The old Master was talking about a concert he had been to hear.
--I don't like your chopped music anyway. That woman--she had more
sense in her little finger than forty medical societies--Florence
Nightingale--says that the music you pour out is good for sick folks,
and the music you pound out isn't. Not that exactly, but something
like it. I have been to hear some music-pounding. It was a young
woman, with as many white muslin flounces round her as the planet
Saturn has rings, that did it. She--gave the music-stool a twirl or
two and fluffed down on to it like a whirl of soap-suds in a hand-
basin. Then she pushed up her cuffs as if she was going to fight for
the champion's belt. Then she worked her wrists and her hands, to
limber 'em, I suppose, and spread out her fingers till they looked as
though they would pretty much cover the key-board, from the growling
end to the little squeaky one. Then those two hands of hers made a
jump at the keys as if they were a couple of tigers coming down on a
flock of black and white sheep, and the piano gave a great howl as if
its tail had been trod on. Dead stop,--so still you could hear your
hair growing. Then another jump, and another howl, as if the piano
had two tails and you had trod on both of 'em at once, and, then a
grand clatter and scramble and string of jumps, up and down, back and
forward, one hand over the other, like a stampede of rats and mice
more than like anything I call music. I like to hear a woman sing,
and I like to hear a fiddle sing, but these noises they hammer out of
their wood and ivory anvils--don't talk to me, I know the difference
between a bullfrog and a woodthrush and
Pop! went a small piece of artillery such as is made of a stick of
elder and carries a pellet of very moderate consistency. That Boy
was in his seat and looking demure enough, but there could be no
question that he was the artillery-man who had discharged the
missile. The aim was not a bad one, for it took the Master full in
the forehead, and had the effect of checking the flow of his
eloquence. How the little monkey had learned to time his
interruptions I do not know, but I have observed more than once
before this, that the popgun would go off just at the moment when
some one of the company was getting too energetic or prolix. The Boy
isn't old enough to judge for himself when to intervene to change the
order of conversation; no, of course he isn't. Somebody must give
him a hint. Somebody.--Who is it? I suspect Dr. B. Franklin. He
looks too knowing. There is certainly a trick somewhere. Why, a day
or two ago I was myself discoursing, with considerable effect, as I
thought, on some of the new aspects of humanity, when I was struck
full on the cheek by one of these little pellets, and there was such
a confounded laugh that I had to wind up and leave off with a
preposition instead of a good mouthful of polysyllables. I have
watched our young Doctor, however, and have been entirely unable to
detect any signs of communication between him and this audacious
child, who is like to become a power among us, for that popgun is
fatal to any talker who is hit by its pellet. I have suspected a
foot under the table as the prompter, but I have been unable to
detect the slightest movement or look as if he were making one, on
the part of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. I cannot help thinking of the
flappers in Swift's Laputa, only they gave one a hint when to speak
and another a hint to listen, whereas the popgun says unmistakably,
"Shut up!"
--I should be sorry to lose my confidence in Dr. B. Franklin, who
seems very much devoted to his business, and whom I mean to consult
about some small symptoms I have had lately. Perhaps it is coming to
a new boarding-house. The young people who come into Paris from the
provinces are very apt--so I have been told by one that knows--to
have an attack of typhoid fever a few weeks or months after their
arrival. I have not been long enough at this table to get well
acclimated; perhaps that is it. Boarding-House Fever. Something
like horse-ail, very likely,--horses get it, you know, when they are
brought to city stables. A little "off my feed," as Hiram Woodruff
would say. A queer discoloration about my forehead. Query, a bump?
Cannot remember any. Might have got it against bedpost or something
while asleep. Very unpleasant to look so. I wonder how my portrait
would look, if anybody should take it now! I hope not quite so badly
as one I saw the other day, which I took for the end man of the
Ethiopian Serenaders, or some traveller who had been exploring the
sources of the Niger, until I read the name at the bottom and found
it was a face I knew as well as my own.
I must consult somebody, and it is nothing more than fair to give our
young Doctor a chance. Here goes for Dr. Benjamin Franklin.
The young Doctor has a very small office and a very large sign, with
a transparency at night big enough for an oyster-shop. These young
doctors are particularly strong, as I understand, on what they call
diagnosis,--an excellent branch of the healing art, full of
satisfaction to the curious practitioner, who likes to give the right
Latin name to one's complaint; not quite so satisfactory to the
patient, as it is not so very much pleasanter to be bitten by a dog
with a collar round his neck telling you that he is called Snap or
Teaser, than by a dog without a collar. Sometimes, in fact, one
would a little rather not know the exact name of his complaint, as if
he does he is pretty sure to look it out in a medical dictionary, and
then if he reads, This terrible disease is attended with vast
suffering and is inevitably mortal, or any such statement, it is apt
to affect him unpleasantly.
