Literary Lapses Read online

  I began to see that there was no use in arguing anyfurther with the old man. I left him with the idea thatthe lapse of a little time would soften his views onSaloonio. But I had not reckoned on the way in which oldmen hang on to a thing. Colonel Hogshead quite took upSaloonio. From that time on Saloonio became the theme ofhis constant conversation. He was never tired of discussingthe character of Saloonio, the wonderful art of thedramatist in creating him, Saloonio's relation to modernlife, Saloonio's attitude toward women, the ethicalsignificance of Saloonio, Saloonio as compared withHamlet, Hamlet as compared with Saloonio--and so on,endlessly. And the more he looked into Saloonio, the morehe saw in him.

  Saloonio seemed inexhaustible. There were new sides tohim--new phases at every turn. The Colonel even read overthe play, and finding no mention of Saloonio's name init, he swore that the books were not the same books theyhad had out in Wyoming; that the whole part had been cutclean out to suit the book to the infernal public schools,Saloonio's language being--at any rate, as the Colonelquoted it--undoubtedly a trifle free. Then the Coloneltook to annotating his book at the side with such remarksas, "Enter Saloonio," or "A tucket sounds; enter Saloonio,on the arm of the Prince of Morocco." When there was noreasonable excuse for bringing Saloonio on the stage theColonel swore that he was concealed behind the arras, orfeasting within with the doge.

  But he got satisfaction at last. He had found that therewas nobody in our part of the country who knew how toput a play of Shakespeare on the stage, and took a tripto New York to see Sir Henry Irving and Miss Terry dothe play. The Colonel sat and listened all through withhis face just beaming with satisfaction, and when thecurtain fell at the close of Irving's grand presentationof the play, he stood up in his seat, and cheered andyelled to his friends: "That's it! That's him! Didn'tyou see that man that came on the stage all the time andsort of put the whole play through, though you couldn'tunderstand a word he said? Well, that's him! That'sSaloonio!"

  Half-hours with the Poets

  I.--MR. WORDSWORTH AND THE LITTLE COTTAGE GIRL.

  "I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old she said, Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head."

  WORDSWORTH.

  This is what really happened.

  Over the dreary downs of his native Cumberland the agedlaureate was wandering with bowed head and countenanceof sorrow.

  Times were bad with the old man.

  In the south pocket of his trousers, as he set his faceto the north, jingled but a few odd coins and a chequefor St. Leon water. Apparently his cup of bitterness wasfull.

  In the distance a child moved--a child in form, yet thedeep lines upon her face bespoke a countenance prematurelyold.

  The poet espied, pursued and overtook the infant. Heobserved that apparently she drew her breath lightly andfelt her life in every limb, and that presumably heracquaintance with death was of the most superficialcharacter.

  "I must sit awhile and ponder on that child," murmuredthe poet. So he knocked her down with his walking-stickand seating himself upon her, he pondered.

  Long he sat thus in thought. "His heart is heavy," sighedthe child.

  At length he drew forth a note-book and pencil and preparedto write upon his knee. "Now then, my dear young friend,"he said, addressing the elfin creature, "I want thoselines upon your face. Are you seven?"

  "Yes, we are seven," said the girl sadly, and added, "Iknow what you want. You are going to question me aboutmy afflicted family. You are Mr. Wordsworth, and you arecollecting mortuary statistics for the Cottagers' Editionof the Penny Encyclopaedia."

  "You are eight years old?" asked the bard.

  "I suppose so," answered she. "I have been eight yearsold for years and years."

  "And you know nothing of death, of course?" said the poetcheerfully.

  "How can I?" answered the child.

  "Now then," resumed the venerable William, "let us getto business. Name your brothers and sisters."

  "Let me see," began the child wearily; "there was Rubeand Ike, two I can't think of, and John and Jane."

  "You must not count John and Jane," interrupted the bardreprovingly; "they're dead, you know, so that doesn'tmake seven."

