Nothing has been heard of Uncle Jack. When we moved to the tower, the
Captain gave him an invitation--more, I suspect, out of compliment to
my mother than from the unbidden impulse of his own inclinations. But
Mr Tibbets politely declined it. During his stay at the brick house,
he had received and written a vast number of letters--some of those
he received, indeed, were left at the village post-office, under the
alphabetical addresses of A B or X Y. For no misfortune ever paralysed
the energies of Uncle Jack. In the winter of adversity he vanished, it
is true, but even in vanishing he vegetated still. He resembled those
_algæ_, termed the _Prolococcus nivales_, which give a rose-colour to
the Polar snows that conceal them, and flourish unsuspected amidst the
general dissolution of Nature. Uncle Jack, then, was as lively and
sanguine as ever--though he began to let fall vague hints of intentions
to abandon the general cause of his fellow creatures, and to set up
business henceforth purely on his own account; wherewith my father--to
the great shock of my belief in his philanthropy--expressed himself
much pleased. And I strongly suspect that, when Uncle Jack wrapped
himself up in his new double Saxony, and went off at last, he carried
with him something more than my father's good wishes in aid of his
conversion to egotistical philosophy.
"That man will do yet," said my father, as the last glimpse was
caught of Uncle Jack standing up on the stage-coach box, beside the
driver--partly to wave his hand to us as we stood at the gate, and
partly to array himself more commodiously in a box coat, with six
capes, which the coachman had lent him.
"Do you think so, sir!" said I, doubtfully. "May I ask why?"
MR CAXTON.--On the cat principle--that he tumbles so lightly.
You may throw him down from St Paul's, and the next time you see him he
will be scrambling a-top of the Monument.
PISISTRATUS.--But a cat the most viparious is limited to nine
lives--and Uncle Jack must be now far gone in his eighth.
MR CAXTON--(_not heeding that answer, for he has got his hand
in his waistcoat._)--The earth, according to Apuleius, in his _Treatise
on the Philosophy of Plato_, was produced from right-angled triangles;
but fire and air from the scalene triangle--the angles of which, I need
not say, are very different from those of a right-angled triangle.
Now I think there are people in the world of whom one can only judge
rightly according to those mathematical principles applied to their
original construction; for, if air or fire predominates in our natures,
we are scalene triangles;--if earth, right-angled. Now, as air is so
notably manifested in Jack's conformation, he is, _nolens volens_,
produced in conformity with his preponderating element. He is a scalene
triangle, and must be judged, accordingly, upon irregular, lop-sided
principles; whereas you and I, commonplace mortals, are produced, like
the earth, which is our preponderating element, with our triangles all
right-angled, comfortable, and complete--for which blessing let us
thank Providence, and be charitable to those who are necessarily windy
and gaseous, from that unlucky scalene triangle upon which they have
had the misfortune to be constructed, and which, you perceive, is quite
at variance with the mathematical constitution of the earth!
PISISTRATUS.--Sir, I am very happy to hear so simple, easy,
and intelligible an explanation of Uncle Jack's peculiarities; and I
only hope that, for the future, the sides of his scalene triangle may
never be produced to our rectangular conformations.
MR CAXTON--(_descending from his stilts, with an air as
mildly reproachful as if I had been cavilling at the virtues of
Socrates._)--You don't do your uncle justice, Pisistratus: he is a very
clever man; and I am sure that, in spite of his scalene misfortune, he
would be an honest one--that is, (added Mr Caxton, correcting himself,)
not romantically or heroically honest--but honest as men go--if he
could but keep his head long enough above water; but, you see, when the
best man in the world is engaged in the process of sinking, he catches
hold of whatever comes in his way, and drowns the very friend that is
swimming to save him.
PISISTRATUS.--Perfectly true, sir; but Uncle Jack makes it his
business to be _always_ sinking!
MR CAXTON--(_with naïveté._)--And how could it be otherwise,
when he has been carrying all his fellow creatures in his breeches'
pockets! Now he has got rid of that dead weight, I should not be
surprised if he swam like a cork.
PISISTRATUS--(_who, since the_ Anti-_Capitalist_, _has become
a strong Anti-Jackian_.)--But if, sir, you really think Uncle Jack's
love for his fellow-creatures is genuine, that is surely not the worst
part of him!
MR CAXTON.--O literal ratiocinator, and dull to the true logic
of Attic irony, can't you comprehend that an affection may be genuine
as felt by the man, yet its nature be spurious in relation to others. A
man may genuinely believe he loves his fellow creatures, when he roasts
them like Torquemada, or guillotines them like St Just! Happily Jack's
scalene triangle, being more produced from air than from fire, does not
give to his philanthropy the inflammatory character which distinguishes
the benevolence of inquisitors and revolutionists. The philanthropy,
therefore, takes a more flatulent and innocent form, and expends its
strength in mounting paper balloons, out of which Jack pitches himself,
with all the fellow creatures he can coax into sailing with him. No
doubt Uncle Jack's philanthropy is sincere, when he cuts the string
and soars up out of sight; but the sincerity will not much mend their
bruises when himself and fellow creatures come tumbling down, neck and
heels. It must be a very wide heart that can take in all mankind--and
of a very strong fibre, to bear so much stretching. Such hearts there
are, Heaven be thanked!--and all praise to them! Jack's is not of
that quality. He is a scalene triangle. He is not a circle! And yet,
if he would but let it rest, it is a good heart--a very good heart,"
continued my father, warming into a tenderness quite infantine, all
things considered. "Poor Jack! that was prettily said of him--'That if
he were a dog, and he had no home but a dog-kennel, he would turn out
to give me the best of the straw!' Poor brother Jack!"
So the discussion was dropped; and, in the meanwhile, Uncle Jack, like
the short-faced gentleman in the SPECTATOR, "_distinguished
himself_ by a profound silence."