I confess to a little shakiness when I knocked at Dr. Benjamin's
office door. "Come in!" exclaimed Dr. B. F. in tones that sounded
ominous and sepulchral. And I went in.
I don't believe the chambers of the Inquisition ever presented a more
alarming array of implements for extracting a confession, than our
young Doctor's office did of instruments to make nature tell what was
the matter with a poor body.
There were Ophthalmoscopes and Rhinoscopes and Otoscopes and
Laryngoscopes and Stethoscopes; and Thermometers and Spirometers and
Dynamometers and Sphygmometers and Pleximeters; and Probes and
Probangs and all sorts of frightful inquisitive exploring
contrivances; and scales to weigh you in, and tests and balances and
pumps and electro-magnets and magneto-electric machines; in short,
apparatus for doing everything but turn you inside out.
Dr. Benjamin set me down before his one window and began looking at
me with such a superhuman air of sagacity, that I felt like one of
those open-breasted clocks which make no secret of their inside
arrangements, and almost thought he could see through me as one sees
through a shrimp or a jelly-fish. First he looked at the place
inculpated, which had a sort of greenish-brown color, with his naked
eyes, with much corrugation of forehead and fearful concentration of
attention; then through a pocket-glass which he carried. Then he
drew back a space, for a perspective view. Then he made me put out
my tongue and laid a slip of blue paper on it, which turned red and
scared me a little. Next he took my wrist; but instead of counting
my pulse in the old-fashioned way, he fastened a machine to it that
marked all the beats on a sheet of paper,--for all the world like a
scale of the heights of mountains, say from Mount Tom up to
Chimborazo and then down again, and up again, and so on. In the mean
time he asked me all sorts of questions about myself and all my
relatives, whether we had been subject to this and that malady, until
I felt as if we must some of us have had more or less of them, and
could not feel quite sure whether Elephantiasis and Beriberi and
Progressive Locomotor Ataxy did not run in the family.
After all this overhauling of myself and my history, he paused and
looked puzzled. Something was suggested about what he called an
"exploratory puncture." This I at once declined, with thanks.
Suddenly a thought struck him. He looked still more closely at the
discoloration I have spoken of.
--Looks like--I declare it reminds me of--very rare! very curious!
It would be strange if my first case--of this kind--should be one of
our boarders!
What kind of a case do you call it?--I said, with a sort of feeling
that he could inflict a severe or a light malady on me, as if he were
a judge passing sentence.
--The color reminds me,--said Dr. B. Franklin,--of what I have seen
in a case of Addison's Disease, Morbus Addisonii.
--But my habits are quite regular,--I said; for I remembered that the
distinguished essayist was too fond of his brandy and water, and I
confess that the thought was not pleasant to me of following Dr.
Johnson's advice, with the slight variation of giving my days and my
nights to trying on the favorite maladies of Addison.
--Temperance people are subject to it!--exclaimed Dr. Benjamin,
almost exultingly, I thought.
--But I had the impression that the author of the Spectator was
afflicted with a dropsy, or some such inflated malady, to which
persons of sedentary and bibacious habits are liable. [A literary
swell,--I thought to myself, but I did not say it. I felt too
serious.]
--The author of the Spectator!--cried out Dr. Benjamin,--I mean the
celebrated Dr. Addison, inventor, I would say discoverer, of the
wonderful new disease called after him.
---And what may this valuable invention or discovery consist in?--I
asked, for I was curious to know the nature of the gift which this
benefactor of the race had bestowed upon us.
--A most interesting affection, and rare, too. Allow me to look
closely at that discoloration once more for a moment. Cutis cenea,
bronze skin, they call it sometimes--extraordinary pigmentation--a
little more to the light, if you please--ah! now I get the bronze
coloring admirably, beautifully! Would you have any objection to
showing your case to the Societies of Medical Improvement and Medical
Observation?
[--My case! O dear!] May I ask if any vital organ is commonly
involved in this interesting complaint?--I said, faintly.
--Well, sir,--the young Doctor replied,--there is an organ which is--
sometimes--a little touched, I may say; a very curious and ingenious
little organ or pair of organs. Did you ever hear of the Capsulae,
Suprarenales?
--No,--said I,--is it a mortal complaint?--I ought to have known
better than to ask such a question, but I was getting nervous and
thinking about all sorts of horrid maladies people are liable to,
with horrid names to match.