  "I wasn't counting them, but perhaps I added up wrongly,"said the child; "and will you please move your overshoeoff my neck?"

  "Pardon," said the old man. "A nervous trick, I have beenabsorbed; indeed, the exigency of the metre almost demandsmy doubling up my feet. To continue, however; which diedfirst?"

  "The first to go was little Jane," said the child.

  "She lay moaning in bed, I presume?"

  "In bed she moaning lay."

  "What killed her?"

  "Insomnia," answered the girl. "The gaiety of our cottagelife, previous to the departure of our elder brothersfor Conway, and the constant field-sports in which sheindulged with John, proved too much for a frame nevertoo robust."

  "You express yourself well," said the poet. "Now, inregard to your unfortunate brother, what was the effectupon him in the following winter of the ground beingwhite with snow and your being able to run and slide?"

  "My brother John was forced to go," answered she. "Wehave been at a loss to understand the cause of his death.We fear that the dazzling glare of the newly fallen snow,acting upon a restless brain, may have led him to a fatalattempt to emulate my own feats upon the ice. And, oh,sir," the child went on, "speak gently of poor Jane. Youmay rub it into John all you like; we always let himslide."

  "Very well," said the bard, "and allow me, in conclusion,one rather delicate question: Do you ever take your littleporringer?"

  "Oh, yes," answered the child frankly--

  "'Quite often after sunset, When all is light and fair, I take my little porringer'--

  "I can't quite remember what I do after that, but I knowthat I like it."

  "That is immaterial," said Wordsworth. "I can say thatyou take your little porringer neat, or with bitters, orin water after every meal. As long as I can state thatyou take a little porringer regularly, but never toexcess, the public is satisfied. And now," rising fromhis seat, "I will not detain you any longer. Here issixpence--or stay," he added hastily, "here is a chequefor St. Leon water. Your information has been mostvaluable, and I shall work it, for all I am Wordsworth."With these words the aged poet bowed deferentially tothe child and sauntered off in the direction of the Dukeof Cumberland's Arms, with his eyes on the ground, as iflooking for the meanest flower that blows itself.

  II:--HOW TENNYSON KILLED THE MAY QUEEN

  "If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear."

  PART I

  As soon as the child's malady had declared itself theafflicted parents of the May Queen telegraphed to Tennyson,"Our child gone crazy on subject of early rising, couldyou come and write some poetry about her?"

  Alfred, always prompt to fill orders in writing from thecountry, came down on the evening train. The old cottagergreeted the poet warmly, and began at once to speak ofthe state of his unfortunate daughter.

  "She was took queer in May," he said, "along of a sortof bee that the young folks had; she ain't been justright since; happen you might do summat."

  With these words he opened the door of an inner room.

  The girl lay in feverish slumber. Beside her bed was analarm-clock set for half-past three. Connected with theclock was an ingenious arrangement of a falling brickwith a string attached to the child's toe.

  At the entrance of the visitor she started up in bed."Whoop," she yelled, "I am to be Queen of the May, mother,ye-e!"

  Then perceiving Tennyson in the doorway, "If that's acaller," she said, "tell him to call me early."

  The shock caused the brick to fall. In the subsequentconfusion Alfred modestly withdrew to the sitting-room.

  "At this rate," he chuckled, "I shall not have long towait. A few weeks of that strain will finish her."

  PART II

  Six months had passed.

  It w
as now mid-winter.

  And still the girl lived. Her vitality appearedinexhaustible.

  She got up earlier and earlier. She now rose yesterdayafternoon.

  At intervals she seemed almost sane, and spoke in a mostpathetic manner of her grave and the probability of thesun shining on it early in the morning, and her motherwalking on it later in the day. At other times her maladywould seize her, and she would snatch the brick off thestring and throw it fiercely at Tennyson. Once, in anuncontrollable fit of madness, she gave her sister Effiea half-share in her garden tools and an interest in abox of mignonette.

