It is not easy, at the best, for two persons talking together to make
the most of each other's thoughts, there are so many of them.
[The company looked as if they wanted an explanation.]
When John and Thomas, for instance, are talking together, it is natural
enough that among the six there should be more or less confusion and
misapprehension.
[Our landlady turned pale;--no doubt she thought there was a screw loose
in my intellects,--and that involved the probable loss of a boarder. A
severe-looking person, who wears a Spanish cloak and a sad cheek, fluted
by the passions of the melodrama, whom I understand to be the
professional ruffian of the neighboring theater, alluded, with a certain
lifting of the brow, drawing down of the corners of the mouth and
somewhat rasping _voce di petti_, to Falstaff's nine men in buckram.
Everybody looked up. I believe the old gentleman opposite was afraid I
should seize the carving-knife; at any rate, he slid it to one side, as
it were carelessly.]
I think, I said, I can make it plain to Benjamin Franklin here, that
there are at least six personalities distinctly to be recognized as
taking part in that dialogue between John and Thomas.
{ 1. The real John; known only to his Maker.
{ 2. John's ideal John; never the real one, and often
Three Johns { very unlike him.
{ 3. Thomas's ideal John; never the real John, nor
{ John's John, but often very unlike either.
{ 1. The real Thomas.
Three Thomases { 2. Thomas's ideal Thomas.
{ 3. John's ideal Thomas.
Only one of the three Johns is taxed; only one can be weighed on a
platform-balance; but the other two are just as important in the
conversation. Let us suppose the real John to be old, dull and
ill-looking. But as the Higher Powers have not conferred on men the gift
of seeing themselves in the true light, John very possibly conceives
himself to be youthful, witty, and fascinating, and talks from the point
of view of this ideal. Thomas, again believes him to be an artful rogue,
we will say; therefore he _is_ so far as Thomas's attitude in the
conversation is concerned, an artful rogue, though really simple and
stupid. The same conditions apply to the three Thomases. It follows,
that, until a man can be found who knows himself as his Maker knows him,
or who sees himself as others see him, there must be at least six
persons engaged in every dialogue between two. Of these, the least
important, philosophically speaking, is the one that we have called the
real person. No wonder two disputants often get angry, when there are
six of them talking and listening all at the same time.
[A very unphilosophical application of the above remarks was made by a
young fellow, answering to the name of John, who sits near me at table.
A certain basket of peaches, a rare vegetable, little known to boarding
houses, was on its way to me _viâ_ this unlettered Johannes. He
appropriated the three that remained in the basket, remarking that there
was just one apiece for him. I convinced him that his practical
inference was hasty and illogical, but in the mean time he had eaten the
peaches.]
"OUR SUMATRA CORRESPONDENCE
"This island is now the property of the Stamford family,--having been
won, it is said, in a raffle, by Sir ---- Stamford, during the
stock-gambling mania of the South-Sea Scheme. The history of this
gentleman may be found in an interesting series of questions
(unfortunately not yet answered) contained in the "Notes and Queries."
This island is entirely surrounded by the ocean, which here contains a
large amount of saline substance, crystallizing in cubes remarkable for
their symmetry, and frequently displays on its surface, during calm
weather, the rainbow tints of the celebrated South-Sea bubbles. The
summers are oppressively hot, and the winters very probably cold; but
this fact can not be ascertained precisely, as, for some peculiar
reason, the mercury in these latitudes never shrinks, as in more
northern regions, and thus the thermometer is rendered useless in
winter.
"The principal vegetable productions of the island are the pepper-tree
and the bread-fruit tree. Pepper being very abundantly produced, a
benevolent society was organized in London during the last century for
supplying the natives with vinegar and oysters, as an addition to that
delightful condiment. [Note received from Dr. D.P.] It is said, however,
that, as the oysters were of the kind called _natives_ in England, the
natives of Sumatra, in obedience to a natural instinct, refused to touch
them, and confined themselves entirely to the crew of the vessel in
which they were brought over. This information was received from one of
the oldest inhabitants, a native himself, and exceedingly fond of
missionaries. He is said also to be very skilful in the _cuisine_
peculiar to the island.
"During the season of gathering the pepper, the persons employed are
subject to various incommodities, the chief of which is violent and
long-continued sternutation, or sneezing. Such is the vehemence of these
attacks, that the unfortunate subjects of them are often driven backward
for great distances at immense speed, on the well-known principle of the
æolipile. Not being able to see where they are going, these poor
creatures dash themselves to pieces against the rocks or are
precipitated over the cliffs, and thus many valuable lives are lost
annually. As, during the whole pepper-harvest, they feed exclusively on
this stimulant, they become exceedingly irritable. The smallest injury
is resented with ungovernable rage. A young man suffering from the
_pepper-fever_, as it is called, cudgeled another most severely for
appropriating a superannuated relative of trifling value, and was only
pacified by having a present made him of a pig of that peculiar species
of swine called the _Peccavi_ by the Catholic Jews, who, it is well
known, abstain from swine's flesh in imitation of the Mahometan
Buddhists.