--It is n't a complaint,--I mean they are not a complaint,--they are
two small organs, as I said, inside of you, and nobody knows what is
the use of them. The most curious thing is that when anything is the
matter with them you turn of the color of bronze. After all, I
didn't mean to say I believed it was Morbus Addisonii; I only thought
of that when I saw the discoloration.
So he gave me a recipe, which I took care to put where it could do no
hurt to anybody, and I paid him his fee (which he took with the air
of a man in the receipt of a great income) and said Good-morning.
--What in the name of a thousand diablos is the reason these
confounded doctors will mention their guesses about "a case," as they
call it, and all its conceivable possibilities, out loud before their
patients? I don't suppose there is anything in all this nonsense
about "Addison's Disease," but I wish he hadn't spoken of that very
interesting ailment, and I should feel a little easier if that
discoloration would leave my forehead. I will ask the Landlady about
it,--these old women often know more than the young doctors just come
home with long names for everything they don't know how to cure. But
the name of this complaint sets me thinking. Bronzed skin! What an
odd idea! Wonder if it spreads all over one. That would be
picturesque and pleasant, now, wouldn't it? To be made a living
statue of,--nothing to do but strike an attitude. Arm up--so--like
the one in the Garden. John of Bologna's Mercury--thus on one foot.
Needy knife-grinder in the Tribune at Florence. No, not "needy,"
come to think of it. Marcus Aurelius on horseback. Query. Are
horses subject to the Morbus Addisonii? Advertise for a bronzed
living horse--Lyceum invitations and engagements--bronze versus
brass.---What 's the use in being frightened? Bet it was a bump.
Pretty certain I bumped my forehead against something. Never heard
of a bronzed man before. Have seen white men, black men, red men,
yellow men, two or three blue men, stained with doctor's stuff; some
green ones, from the country; but never a bronzed man. Poh, poh!
Sure it was a bump. Ask Landlady to look at it.
--Landlady did look at it. Said it was a bump, and no mistake.
Recommended a piece of brown paper dipped in vinegar. Made the house
smell as if it were in quarantine for the plague from Smyrna, but
discoloration soon disappeared,--so I did not become a bronzed man
after all,--hope I never shall while I am alive. Should n't mind
being done in bronze after I was dead. On second thoughts not so
clear about it, remembering how some of them look that we have got
stuck up in public; think I had rather go down to posterity in an
Ethiopian Minstrel portrait, like our friend's the other day.
--You were kind enough to say, I remarked to the Master, that you
read my poems and liked them. Perhaps you would be good enough to
tell me what it is you like about them?
The Master harpooned a breakfast-roll and held it up before me.--Will
you tell me,--he said,--why you like that breakfast-roll?--I suppose
he thought that would stop my mouth in two senses. But he was
mistaken.
--To be sure I will,--said I.---First, I like its mechanical
consistency; brittle externally,--that is for the teeth, which want
resistance to be overcome; soft, spongy, well tempered and flavored
internally, that is for the organ of taste; wholesome, nutritious,--
that is for the internal surfaces and the system generally.
--Good,--said the Master, and laughed a hearty terrestrial laugh.
I hope he will carry that faculty of an honest laugh with him
wherever he goes,--why shouldn't he? The "order of things," as he
calls it, from which hilarity was excluded, would be crippled and
one-sided enough. I don't believe the human gamut will be cheated of
a single note after men have done breathing this fatal atmospheric
mixture and die into the ether of immortality!
I did n't say all that; if I had said it, it would have brought a
pellet from the popgun, I feel quite certain.
The Master went on after he had had out his laugh.--There is one
thing I am His Imperial Majesty about, and that is my likes and
dislikes. What if I do like your verses,--you can't help yourself.
I don't doubt somebody or other hates 'em and hates you and
everything you do, or ever did, or ever can do. He is all right;
there is nothing you or I like that somebody does n't hate. Was
there ever anything wholesome that was not poison to somebody? If
you hate honey or cheese, or the products of the dairy,--I know a
family a good many of whose members can't touch milk, butter, cheese,
and the like, why, say so, but don't find fault with the bees and the
cows. Some are afraid of roses, and I have known those who thought a
pond-lily a disagreeable neighbor. That Boy will give you the
metaphysics of likes and dislikes. Look here,--you young philosopher
over there,--do you like candy?
That Boy.---You bet! Give me a stick and see if I don't.
And can you tell me why you like candy?
That Boy.--Because I do.
