her than prayer would in a cat. We fed her with common manure; with guano; with ashes, hair restorative, gold filings, milk breast milk, cow’s milk, condensed milk, imperial granum, whale oil, whisky, Pond’s Extract, blue mass, vasiline, kerosene, Epsom salts, government bonds—in fact everything in the nature of a persuader that could be thought of; but it was of no use; she still slumbered on, holding along all aloft her stiff little limbs, as leafless & expressionless as those of a dead daddylonglegsⒶemendation. But mind you, she was not dead; no, during all that time she had never once been dead; during all those months & years of rebellion against nature & constituted authority, she was clandestinely alive. YesⒶemendation, every June she would put out five or six pallid little buds, about the size of seed pearls, & leave them so till we had called witnesses & verified the fact, then she would take them in again & save them for next year.

Our first three years were years of harassment, poor sleep, nightmare, heart-sicknessⒶemendation, hope deferred, and “requests” to Moody & Sankey, on behalf of the wayward child of Shakspeare. But by that time we had got at her in-Ⓐemendation mysterious nature & spotted the sublime peculiarities of her gait. The four years since have meandered by like the waters of peace, & we have known not a pang, we have breathed not a sigh. We left the nude shrub standing where she was, solitary & alone in the middle of the front yard, & diverted our attention to the afflicted, the wicked, & kindred excitements. We took the protective iron fence from around her, discharged the watchmen & detectives, disconnected her with the burglar alarm, & hoped, as hard as we could, that nobody would steal her. But we might did not need to feel uneasy. She has been rigidly respected. Her personal appearance has been her sufficient protection. She has attracted only the least possible attention, & that only of a pure sort & unmingled with desire. Sometimes the stranger asks, with a vacant interest, “What is that thing for? what kind of wire is it made of?” But when I tell him it is not a “thing” at all, but an orchard, & is not doing very well, this year, on account of the election, or the weather, or something, he forces out a little paleⒶemendation compliment to it—says it “looks very striking,” or something of that sort, which doesn’t cost his conscience much—& the danger is over for that time.

When I got her she was seventeen inches high—now she is only twelve inches. But what she has lost in longitude she has made up for in latitude, for her stem is twice as thick as it was at first. The nature of the Shakspeare mulberry is to grow downwards & sideways; you want to find that out early, & keep it in mind, & you will save yourself a good deal of trouble & the tree a good deal of annoyance.

I think that that little grove of Shakspeare mulberry slips is going to be quite a pictorial addition to Central Park. All months in the year—if it gets sufficient attention & of an experienced sort—it will look like a currant patch in winter time. But And it won’t die—you cant rest perfectly easy as to that; if there is any difference between Shakspeare’s immortality & his mulberry’s, it is in favor of the mulberry.