Every flea has a little flea to bite him,
And so it goes ad infinitem--
may very well be adapted to the uses of those good souls who now and
then try to reach the infinity of westernness. But there is another poem
more directly applicable to some conclusion as to the problem, which I
like to think of in moments when I am reflecting upon its cordial
welcome to me:
Out where the hand clasp's a little stronger,
Out where a smile dwells a little longer--
That's where the West begins.
Out where the sun is a little brighter,
Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,
Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter--
That's where the West begins.
Out where the world is in the making,
Where fewer hearts with despair are aching--
That's where the West begins.
Where there's more of singing and less of sighing;
Where there's more of giving and less of buying,
And a man makes friends without half trying--
That's where the West begins.
The author of those lines, who was, I believe, Arthur Chapman of Denver,
seems to me to have come closer to a solution of the problem than any
other. For our own purposes just now, however, let us say that the
incident to which I wish to refer took place in that part of the West
which lies between Sandy Hook and the Golden Gate.
My audience in this particular spot was delightfully responsive; so much
so that I was all of two hours in the delivery of a lecture that
ordinarily takes me an hour and a quarter to deliver. It was as
exhilarating as a cross-country run, with turf and skies just right. But
for the pauses made necessary by the interruptions in appreciation I
should have galloped across the finish line in less than an hour. So
stimulating in fact was the readiness of the good people before me to
take what I had to say and run away with it, that, while I was
immortally tired when I went out upon the platform, when I finished I
could have started in and done it all over again with zest.
But even with so pleasing a background of responsiveness, there was one
young man seated in the front row who was a source of particular
pleasure to me. He was a rather distinguished looking youth, with
flashing eyes, and somewhat longish blond hair, and a physique that
suggested a modern Viking. There was something in his face that
suggested the scholarly habit--occasionally his expression was wistfully
questioning. His eyes never left my face while I was speaking, and his
physical attitude, forward-leaning, and a trifle tense, seemed to
betoken an interest in what I had to say that was more than gratifying,
and his mouth was kept half open, ever ready for action. If there was to
be anything to laugh at, he at least was not going to be caught napping,
or in any way unprepared, if by keeping his mouth open he could remove
all obstacles that would have prevented the easy flow of his mirth.
And his laugh! I wish I might have a rubber record of that laugh to
secrete in an automatic machine located somewhere in the middle of my
lecture halls, so that in response to the pressure of an electric button
it could be let loose at certain psychological moments. It was as
infectious a laugh as I ever listened to, and there were times when its
contagion brought me perilously close to seeming to laugh at my own
jokes--which is a dangerous thing for a lecturer to do, and contrary to
the technic of the "business," which requires humorous periods to be
delivered with a face solemn to the point of the funereal. It had really
musical modulations, rising from pianissimo to fortissimo on the wings
of nicely graded crescendos, and returning whence it had come with a
sort of rippling gurgle that was mighty fetching.
Finally not only was nothing I had in mind lost upon him, but he
actually appeared to discover subtleties of wit in my discourse of whose
presence I had not myself had the slightest suspicion. It is hardly
necessary to say that he was pleasing unto my soul, and naturally
enough I spoke of him afterward to my chairman.
"Well, Mr. Bangs," said the chairman as we walked back to the hotel
together after the lecture was over, "what did you think of your
audience to-night? Some responsiveness there, all right, eh?"
I was impulsively enthusiastic enough to say that I thought it was a
"corking good audience." "If they were all like that," said I, "this
work would be as easy as cutting calves-foot jelly with an ax."
"I thought you liked them," said he. "Our people here are appreciative,
and they believe the laborer is worthy of his hire in showing it."
"I'll put Blanksville down in my red-letter book," said I. "But tell me
who and what is that rather distinguished looking young man with the
longish blond hair and snappy eyes, who sat in the aisle seat of the
front row next to the white-haired old lady with an audiphone? He had a
wistful sort of face, and--"
"Oh, I know who you mean," said the chairman. "He's So-and-So. What
about him--he didn't bother you, I hope?"
"On the contrary," said I, "I loved him. He was about the most
appreciative chap I ever talked to. He fairly hung on every word I
spoke, and when it came to a funny point I'm blest if he didn't meet me
more than halfway!"
"Yes," said the chairman, "he would. He's half-witted."
My swelling head immediately resumed its normal proportions, and when I
left Blanksville the following morning the only discomfort I found in
wearing my regular hat was that in some way or other it seemed to have
grown a little too large for me, and showed a tendency to settle down
over my ears. I have nevertheless comforted myself with the thought that
sometimes the difference between half-wittedness and genius is so slight
to the eye of the familiar beholder that wise men are not infrequently
believed by their neighbors to be fools. My young friend after all may
have been a poet, and, like some prophets, "without honor in his own
country."