"The bread-tree grows abundantly. Its branches are well known to Europe
and America under the familiar name of _macaroni_. The smaller twigs are
called _vermicelli_. They have a decided animal flavor, as may be
observed in the soups containing them. Macaroni, being tubular, is the
favorite habitat of a very dangerous insect, which is rendered
peculiarly ferocious by being boiled. The government of the island,
therefore, never allows a stick of it to be exported without being
accompanied by a piston with which its cavity may at any time be
thoroughly swept out. These are commonly lost or stolen before the
macaroni arrives among us. It therefore always contains many of these
insects, which, however, generally die of old age in the shops, so that
accidents from this source are comparatively rare.
"The fruit of the bread-tree consists principally of hot rolls. The
buttered-muffin variety is supposed to be a hybrid with a cocoanut palm,
the cream found on the milk of the cocoanut exuding from the hybrid in
the shape of butter, just as the ripe fruit is splitting, so as to fit
it for the tea-table, where it is commonly served up with cold--"
--There,--I don't want to read any more of it. You see that many of
these statements are highly improbable.--No, I shall not mention the
paper.--No, neither of them wrote it, though it reminds me of the style
of these popular writers. I think the fellow that wrote it must have
been reading some of their stories, and got them mixed up with his
history and geography. I don't suppose _he_ lies; he sells it to the
editor, who knows how many squares off "Sumatra" is. The editor, who
sells it to the public--by the way, the papers have been very
civil--haven't they?--to the--the--what d'ye call it?--"Northern
Magazine,"--isn't it?--got up by some of these Come-outers, down East,
as an organ for their local peculiarities.
* * * * *
It is a very dangerous thing for a literary man to indulge his love for
the ridiculous. People laugh _with_ him just so long as he amuses them;
but if he attempts to be serious, they must still have their laugh, and
so they laugh _at_ him. There is in addition, however, a deeper reason
for this than would at first appear. Do you know that you feel a little
superior to every man who makes you laugh, whether by making faces or
verses? Are you aware that you have a pleasant sense of patronizing him,
when you condescend so far as to let him turn somersets, literal or
literary, for your royal delight? Now if a man can only be allowed to
stand on a dais, or raised platform, and look down on his neighbor who
is exerting his talent for him, oh, it is all right!--first-rate
performance!--and all the rest of the fine phrases. But if all at once
the performer asks the gentleman to come upon the floor, and, stepping
upon the platform, begins to talk down at him,--ah, that wasn't in the
program!
I have never forgotten what happened when Sydney Smith--who, as
everybody knows, was an exceedingly sensible man, and a gentleman, every
inch of him--ventured to preach a sermon on the Duties of Royalty. The
"Quarterly," "so savage and tartly," came down upon him in the most
contemptuous style, as "a joker of jokes," a "diner-out of the first
water" in one of his own phrases; sneering at him, insulting him, as
nothing but a toady of a court, sneaking behind the anonymous, would
ever have been mean enough to do to a man of his position and genius, or
to any decent person even.--If I were giving advice to a young fellow of
talent, with two or three facets to his mind, I would tell him by all
means to keep his wit in the background until after he had made a
reputation by his more solid qualities. And so to an actor: _Hamlet_
first and _Bob Logic_ afterward, if you like; but don't think, as they
say poor Liston used to, that people will be ready to allow that you can
do anything great with _Macbeth's_ dagger after flourishing about with
_Paul Pry's_ umbrella. Do you know, too, that the majority of men look
upon all who challenge their attention,--for a while, at least,--as
beggars, and nuisances? They always try to get off as cheaply as they
can; and the cheapest of all things they can give a literary man--pardon
the forlorn pleasantry!--is the _funny_-bone. That is all very well so
far as it goes, but satisfies no man, and makes a good many angry, as I
told you on a former occasion.
Oh, indeed, no!--I am not ashamed to make you laugh, occasionally. I
think I could read you something I have in my desk that would probably
make you smile. Perhaps I will read it one of these days, if you are
patient with me when I am sentimental and reflective; not just now. The
ludicrous has its place in the universe; it is not a human invention,
but one of the Divine ideas, illustrated in the practical jokes as
kittens and monkeys long before Aristophanes or Shakespeare. How curious
it is that we always consider solemnity and the absence of all gay
surprises and encounter of wits as essential to the idea of the future
life of those whom we thus deprive of half their faculties and then
called _blessed_! There are not a few who, even in this life, seem to be
preparing themselves for that smileless eternity to which they look
forward, by banishing all gaiety from their hearts and all joyousness
from their countenances. I meet one such in the street not unfrequently,
a person of intelligence and education, but who gives me (and all that
he passes) such a rayless and chilling look of recognition,--something
as if he were one of Heaven's assessors, come down to "doom" every
acquaintance he met,--that I have sometimes begun to sneeze on the spot,
and gone home with a violent cold, dating from that instant. I don't
doubt he would cut his kitten's tail off, if he caught her playing with
it. Please tell me, who taught her to play with it?