Nothing has been heard of Uncle Jack. Before we left the brick house
the Captain gave him an invitation to the Tower,--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 paralyzed 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 algae, termed the Prolococcus nivales, which give a
rose-color 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 atop of the Monument."
Pisistratus.--"But a cat the most vicarious is limited to nine lives;
and Uncle Jack must be now far gone in his eighth."
Ms. 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, common-place 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 holiest 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 who is swimming to save him."
Pisistratus.--"Perfectly true, sir; but Uncle Jack makes it his business
to be always sinking!"
Mr. Caxton (with naivete).--"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 "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 generally 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 mean while, Uncle Jack, like
the short-faced gentleman in the "Spectator," "distinguished himself by
a profound silence."