--There, now, that is the whole matter in a nutshell. Why do your
teeth like crackling crust, and your organs of taste like spongy
crumb, and your digestive contrivances take kindly to bread rather
than toadstools--
That Boy (thinking he was still being catechised).--Because they do.
Whereupon the Landlady said, Sh! and the Young Girl laughed, and the
Lady smiled; and Dr. Ben Franklin kicked him, moderately, under the
table, and the Astronomer looked up at the ceiling to see what had
happened, and the Member of the Haouse cried, Order! Order! and the
Salesman said, Shut up, cash-boy! and the rest of the boarders kept
on feeding; except the Master, who looked very hard but half
approvingly at the small intruder, who had come about as nearly right
as most professors would have done.
--You poets,--the Master said after this excitement had calmed down,
--you poets have one thing about you that is odd. You talk about
everything as if you knew more about it than the people whose
business it is to know all about it. I suppose you do a little of
what we teachers used to call "cramming" now and then?
--If you like your breakfast you must n't ask the cook too many
questions,--I answered.
--Oh, come now, don't be afraid of letting out your secrets. I have
a notion I can tell a poet that gets himself up just as I can tell a
make-believe old man on the stage by the line where the gray skullcap
joins the smooth forehead of the young fellow of seventy. You'll
confess to a rhyming dictionary anyhow, won't you?
--I would as lief use that as any other dictionary, but I don't want
it. When a word comes up fit to end a line with I can feel all the
rhymes in the language that are fit to go with it without naming
them. I have tried them all so many times, I know all the polygamous
words and all the monogamous ones, and all the unmarrying ones,--the
whole lot that have no mates,--as soon as I hear their names called.
Sometimes I run over a string of rhymes, but generally speaking it is
strange what a short list it is of those that are good for anything.
That is the pitiful side of all rhymed verse. Take two such words as
home and world. What can you do with chrome or loam or gnome or
tome? You have dome, foam, and roam, and not much more to use in
your pome, as some of our fellow-countrymen call it. As for world,
you know that in all human probability somebody or something will be
hurled into it or out of it; its clouds may be furled or its grass
impearled; possibly something may be whirled, or curled, or have
swirled, one of Leigh Hunt's words, which with lush, one of Keats's,
is an important part of the stock in trade of some dealers in rhyme.
--And how much do you versifiers know of all those arts and sciences
you refer to as if you were as familiar with them as a cobbler is
with his wax and lapstone?
--Enough not to make too many mistakes. The best way is to ask some
expert before one risks himself very far in illustrations from a
branch he does not know much about. Suppose, for instance, I wanted
to use the double star to illustrate anything, say the relation of
two human souls to each other, what would I--do? Why, I would ask
our young friend there to let me look at one of those loving
celestial pairs through his telescope, and I don't doubt he'd let me
do so, and tell me their names and all I wanted to know about them.
--I should be most happy to show any of the double stars or whatever
else there might be to see in the heavens to any of our friends at
this table,--the young man said, so cordially and kindly that it was
a real invitation.
--Show us the man in the moon,--said That Boy.---I should so like to
see a double star!--said Scheherezade, with a very pretty air of
smiling modesty.
--Will you go, if we make up a party?--I asked the Master.
--A cold in the head lasts me from three to five days,--answered the
Master.--I am not so very fond of being out in the dew like
Nebuchadnezzar: that will do for you young folks.
--I suppose I must be one of the young folks, not so young as our
Scheherezade, nor so old as the Capitalist,--young enough at any rate
to want to be of the party. So we agreed that on some fair night
when the Astronomer should tell us that there was to be a fine show
in the skies, we would make up a party and go to the Observatory. I
asked the Scarabee whether he would not like to make one of us.
--Out of the question, sir, out of the question. I am altogether too
much occupied with an important scientific investigation to devote
any considerable part of an evening to star-gazing.
--Oh, indeed,--said I,--and may I venture to ask on what particular
point you are engaged just at present?
-Certainly, sir, you may. It is, I suppose, as difficult and
important a matter to be investigated as often comes before a student
of natural history. I wish to settle the point once for all whether
the Pediculus Mellitae is or is not the larva of Meloe.
[--Now is n't this the drollest world to live in that one could
imagine, short of being in a fit of delirium tremens? Here is a
fellow-creature of mine and yours who is asked to see all the glories
of the firmament brought close to him, and he is too busy with a
little unmentionable parasite that infests the bristly surface of a
bee to spare an hour or two of a single evening for the splendors of
the universe! I must get a peep through that microscope of his and
see the pediculus which occupies a larger space in his mental vision
than the midnight march of the solar systems.---The creature, the
human one, I mean, interests me.]
