A more amusing example still of the insect being taken for the
mammoth was given to me by the person whose mammoth-like proportions
(intellectually) were neglected because all eyes were directed upon the
passage of an insignificant local insect across the line of vision.
He was a literary man whose name is known and respected in every part
of the world--not merely in that narrow republic known as the world
of letters. He was staying for a week at the house of a friend, when a
lady, who was getting up a charity concert at Ringdon, calling at the
house one day, and being told in a whisper by one of the daughters of
the family when walking through the garden that they had a celebrity
with them, entreated him to “do” something for the entertainment of her
audience: she didn't mind what it might be that he would do, if he only
agreed to do something.
Now it so happened that the lady had a more potent qualification
than persistence in making an appeal to a man--she was extremely
good-looking--and the man could not resist her importunity. He pro-mised
to tell some short stories at the concert, and, in accordance with the
terms of his promise, he turned up in the schoolhouse where the concert
was to take place, supported by his host and two of the family. But the
charming lady had not mentioned the fact that the entertainment was
to supplement a parochial tea, and when they arrived this part of the
programme was scarcely over. There were no printed programmes; only the
clergyman who presided had before him a list of the performers and the
nature of their performances, and he at once called upon a young woman
who played very prettily on the piano. A young man, who professionally
was the assistant to the Ringdon baker, was then called upon to sing the
“Death of Nelson,” which he did without faltering. When the applause had
died away the clergyman rose from his chair and said--
“My dear friends, we have with us this evening a gentleman who has very
kindly consented to contribute to our entertainment. He is a gentleman
with whose name you will all be familiar. Were he not present I should
like to refer more particularly to his honourable career; for in his
presence I feel that it would not be good taste to do so, and, besides,
he is so modest that I know he would be set blushing even though I were
only to say one-half of all that was his due. My dear friends, I call
upon you to give a hearty welcome to Mr. Reuben Robinson, who has come
all the way from Netherham to give you his entertainment familiar to you
all, I am sure, under the title of 'Charlie and Charlotte.'”
The amateur ventriloquist went on the platform with his horrid puppets,
and the young people cheered him for several minutes.
Later in the evening the clergyman, without any preliminary discourse,
called upon the literary celebrity to tell his stories. Now throughout
the world this writer is known as Alec Bidford, and now for the first
time in his life he heard himself alluded to as Alexander Bedford; and
it became clear to him that the good clergyman had never heard his name
before!
Happily the victim of the beautiful lady's importunity has a keen sense
of humour, as any one who goes farther than the parson did, and reads
one of his books, will not need to be told, and I have never heard him
more humorous than when he refers to his selfconsciousness while the
clergyman was dealing with the fame achieved by--Mr. Reuben Robinson,
the amateur ventriloquist, who had come all the way miles from the
village of Netherham, where he sold bacon in the daytime. I do not
know what Alec Bid-ford's opinion is, but I do know that there are some
people who believe that this sort of discipline is good for one, whether
one may be a literary celebrity or some lesser personage. An appearance
in a Court of Law usually serves the same purpose; but it must be more
than irritating to a man whose name is known to and honoured by every
member of his own profession to be treated in the court with no more
consideration than is extended to the merest nonentity. The judge
professes never to have heard his name mentioned before, and, if he has
been a witness, refers to his evidence without thinking it necessary
to give him the ordinary prefix of “Mr.” I have seen six of the most
distinguished literary men in England--popular men, too, as well as
geniuses--give evidence in a Court of Law, and yet the calling out of
name after name did not cause even one of the solicitors' clerks to
raise his head from the paper which he was reading, and the jurymen
chatted together without being in the smallest degree impressed by the
prospect of hearing the great one's voice.
This also is discipline, I suppose. At any rate, it suggests that a
provincial town is not the only place where a sense of proportion is
lacking.