  The poet stayed doggedly on. In the chill of the morningtwilight he broke the ice in his water-basin and cursedthe girl. But he felt that he had broken the ice and hestayed.

  On the whole, life at the cottage, though rugged, wasnot cheerless. In the long winter evenings they wouldgather around a smoking fire of peat, while Tennyson readaloud the Idylls of the King to the rude old cottager.Not to show his rudeness, the old man kept awake bysitting on a tin-tack. This also kept his mind on theright tack. The two found that they had much in common,especially the old cottager. They called each other"Alfred" and "Hezekiah" now.

  PART III

  Time moved on and spring came.

  Still the girl baffled the poet.

  "I thought to pass away before," she would say with amocking grin, "but yet alive I am, Alfred, alive I am."

  Tennyson was fast losing hope.

  Worn out with early rising, they engaged a retiredPullman-car porter to take up his quarters, and being anegro his presence added a touch of colour to their life.

  The poet also engaged a neighbouring divine at fiftycents an evening to read to the child the best hundredbooks, with explanations. The May Queen tolerated him,and used to like to play with his silver hair, butprotested that he was prosy.

  At the end of his resources the poet resolved upondesperate measures.

  He chose an evening when the cottager and his wife wereout at a dinner-party.

  At nightfall Tennyson and his accomplices entered thegirl's room.

  She defended herself savagely with her brick, but wasoverpowered.

  The negro seated himself upon her chest, while theclergyman hastily read a few verses about the comfort ofearly rising at the last day.

  As he concluded, the poet drove his pen into her eye.

  "Last call!" cried the negro porter triumphantly.

  III.--OLD MR. LONGFELLOW ON BOARD THE HESPERUS.

  "It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea, And the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company."--LONGFELLOW.

  There were but three people in the cabin party of theHesperus: old Mr. Longfellow, the skipper, and theskipper's daughter.

  The skipper was much attached to the child, owing to thesingular whiteness of her skin and the exceptionallylimpid blue of her eyes; she had hitherto remained onshore to fill lucrative engagements as albino lady in acircus.

  This time, however, her father had taken her with himfor company. The girl was an endless source of amusementto the skipper and the crew. She constantly got up gamesof puss-in-the-corner, forfeits, and Dumb Crambo withher father and Mr. Longfellow, and made Scripture puzzlesand geographical acrostics for the men.

  Old Mr. Longfellow was taking the voyage to restore hisshattered nerves. From the first the captain dislikedHenry. He was utterly unused to the sea and was nervousand fidgety in the extreme. He complained that at seahis genius had not a sufficient degree of latitude. Whichwas unparalleled presumption.

  On the evening of the storm there had been a little jarbetween Longfellow and the captain at dinner. The captainhad emptied it several times, and was consequently in areckless, quarrelsome humour.

  "I confess I feel somewhat apprehensive," said old Henrynervously, "of the state of the weather. I have had someconversation about it with an old gentleman on deck whoprofessed to have sailed the Spanish main. He says youought to put into yonder port."

  "I have," hiccoughed the skipper, eyeing the bottle, andadded with a brutal laugh that "he could weather theroughest gale that ever wind did blow." A whole Gaelicsociety, he said, wouldn't fizz on him.

  Draining a final glass of grog, he rose from his chair,said grace, and staggered on deck.

  All the time the wind blew colder and louder.

  The billows frothed like yeast. It was a yeast wind.

  The evening wore on.

  Old Henry shuffled about the cabin in nervous misery.

  The skipper's daughter sat quietly at the table selectingverses from a Biblical clock to amuse the ship's bosun,who was suffering from toothache.

  At about ten Longfellow went to his bunk, requesting thegirl to remain up in his cabin.

  For half an hour all was quiet, save the roaring of thewinter wind.

  Then the girl heard the old gentleman start up in bed.

