--You haven't heard about my friend the Professor's first experiment in
the use of anaesthetics, have you?
He was mightily pleased with the reception of that poem of his about
the chaise. He spoke to me once or twice about another poem of similar
character he wanted to read me, which I told him I would listen to and
criticize.
One day, after dinner, he came in with his face tied up, looking very
red in the cheeks and heavy about the eyes.--Hy'r'ye?--he said, and
made for an arm-chair, in which he placed first his hat and then his
person, going smack through the crown of the former as neatly as they
do the trick at the circus. The Professor jumped at the explosion as if
he had sat down on one of those small _calthrops_ our grandfathers used
to sow round in the grass when there were Indians about,--iron stars,
each ray a rusty thorn an inch and a half long,--stick through
moccasins into feet,--cripple 'em on the spot, and give 'em lockjaw in
a day or two.
The Professor let off one of those big words which lie at the bottom of
the best man's vocabulary, but perhaps never turn up in his life,--just
as every man's hair _may_ stand on end, but in most men it never does.
After he had got calm, he pulled out a sheet or two of manuscript,
together with a smaller scrap, on which, as he said, he had just been
writing an introduction or prelude to the main performance. A certain
suspicion had come into my mind that the Professor was not quite right,
which was confirmed by the way he talked; but I let him begin. This is
the way he read it:--
_Prelude_.
I'm the fellah that tole one day
The tale of the won'erful one-hoss-shay.
Wan' to hear another? Say.
--Funny, wasn'it? Made _me_ laugh,--
I'm too modest, I am, by half,--
Made me laugh 's _though I sh'd split_,--
Cahn' a fellah like fellah's own wit?
--Fellahs keep sayin',--"Well, now that's nice;
Did it once, but cahn' do it twice."--
Don' you b'lieve the'z no more fat;
Lots in the kitch'n 'z good 'z that.
Fus'-rate throw, 'n' no mistake,--
Han' us the props for another shake;--
Know I'll try, 'n' guess I'll win;
Here sh' goes for hit 'm ag'in!
Here I thought it necessary to interpose.--Professor,--I said,--you are
inebriated. The style of what you call your "Prelude" shows that it was
written under cerebral excitement. Your articulation is confused. You
have told me three times in succession, in exactly the same words, that
I was the only true friend you had in the world that you would unbutton
your heart to. You smell distinctly and decidedly of spirits.--I spoke,
and paused; tender, but firm.
Two large tears orbed themselves beneath the Professor's lids,--in
obedience to the principle of gravitation celebrated in that delicious
bit of bladdery bathos, "The very law that moulds a tear," with which
the "Edinburgh Review" attempted to put down Master George Gordon when
that young man was foolishly trying to make himself conspicuous. One of
these tears peeped over the edge of the lid until it lost its
balance,--slid an inch and waited for reinforcements,--swelled
again,--rolled down a little further,--stopped,--moved on,--and at last
fell on the back of the Professor's hand. He held it up for me to look
at, and lifted his eyes, brimful, till they met mine.
I couldn't stand it,--I always break down when folks cry in my
face,--so I hugged him, and said he was a dear old boy, and asked him
kindly what was the matter with him, and what made him smell so
dreadfully strong of spirits.
Upset his alcohol lamp,--he said,--and spilt the alcohol on his legs.
That was it.--But what had he been doing to get his head into such a
state?--had he really committed an excess? What was the matter?--Then
it came out that he had been taking chloroform to have a tooth out,
which had left him in a very queer state, in which he had written the
"Prelude" given above, and under the influence of which he evidently
was still.
I took the manuscript from his hands and read the following
continuation of the lines he had begun to read me, while he made up for
two or three nights' lost sleep as he best might.