--I am very curious,--I said,--about that pediculus melittae,--(just
as if I knew a good deal about the little wretch and wanted to know
more, whereas I had never heard him spoken of before, to my
knowledge,)--could you let me have a sight of him in your microscope?
--You ought to have seen the way in which the poor dried-up little
Scarabee turned towards me. His eyes took on a really human look,
and I almost thought those antennae-like arms of his would have
stretched themselves out and embraced me. I don't believe any of the
boarders had ever shown any interest in--him, except the little
monkey of a Boy, since he had been in the house. It is not strange;
he had not seemed to me much like a human being, until all at once I
touched the one point where his vitality had concentrated itself, and
he stood revealed a man and a brother.
--Come in,--said he,--come in, right after breakfast, and you shall
see the animal that has convulsed the entomological world with
questions as to his nature and origin.
--So I went into the Scarabee's parlor, lodging-room, study,
laboratory, and museum,--a--single apartment applied to these various
uses, you understand.
--I wish I had time to have you show me all your treasures,--I said,
--but I am afraid I shall hardly be able to do more than look at the
bee-parasite. But what a superb butterfly you have in that case!
--Oh, yes, yes, well enough,--came from South America with the beetle
there; look at him! These Lepidoptera are for children to play with,
pretty to look at, so some think. Give me the Coleoptera, and the
kings of the Coleoptera are the beetles! Lepidoptera and Neuroptera
for little folks; Coleopteras for men, sir!
--The particular beetle he showed me in the case with the magnificent
butterfly was an odious black wretch that one would say, Ugh! at, and
kick out of his path, if he did not serve him worse than that. But
he looked at it as a coin-collector would look at a Pescennius Niger,
if the coins of that Emperor are as scarce as they used to be when I
was collecting half-penny tokens and pine-tree shillings and battered
bits of Roman brass with the head of Gallienus or some such old
fellow on them.
--A beauty!--he exclaimed,--and the only specimen of the kind in this
country, to the best of my belief. A unique, sir, and there is a
pleasure in exclusive possession. Not another beetle like that short
of South America, sir.
--I was glad to hear that there were no more like it in this
neighborhood, the present supply of cockroaches answering every
purpose, so far as I am concerned, that such an animal as this would
be likely to serve.
--Here are my bee-parasites,--said the Scarabee, showing me a box
full of glass slides, each with a specimen ready mounted for the
microscope. I was most struck with one little beast flattened out
like a turtle, semi-transparent, six-legged, as I remember him, and
every leg terminated by a single claw hooked like a lion's and as
formidable for the size of the creature as that of the royal beast.
--Lives on a bumblebee, does he?--I said. That's the way I call it.
Bumblebee or bumblybee and huckleberry. Humblebee and whortleberry
for people that say Woos-ses-ter and Nor-wich.
--The Scarabee did not smile; he took no interest in trivial matters
like this.
--Lives on a bumblebee. When you come to think of it, he must lead a
pleasant kind of life. Sails through the air without the trouble of
flying. Free pass everywhere that the bee goes. No fear of being
dislodged; look at those six grappling-hooks. Helps himself to such
juices of the bee as he likes best; the bee feeds on the choicest
vegetable nectars, and he feeds on the bee. Lives either in the air
or in the perfumed pavilion of the fairest and sweetest flowers.
Think what tents the hollyhocks and the great lilies spread for him!
And wherever he travels a band of music goes with him, for this hum
which wanders by us is doubtless to him a vast and inspiring strain
of melody.--I thought all this, while the Scarabee supposed I was
studying the minute characters of the enigmatical specimen.
--I know what I consider your pediculus melittae, I said at length.
Do you think it really the larva of meloe?
--Oh, I don't know much about that, but I think he is the best cared
for, on the whole, of any animal that I know of; and if I wasn't a
man I believe I had rather be that little sybarite than anything that
feasts at the board of nature.
--The question is, whether he is the larva of meloe,--the Scarabee
said, as if he had not heard a word of what I had just been saying.--
--If I live a few years longer it shall be settled, sir; and if my
epitaph can say honestly that I settled it, I shall be willing to
trust my posthumous fame to that achievement.
I said good morning to the specialist, and went off feeling not only
kindly, but respectfully towards him. He is an enthusiast, at any
rate, as "earnest" a man as any philanthropic reformer who, having
passed his life in worrying people out of their misdoings into good
behavior, comes at last to a state in which he is never contented
except when he is making somebody uncomfortable. He does certainly
know one thing well, very likely better than anybody in the world.