  "What's that bell, what's that bell?" he gasped.

  A minute later he emerged from his cabin wearing a corkjacket and trousers over his pyjamas.

  "Sissy," he said, "go up and ask your pop who rang thatbell."

  The obedient child returned.

  "Please, Mr. Longfellow," she said, "pa says there weren'tno bell."

  The old man sank into a chair and remained with his headburied in his hands.

  "Say," he exclaimed presently, "someone's firing gunsand there's a glimmering light somewhere. You'd bettergo upstairs again."

  Again the child returned.

  "The crew are guessing at an acrostic, and occasionallythey get a glimmering of it."

  Meantime the fury of the storm increased.

  The skipper had the hatches battered down.

  Presently Longfellow put his head out of a porthole andcalled out, "Look here, you may not care, but the cruelrocks are goring the sides of this boat like the hornsof an angry bull."

  The brutal skipper heaved the log at him. A knot in itstruck a plank and it glanced off.

  Too frightened to remain below, the poet raised one ofthe hatches by picking out the cotton batting and madehis way on deck. He crawled to the wheel-house.

  The skipper stood lashed to the helm all stiff and stark.He bowed stiffly to the poet. The lantern gleamed throughthe gleaming snow on his fixed and glassy eyes. The manwas hopelessly intoxicated.

  All the crew had disappeared. When the missile thrown bythe captain had glanced off into the sea, they glancedafter it and were lost.

  At this moment the final crash came.

  Something hit something. There was an awful click followedby a peculiar grating sound, and in less time than ittakes to write it (unfortunately), the whole wreck wasover.

  As the vessel sank, Longfellow's senses left him. Whenhe reopened his eyes he was in his own bed at home, andthe editor of his local paper was bending over him.

  "You have made a first-rate poem of it, Mr. Longfellow,"he was saying, unbending somewhat as he spoke, "and I amvery happy to give you our cheque for a dollar and aquarter for it."

  "Your kindness checks my utterance," murmured Henryfeebly, very feebly.

  A, B, and C

  THE HUMAN ELEMENT IN MATHEMATICS

  The student of arithmetic who has mastered the first fourrules of his art, and successfully striven with moneysums and fractions, finds himself confronted by an unbrokenexpanse of questions known as problems. These are shortstories of adventure and industry with the end omitted,and though betraying a strong family resemblance, arenot without a certain element of romance.

  The characters in the plot of a problem are three peoplecalled A, B, and C. The form of the question is generallyof this sort:

  "A, B, and C do a certain piece of work. A can do as muchwork in one hour as B in two, or C in four. Find how longthey work at it."

  Or thus:

  "A, B, and C are employed to dig a ditch. A can dig asmuch in one hour as B can dig in two, and B can dig twiceas fast as C. Find how long, etc. etc."

  Or after this wise:
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  "A lays a wager that he can walk faster than B or C. Acan walk half as fast again as B, and C is only anindifferent walker. Find how far, and so forth."

  The occupations of A, B, and C are many and varied. Inthe older arithmetics they contented themselves withdoing "a certain piece of work." This statement of thecase however, was found too sly and mysterious, or possiblylacking in romantic charm. It became the fashion to definethe job more clearly and to set them at walking matches,ditch-digging, regattas, and piling cord wood. At times,they became commercial and entered into partnership,having with their old mystery a "certain" capital. Aboveall they revel in motion. When they tire ofwalking-matches--A rides on horseback, or borrows abicycle and competes with his weaker-minded associateson foot. Now they race on locomotives; now they row; oragain they become historical and engage stage-coaches;or at times they are aquatic and swim. If their occupationis actual work they prefer to pump water into cisterns,two of which leak through holes in the bottom and one ofwhich is water-tight. A, of course, has the good one; healso takes the bicycle, and the best locomotive, and theright of swimming with the current. Whatever they do theyput money on it, being all three sports. A always wins.