Once upon a time there was a happy Philosopher. He was not young nor
yet was he old. The callowness of youth had passed and he was in his
prime; in fact, he could not have been a philosopher without being in
his prime. He had gained the sobriquet of Philosopher for the reason
that he was known to possess an uncommon habit of taking facts, those
stubborn things, and turning them over in his mind, examining them and
coming to logical conclusions about them, but it was not the dignity
of his name or his happy peculiarity that made him happy. Philosophy
is a very satisfactory kind of thing, but its pursuit does not bring
happiness, rather is it a drag upon happiness; any fool can be happy,
but a Philosopher has to have reason therefor. Philosophy is a useful
kind of break, preventing happiness from getting too hot and misery
from getting too cold. The Philosopher was happy because he had been
smitten, not smote with a club, but by a girl; he loved a girl and
believed he was loved because the girl told him he was, which is a good
reason for any fellow, but should not be for a Philosopher.
The Philosopher had never before enjoyed the luxury of love, so of
course he knew nothing about it; it is one of those things the less you
know about it the more enjoyable it is.
The Philosopher could hardly be expected to have the blind unreasoning
love that attacks college freshmen. His love was as strong and ruling
an emotion as a man can suffer; but it was tempered with reason. He
saw the girl as she was; he saw her shining qualities, her sweetness,
generosity, and truthfulness, dimmed perhaps a little by a will of
her own. Truly the girl sometimes spoke without thought and her mind
furniture did not exactly match the furniture of the Philosopher’s
mind; but he flattered himself that he could alter such small matters
and even looked forward to the time when he could commence moulding her
character to his exact liking. He loved her no less that he appreciated
her faults; a girl would not be perfect without faults; she is not
like a race-horse. One idle afternoon the Philosopher sat in his
study enjoying himself with fancy mental pictures of the girl while
he patiently waited till the clock indicated that he might go to the
girl’s house where, in his imagination, he saw her waiting as anxious
as he. The clock’s hands moved deliberately forward and finally came to
the hour the Philosopher impatiently waited for, just the same as they
would have done in any case. Time is the only thing that can laugh at
love.
Time having liberated the Philosopher, he sped towards the locus of the
girl. As he approached it he became agitated. He smiled to himself,
sighed sighs; his pulse and heart increased their rates; he blew
his nose, examined his cuffs and gloves, fingered his cravat, and
looked about to see if anyone was observing him. While he was thus
pluming himself he received a severe shock. He could hardly believe
his eyes, but being a Philosopher, of course he did believe them, and
what they revealed to him was--the girl and another lady coming out
of her home and taking a direction opposite to his. Here was a fact
and the Philosopher immediately began to turn it over in his mind and
examine it, at the same time quickening his gait in pursuit of the
girl. The examination of the bare fact without cross-examination of
the girl was eminently unsatisfactory. The girl knew he was coming at
a certain hour, yet at that hour she went elsewhere. She might have
been unavoidably called away, he told himself; but allowing that she
had been, he argued: “What can excuse her for failing to look in the
direction she knew I must come, to discover if I was near?” It seemed
a small thing to notice against a girl, yet it seemed to demonstrate
that at the time the girl was not thinking of the Philosopher and
the disappointment he was going to receive by her act. This argued
thoughtlessness for other people’s feelings and a large development
of egoism and vanity--“Yes,” said the girl side of the Philosopher’s
mind, “at first blush it would seem so, but perhaps she is not going
out for a long time, and perhaps she has left word for you or expected
to return in time to meet you.” Thereupon the Philosopher suspended
judgment, but he had received a bad impression. He hurried up and
overtook the girl.
“You might have waited for me,” said the Philosopher, as he lifted his
hat.
“Oh,” said the girl, “where did you spring from? Did you call at the
house? I left word for you that I had to go out for an hour. What makes
you look so cross? Wouldn’t you wait for me an hour?”
The Philosopher answered this array of questions as best he could. “I
am not cross. I was just thinking. Certainly I would wait for you an
hour, if it was necessary.”
“Well, don’t think, if you have to look cross,” said the girl. “I’m
so glad you caught us. Miss Gip here called for me to go with her to
meet Mr. Rip on the Golf Links. He has his camera with him and is going
to take us, and besides I want you to meet Mr. Rip; he is such a nice
fellow.”
“Why did you not look to see if I was coming?” the Philosopher blurted
out. He wanted to come to a decision on the facts.
“Now, you’re thinking again, I see by your face,” said the girl. “I
want you to be gay and not always looking for something to grumble
about. I don’t remember whether I looked or not.”
The Philosopher came to a decision.
When the Golf Links were reached Mr. Rip was soon discovered--a young
man with rush of words to the mouth,--who grated on the nerves of the
Philosopher, who knew in a minute that he and Rip could not both be
“such a nice fellow,” which was rather vain of the Philosopher.
On the way home the Philosopher concluded that to marry the girl was
no fair match; he was a heavy-weight and she was a feather-weight, no
doubt; but no amount of training could train her up to his weight, or
him down to her’s.
So the girl married Rip and made him happy, instead of marrying the
Philosopher and making him unhappy. You must either be blind to a
girl’s failings, or, knowing them, love them as part of the girl.
A little reason would prevent a lot of people from voting marriage a
failure.
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