I find myself somewhat singularly placed at our table between a
minute philosopher who has concentrated all his faculties on a single
subject, and my friend who finds the present universe too restricted
for his intelligence. I would not give much to hear what the
Scarabee says about the old Master, for he does not pretend to form a
judgment of anything but beetles, but I should like to hear what the
Master has to say about the Scarabee. I waited after breakfast until
he had gone, and then asked the Master what he could make of our
dried-up friend.
--Well,--he said,--I am hospitable enough in my feelings to him and
all his tribe. These specialists are the coral-insects that build up
a reef. By and by it will be an island, and for aught we know may
grow into a continent. But I don't want to be a coral-insect myself.
I had rather be a voyager that visits all the reefs and islands the
creatures build, and sails over the seas where they have as yet built
up nothing. I am a little afraid that science is breeding us down
too fast into coral-insects. A man like Newton or Leibnitz or Haller
used to paint a picture of outward or inward nature with a free hand,
and stand back and look at it as a whole and feel like an archangel;
but nowadays you have a Society, and they come together and make a
great mosaic, each man bringing his little bit and sticking it in its
place, but so taken up with his petty fragment that he never thinks
of looking at the picture the little bits make when they are put
together. You can't get any talk out of these specialists away from
their own subjects, any more than you can get help from a policeman
outside of his own beat.
--Yes,--said I,--but why should n't we always set a man talking about
the thing he knows best?
--No doubt, no doubt, if you meet him once; but what are you going to
do with him if you meet him every day? I travel with a man and we
want to make change very often in paying bills. But every time I ask
him to change a pistareen, or give me two fo'pencehappennies for a
ninepence, or help me to make out two and thrippence (mark the old
Master's archaisms about the currency), what does the fellow do but
put his hand in his pocket and pull out an old Roman coin; I have no
change, says he, but this assarion of Diocletian. Mighty deal of
good that'll do me!
--It isn't quite so handy as a few specimens of the modern currency
would be, but you can pump him on numismatics.
--To be sure, to be sure. I've pumped a thousand men of all they
could teach me, or at least all I could learn from 'em; and if it
comes to that, I never saw the man that couldn't teach me something.
I can get along with everybody in his place, though I think the place
of some of my friends is over there among the feeble-minded pupils,
and I don't believe there's one of them, I couldn't go to school to
for half an hour and be the wiser for it. But people you talk with
every day have got to have feeders for their minds, as much as the
stream that turns a millwheel has. It isn't one little rill that's
going to keep the float-boards turning round. Take a dozen of the
brightest men you can find in the brightest city, wherever that may
be,--perhaps you and I think we know,--and let 'em come together once
a month, and you'll find out in the course of a year or two the ones
that have feeders from all the hillsides. Your common talkers, that
exchange the gossip of the day, have no wheel in particular to turn,
and the wash of the rain as it runs down the street is enough for
them.
--Do you mean you can always see the sources from which a man fills
his mind,--his feeders, as you call them?
-I don't go quite so far as that,--the Master said.---I've seen men
whose minds were always overflowing, and yet they did n't read much
nor go much into the world. Sometimes you'll find a bit of a pond-
hole in a pasture, and you'll plunge your walking-stick into it and
think you are going to touch bottom. But you find you are mistaken.
Some of these little stagnant pond-holes are a good deal deeper than
you think; you may tie a stone to a bed-cord and not get soundings in
some of 'em. The country boys will tell you they have no bottom, but
that only means that they are mighty deep; and so a good many
stagnant, stupid-seeming people are a great deal deeper than the
length of your intellectual walking-stick, I can tell you. There are
hidden springs that keep the little pond-holes full when the mountain
brooks are all dried up. You poets ought to know that.
--I can't help thinking you are more tolerant towards the specialists
than I thought at first, by the way you seemed to look at our dried-
up neighbor and his small pursuits.
--I don't like the word tolerant,--the Master said.---As long as the
Lord can tolerate me I think I can stand my fellow-creatures.
Philosophically, I love 'em all; empirically, I don't think I am very
fond of all of 'em. It depends on how you look at a man or a woman.
Come here, Youngster, will you? he said to That Boy.
The Boy was trying to catch a blue-bottle to add to his collection,
and was indisposed to give up the chase; but he presently saw that
the Master had taken out a small coin and laid it on the table, and
felt himself drawn in that direction.
Read that,--said the Master.
U-n-i-ni United States of America 5 cents.
The Master turned the coin over. Now read that.
