discoursing of things that are profitable.
_T._ To talk of things that are good, to me is very acceptable, with you
or with any other; for to speak the truth, there are but few who care
thus to spend their time, but choose much rather to be speaking of things
to no profit, and this hath been a trouble to me.
_F._ That is indeed a thing to be lamented; for what things so worthy of
the use of the tongue and mouth of men on earth as are the things of the
God of Heaven?
_T._ I like you wonderful well, for your saying is full of conviction.
What things so pleasant?—that is, if a man hath any delight in things
that are wonderful. If, for instance, a man doth delight to talk of the
History or the Mystery of things.
_F._ That’s true; but to be profited by such things in our talk, should
be that which we design.
_T._ That’s it that I said. Further, by this a man may learn to refute
false opinions, to vindicate the truth, and also to instruct the ignorant.
_F._ All this is true, and glad am I to hear these things from you.
Well then, what is that one thing that we shall at this time found our
discourse upon?
_T._ What you will. I will talk of things Heavenly, or things Earthly;
things Moral, or things Evangelical; things Sacred, or things Profane;
things past, or things to come; things foreign, or things at home; things
more Essential, or things Circumstantial; provided that all be done to
our profit.
_F._ Doth your life and conversation testify to Faith, Love, and Grace?
or standeth your Religion in Word or in Tongue, and not in Deed and
Truth? Pray if you incline to answer me in this, say no more than you
know the God above will say _Amen_ to; and also nothing but what your
conscience can justify you in.
_T._ This kind of talk I did not expect; nor am I inclined to give an
answer to such questions, because I count not myself bound thereto,
unless you take upon you to be a Catechizer; and though you should do so,
yet I may refuse to make you my Judge. But, I pray, will you tell me why
you ask me such questions?
_F._ Because I saw you forward to talk, and because I knew that you had
naught else but notion.
_T._ Since you judge so rashly as you do, I cannot but conclude you are
some peevish or melancholy man, not fit to be discoursed with; and so
adieu.
ALTON LOCKE, TAILOR AND POET.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
Characters:
Mr. CROSSTHWAITE, Tailor.
ALTON LOCKE, Tailor’s Apprentice.
Time, 1830.
_A. L._ Mr. Crossthwaite, I want to speak to you. I want you to advise me.
_Mr. C._ I have known that a long time.
_A. L._ Then why did you never say a kind word to me?
_Mr. C._ I was waiting to see whether you were worth it. Besides, I
wanted to see whether you trusted me enough to ask me. Now you’ve broke
the ice at last, in with you head and ears, and see what you can fish
out.
_A. L._ I am very unhappy.
_Mr. C._ That’s no new disorder, as I know of.
_A. L._ No; but I think the reason I am unhappy is a strange one; at
least, I never read of but one person else in the same way. I want to
educate myself and I can’t.
_Mr. C._ You must have read precious little, then, if you think yourself
in a strange way. Bless the boy’s heart! And what the dickens do you want
to be educating yourself for? If you had one-tenth the trouble taken with
you that is taken with every pig-headed son of an aristocrat—
_A. L._ Am I clever?
_Mr. C._ Clever? What, haven’t you found that out yet? Don’t try to put
that on me!
_A. L._ Really, I never thought of it.
_Mr. C._ More simpleton you! I heard said the other day that you were a
thorough young genius.
_A. L._ It sounds very grand, and I should certainly like to have a good
education. But I can’t see whose injustice keeps me out of one if I can’t
afford to pay for it.
_Mr. C._ Whose? Why, the parsons’, to be sure. They’ve got the monopoly
of education in England, and get their bread by it. Of course, it’s their
interest to keep up the price of their commodity, and let no man have a
taste of it who can’t pay down handsomely.
_A. L._ But I thought the clergy were doing so much to help the poor. At
least, I hear all the dissenting ministers grumbling at their continual
interference.
_Mr. C._ Ay, educating them to make them slaves and bigots. They don’t
teach them what they teach their own sons.
_A. L._ But there are countless stories of great Englishmen who have
risen from the lowest ranks.
_Mr. C._ Ay; but where are the stories of those who have not risen? Dead
men tell no tales; and this old whited sepulcher, society, ain’t going to
turn informer against itself.
_A. L._ I trust and hope that if God intends me to rise he will open the
way for me. Perhaps the very struggles and sorrows of a poor genius may
teach him more than ever wealth and prosperity could.
_Mr. C._ True, Alton, my boy, and that’s my only comfort. It does make
men of us, this bitter battle of life. We workingmen, when we do come out
of the furnace, come out steel and granite, and woe to the _papier-maché_
gentleman that runs against us!
METAPHYSICS.
Characters:
TWO STUDENTS.
_First._ Pray tell me something about Metaphysics, for I cannot for my
life make anything out of it.
_Second._ Metaphysics is the science of abstractions.
_F._ I am no wiser for that definition.