In God is our t-r-u-s-t--trust. 1869.
--Is that the same piece of money as the other one?
--There ain't any other one,--said the Boy, there ain't but one, but
it's got two sides to it with different reading.
--That 's it, that 's it,--said the Master,--two sides to everybody,
as there are to that piece of money. I've seen an old woman that
wouldn't fetch five cents if you should put her up for sale at public
auction; and yet come to read the other side of her, she had a trust
in God Almighty that was like the bow anchor of a three-decker. It's
faith in something and enthusiasm for something that makes a life
worth looking at. I don't think your ant-eating specialist, with his
sharp nose and pin-head eyes, is the best every-day companion; but
any man who knows one thing well is worth listening to for once; and
if you are of the large-brained variety of the race, and want to fill
out your programme of the Order of Things in a systematic and
exhaustive way, and get all the half-notes and flats and sharps of
humanity into your scale, you'd a great deal better shut your front
door and open your two side ones when you come across a fellow that
has made a real business of doing anything.
--That Boy stood all this time looking hard at the five-cent piece.
--Take it,--said the Master, with a good-natured smile.
--The Boy made a snatch at it and was off for the purpose of
investing it.
--A child naturally snaps at a thing as a dog does at his meat,--said
the Master.---If you think of it, we've all been quadrupeds. A child
that can only crawl has all the instincts of a four-footed beast. It
carries things in its mouth just as cats and dogs do. I've seen the
little brutes do it over and over again. I suppose a good many
children would stay quadrupeds all their lives, if they didn't learn
the trick of walking on their hind legs from seeing all the grown
people walking in that way.
--Do you accept Mr. Darwin's notions about the origin of the race?--
said I.
The Master looked at me with that twinkle in his eye which means that
he is going to parry a question.
--Better stick to Blair's Chronology; that settles it. Adam and Eve,
created Friday, October 28th, B. C. 4004. You've been in a ship for
a good while, and here comes Mr. Darwin on deck with an armful of
sticks and says, "Let's build a raft, and trust ourselves to that."
If your ship springs a leak, what would you do?
He looked me straight in the eyes for about half a minute.---If I
heard the pumps going, I'd look and see whether they were gaining on
the leak or not. If they were gaining I'd stay where I was.---Go and
find out what's the matter with that young woman.
I had noticed that the Young Girl--the storywriter, our Scheherezade,
as I called her--looked as if she had been crying or lying awake half
the night. I found on asking her,--for she is an honest little body
and is disposed to be confidential with me for some reason or other,
--that she had been doing both.
--And what was the matter now, I questioned her in a semi-paternal
kind of way, as soon as I got a chance for a few quiet words with
her.
She was engaged to write a serial story, it seems, and had only got
as far as the second number, and some critic had been jumping upon
it, she said, and grinding his heel into it, till she couldn't bear
to look at it. He said she did not write half so well as half a
dozen other young women. She did n't write half so well as she used
to write herself. She hadn't any characters and she had n't any
incidents. Then he went to work to show how her story was coming
out, trying to anticipate everything she could make of it, so that
her readers should have nothing to look forward to, and he should
have credit for his sagacity in guessing, which was nothing so very
wonderful, she seemed to think. Things she had merely hinted and
left the reader to infer, he told right out in the bluntest and
coarsest way. It had taken all the life out of her, she said. It
was just as if at a dinner-party one of the guests should take a
spoonful of soup and get up and say to the company, "Poor stuff, poor
stuff; you won't get anything better; let's go somewhere else where
things are fit to eat."
What do you read such things for, my dear? said I.
The film glistened in her eyes at the strange sound of those two soft
words; she had not heard such very often, I am afraid.
--I know I am a foolish creature to read them, she answered,--but I
can't help it; somebody always sends me everything that will make me
wretched to read, and so I sit down and read it, and ache all over
for my pains, and lie awake all night.
--She smiled faintly as she said this, for she saw the sub-ridiculous
side of it, but the film glittered still in her eyes. There are a
good many real miseries in life that we cannot help smiling at, but
they are the smiles that make wrinkles and not dimples. "Somebody
always sends her everything that will make her wretched." Who can
those creatures be who cut out the offensive paragraph and send it
anonymously to us, who mail the newspaper which has the article we
had much better not have seen, who take care that we shall know
everything which can, by any possibility, help to make us
discontented with ourselves and a little less light-hearted than we
were before we had been fools enough to open their incendiary
packages? I don't like to say it to myself, but I cannot help
suspecting, in this instance, the doubtful-looking personage who sits
on my left, beyond the Scarabee. I have some reason to think that he
has made advances to the Young Girl which were not favorably
received, to state the case in moderate terms, and it may be that he
is taking his revenge in cutting up the poor girl's story. I know
this very well, that some personal pique or favoritism is at the
bottom of half the praise and dispraise which pretend to be so very
ingenuous and discriminating. (Of course I have been thinking all
this time and telling you what I thought.)