_S._ Well, take for example this earth. Now the earth may exist.
_F._ Who ever doubted that?
_S._ A great many men, and some very learned ones; although Bishop
Berkeley has proved beyond all possible gainsaying or denial that it does
not exist.
_F._ That is a point of considerable consequence to settle.
_S._ Now the earth may exist, and—
_F._ But how is all this to be found out?
_S._ By digging down to first principles.
_F._ Ay, there is nothing equal to the spade and pickaxe; ’tis by
digging that we can find out whether the world exists or not.
_S._ That is true, because if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find
no foundation, then it is clear that the world stands upon nothing; or,
in other words, that it does not stand at all, therefore it stands to
reason—
_F._ But if one can’t believe his own eyes, what signifies talking about
it?
_S._ Our eyes are nothing but the inlets of sensation; we are sure of
nothing that we see with our eyes.
_F._ Well, what _does_ a man begin to build upon in the metaphysical way?
_S._ Why, he begins by taking something for granted.
_F._ But is that a sure way of going to work?
_S._ Why it’s—the—only thing he—can—do. Metaphysics is the consideration
of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essence of things. When we speak
of essence of things, we mean the essence of locality, the essence of
duration—
_F._ And the essence of peppermint?
_S._ The essence I mean is quite a different affair. It is a thing that
has no matter. It has no substance nor solidity, large nor small, hot nor
cold, long nor short.
_F._ Then what is the long and short of it?
_S._ Abstraction.
_F._ What do you say to a pitchfork as an abstraction?
_S._ A pitchfork would mean none in particular, but one in general, and
would be a thing in abstraction.
_F._ It would be a thing in the haymow. What do you think of a red cow
for an example?
_S._ A red cow, considered as an abstraction, would be an animal
possessing neither hides nor horns, bones nor flesh; it would have
no color at all, for its redness would be the mere counterfeit or
imagination of such. It would neither go to pasture, chew cud, give
milk, nor do anything of a like nature.
_F._ Nonsense! All the metaphysics under the sun wouldn’t make a pound of
butter!
WORK: A STORY OF EXPERIENCE.
LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
[By permission of Roberts Bros.]
Characters:
Mrs. BETSY DEVON,
CHRISTIE DEVON, her niece.
_C. D._ Aunt Betsy, there’s going to be a new Declaration of Independence.
_Mrs. D._ Bless us and save us! what do you mean, child?
_C. D._ I mean that, being of age, I’m going to take care of myself, and
not be a burden any longer. Uncle thinks I ought to go away. I don’t
intend to wait for him to tell me so, but, like the people in fairy
tales, travel away into the world and seek my fortune. I know I can find
it.
_Mrs. D._ What crazy idee you got in your head now?
_C. D._ A very sane and sensible one, that’s got to be worked out. I’ve
had it a long time, and I’ve thought it over thoroughly, so I’m sure it’s
the right thing to do. I hate to be dependent, and, now there’s no need
of it, I can’t bear it any longer. I’m old enough to take care of myself,
and if I’d been a boy I should have been told to do it long ago. I’m sick
of this dull town, where the one idea is, Eat, drink, and get rich; so
let me go, Aunt Betsy, and find my place, wherever it is.
_Mrs. D._ You mustn’t think your uncle don’t like you. He does, only he
don’t show it. I don’t see why you can’t be contented. I’ve lived here
all my days, and never found the place lonesome.
_C. D._ You and I are very different, ma’am. There was more yeast put
into my composition, I guess; and after standing quiet in a warm corner
so long, I begin to ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time so that
I may turn out a wholesome loaf, else I shall turn sour and good for
nothing. Does that make the matter any clearer?
_Mrs. D._ I see what you mean, Christie, but I never thought on’t before.
You be better riz than me; though, let me tell you, too much emptins
makes bread poor stuff, like baker’s trash; and too much workin’ up makes
it hard and dry. Now fly round, for the big oven is ’most hot, and this
cake takes a sight of time in the mixin’.
_C. D._ You haven’t said I might go, Aunt Betsy.
_Mrs. D._ (_Sorting ingredients and reading from cookbook_). I ain’t no
right to keep you, dear, if you choose to take (a pinch of salt). I’m
sorry you ain’t happy, and think you might be ef you’d only (beat six
yolks and whites together). But if you can’t, and feel that you need (two
cups of sugar) only speak to your uncle, and ef he says (a squeeze of
fresh lemon) go, my dear, and take my blessin’ with you (not forgetting
to cover with a piece of paper).
_C. D._ When I’ve done something to be proud of, you’ll be glad to see me
back again. Yes, I’ll try my experiment; get rich; found a home for girls
like myself; or, better still, be a Mrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or—
_Mrs. D._ How are you on’t for stockin’s, dear?
_C. D._ Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when I was
soaring away too far and too fast. I’m poorly off for stockings, ma’am.
_Mrs. D._ Don’t you think you could be contented, Christie, ef I make the
work lighter, and leave you more time for your books and things?
_C. D._ No, ma’am, for I can’t find what I want here.
_Mrs. D._ What _do_ you want to find, child?
_C. D._ Look in the fire and I’ll try to show you. Do you see those two
logs? Well, that one smoldering dismally away in the corner is what my
life is now; the other, blazing and singing, is what I want my life to be.
_Mrs. D._ Bless me, what an idee! They are both a burnin’ where they are
put, and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference _does_ it make?
_C. D._ I know the end is the same; but it _does_ make a difference _how_
they turn to ashes, and _how_ I spend my life. I hope my life, like the
log which fills the room with light, may, whether long or short, be
useful and cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when it ends, and
leave something behind besides ashes.
_Mrs. D._ A good smart blowin’ up with the belluses would make the
green stick burn ’most as well as the dry one after a spell. I guess
contentedness is the best bellus for young folks ef they would only think
so.
_C. D._ I dare say you are right, Aunt Betsy, but I want to try for
myself. If I fail, I’ll come back and follow your advice.
NINETY-THREE.
Scene: A café in Paris. Time: June 28, 1793.
Characters:
ROBESPIERRE.
DANTON.
MARAT.
_Danton._ Listen! There is only one thing imminent—the peril of the
Republic. I only know one thing—to deliver France from the enemy. To
accomplish that all means are fair. Let us be terrible and useful. Does
the elephant stop to look where he sets his foot? We must crush the enemy.
_Robespierre._ I shall be very glad. The question is to know where the
enemy is.
_Danton._ It is outside, and I have chased it there.
_Rob._ It is within, and I watch it.
_Marat._ Calm yourselves. It is everywhere, and you are lost.
_Rob._ A truce to generalities. I particularize. Here are facts. In
fifteen days they will have an army of brigands numbering three hundred
thousand men, and all Brittany will belong to the King of France.
_Marat._ That is to say, to the King of England.
_Rob._ No, to the King of France. It needs fifteen days to expel the
stranger, and eighteen hundred years to eliminate monarchy.
_Danton._ Very well, we will expel the English as we expelled the
Prussians.
_Rob._ Sit down again, Danton, and look at the map, instead of knocking
it with your fist.
_Danton._ That is madness! Robespierre, the danger is a circle, and we
are within it. If this continue and we do not put things in order, the
French Revolution will kill the King of France for the King of Prussia’s
sake.
_Marat._ You have each one his hobby. Danton, yours is Prussia;
Robespierre, yours is the Vendée. I am going to state facts in my
turn. You do not perceive the real peril. It is the cafés and the
gaming-houses. It is the paper money, the famine, the stock-brokers, and
the monopolists—there is the danger. You see the danger at a distance
when it is close at hand. Yes, the danger is everywhere, and above all in
the centre.
_Danton._ There, there, there!
_Marat._ What is needed is a dictator. Robespierre, you know that I want
a dictator.
_Rob._ I know, Marat. You or me?
_Marat._ Me or you?
_Danton._ The dictatorship! Only try it!
_Marat._ Hold! One last effort. Let us get some agreement. The
situation is worth the trouble. Paris must assume the government of the
Revolution. So be it. Well, the conclusion is a dictatorship. Let us
seize the dictatorship—we three who represent the Revolution. We are the
three heads of Cerberus. Of these three heads, one talks—that is you,
Robespierre; one roars—that is you, Danton.
_Danton._ The other bites—that is you, Marat.
_Rob._ All three bite.
_Marat._ Ah, Robespierre! Ah, Danton! You will not listen to me! Well,
you are lost; I tell you so. You do things which shut every door against
you—except that of the tomb.
_Danton._ That is our grandeur.
_Marat._ Danton, beware! Ah, you shrug your shoulders! Sometimes a shrug
of the shoulders makes the head fall. And as for thee, Robespierre, go
on, powder thyself, dress thy hair, brush thy clothes, play the coxcomb.
Fine as thou art, thou wilt be dragged at the tails of four horses!
_Rob._ Echo of Coblentz!
_Danton._ I am the echo of nothing—I am the cry of the whole, Robespierre.
_Marat._ Ah, you are young, you! How old art thou, Danton?
Four-and-thirty. How many are your years, Robespierre? Thirty-three.
Well, I—I have lived always. I am the old human suffering—I have lived
six thousand years.
_Danton._ That is true. For six thousand years Cain has been preserved in
hatred like the toad in a rock; the rock breaks, Cain springs out among
men, and is called Marat.
_Marat._ Danton!
_Danton._ Marat talks very loud about the dictatorship and unity, but he
has only one ability—that of breaking to pieces.
_Rob._ As for me, I say neither Roland nor Marat.
_Marat._ And I say neither Danton nor Robespierre. Let me give you
advice, Danton. Do not meddle any more with politics—be wise. Adieu,
gentlemen.