--What you want is encouragement, my dear, said I,--I know that as
well, as you. I don't think the fellows that write such criticisms
as you tell me of want to correct your faults. I don't mean to say
that you can learn nothing from them, because they are not all fools
by any means, and they will often pick out your weak points with a
malignant sagacity, as a pettifogging lawyer will frequently find a
real flaw in trying to get at everything he can quibble about. But
is there nobody who will praise you generously when you do well,--
nobody that will lend you a hand now while you want it,--or must they
all wait until you have made yourself a name among strangers, and
then all at once find out that you have something in you?
Oh,--said the girl, and the bright film gathered too fast for her
young eyes to hold much longer,--I ought not to be ungrateful! I
have found the kindest friend in the world. Have you ever heard the
Lady--the one that I sit next to at the table--say anything about me?
I have not really made her acquaintance, I said. She seems to me a
little distant in her manners and I have respected her pretty evident
liking for keeping mostly to herself.
--Oh, but when you once do know her! I don't believe I could write
stories all the time as I do, if she didn't ask me up to her chamber,
and let me read them to her. Do you know, I can make her laugh and
cry, reading my poor stories? And sometimes, when I feel as if I had
written out all there is in me, and want to lie down and go to sleep
and never wake up except in a world where there are no weekly
papers,--when everything goes wrong, like a car off the track,--she
takes hold and sets me on the rails again all right.
--How does she go to work to help you?
--Why, she listens to my stories, to begin with, as if she really
liked to hear them. And then you know I am dreadfully troubled now
and then with some of my characters, and can't think how to get rid
of them. And she'll say, perhaps, Don't shoot your villain this
time, you've shot three or four already in the last six weeks; let
his mare stumble and throw him and break his neck. Or she'll give me
a hint about some new way for my lover to make a declaration. She
must have had a good many offers, it's my belief, for she has told me
a dozen different ways for me to use in my stories. And whenever I
read a story to her, she always laughs and cries in the right places;
and that's such a comfort, for there are some people that think
everything pitiable is so funny, and will burst out laughing when
poor Rip Van Winkle--you've seen Mr. Jefferson, haven't you?--is
breaking your heart for you if you have one. Sometimes she takes a
poem I have written and reads it to me so beautifully, that I fall in
love with it, and sometimes she sets my verses to music and sings
them to me.
--You have a laugh together sometimes, do you?
--Indeed we do. I write for what they call the "Comic Department" of
the paper now and then. If I did not get so tired of story-telling,
I suppose I should be gayer than I am; but as it is, we two get a
little fun out of my comic pieces. I begin them half-crying
sometimes, but after they are done they amuse me. I don't suppose my
comic pieces are very laughable; at any rate the man who makes a
business of writing me down says the last one I wrote is very
melancholy reading, and that if it was only a little better perhaps
some bereaved person might pick out a line or two that would do to
put on a gravestone.
--Well, that is hard, I must confess. Do let me see those lines
which excite such sad emotions.
--Will you read them very good-naturedly? If you will, I will get
the paper that has "Aunt Tabitha." That is the one the fault-finder
said produced such deep depression of feeling. It was written for
the "Comic Department." Perhaps it will make you cry, but it was n't
meant to.
--I will finish my report this time with our Scheherezade's poem,
hoping that--any critic who deals with it will treat it with the
courtesy due to all a young lady's literary efforts.
AUNT TABITHA.
Whatever I do, and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago)
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.
Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice!
And besides, I forget half the things I am told;
But they all will come back to me--when I am old.
If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;
She would never endure an impertinent stare,
It is horrid, she says, and I mustn't sit there.
A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,
But it is n't quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad's arm,--just for safety, you know,
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they didn't do so.
How wicked we are, and how good they were then!
They kept at arm's length those detestable men;
What an era of virtue she lived in!--But stay
Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?
If the men were so wicked, I'll ask my papa
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma;
Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows
And what shall I say if a wretch should propose?
I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin,
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been!
And her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad.
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!
A martyr will save us, and nothing else can;
Let me perish--to rescue some wretched young man!
Though when to the altar a victim I go,
Aunt Tabitha'll tell me she never did so! |
