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THE FUNNY PHILOSOPHERS,
OR
WAGS AND SWEETHEARTS.
A NOVEL.
BY GEORGE YELLOTT.
PHILADELPHIA:
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1872.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
THE FUNNY PHILOSOPHERS.
CHAPTER I.
"My great-grandfather was a philosopher, and why should not his
descendants be allowed the privilege of cogitating for themselves? I
tell you that Sir Isaac Newton was mistaken. There is no such thing as
the attraction of gravitation."
This was said by Toney Belton, a young lawyer, in reply to his friend
Tom Seddon, a junior member of the same profession.
They were seated on the veranda of a hotel in the town of Bella Vista,
gazing at the starry heavens; and Tom had made some remark about the
wonderful revelations of science.
"What a pity it is, Toney Belton, that you are not a subject of her
Majesty of England. Your extraordinary discovery would entitle you to
the honors of knighthood, and we might read of a Sir Anthony Belton as
well as of a Sir Isaac Newton. But how will you demonstrate to the world
that there is no such thing as the attraction of gravitation?"
"Demonstrate it, Tom Seddon! Why, I can make it as plain as the
proboscis on the countenance of an elephant."
"Do you mean to say that bodies do not fall to the earth by the power of
attraction?"
"That is precisely what I mean. I assert that a heavy body may fall
upward as well as downward."
"Ha, ha, ha!"
"As the old Greek said, Strike, but hear, so I say, Laugh, but listen.
Will you allow me to suppose a case?"
"That is the privilege of all philosophers. The cosmology of the
Oriental sage would have fallen into the vast vacuity of space had he
not brought to its support a hypothetical foundation. Proceed with your
demonstration."
"Suppose, then, that an immense well should be dug from the surface of
the American continent entirely through the earth. We will not stop to
inquire into the possibility of such an excavation, but will suppose
that the work has been accomplished."
"Be it so. Your well has been dug, and extends entirely through the
earth, from the United States of America to the Celestial Empire. What
then?"
"Suppose that Clarence Hastings should be walking home about twelve
o'clock at night. It would then be broad daylight in the dominions of
his Majesty the Brother of the Sun and the Cousin of the Moon, and the
Celestials would be picking tea-leaves or parboiling puppies. Suppose, I
say, that Clarence should be walking home after having spent the last
four or five hours in the delightful society of the lovely Claribel.
Now, it is highly probable that Clarence would be gazing upward at the
lunar orb and meditating a sonnet."
"Nay; Harry Vincent is the sonneteer. I verily believe that he has
dedicated a little poem of fourteen lines to nearly every visible star
in the heavens, and solemnly swears in the most mellifluous verses that
none of them are half so bright as the eyes of the bewitching Imogen."
"Let it be Harry Vincent, then, who is walking home and making his
astronomical observations with a view to the disparagement of the stars,
when brought in comparison with the optical orbs of his lady-love. We
will suppose that he is gazing at yonder star which is now winking at
us, as if it heard every word of our conversation. He would take but
little heed to his footsteps while his gaze was fixed upon the star and
his thoughts were wandering away to Imogen. As he exclaimed, 'Oh,
Imogen! thine eyes exceed in brightness all the glittering gems that
bespangle the garments of the glorious night,' he would tumble into the
well."
"Ha, ha, ha! Good-by, Harry."
"Would he not rapidly descend?"
"I should think that he would."
"Would he stop falling when there was no bottom to the well?"
"It is impossible to suppose that he would."
"Then he would fall entirely through the well and would be falling
upward when he issued from the other end, and our worthy antipodes, the
tea-pickers, would open their eyes in amazement, and their pig-tails
would stand erect when they beheld the handsome Harry Vincent falling
upward, and heard him loudly exclaiming, 'Oh, Imogen!' and he would
continue to fall upward until he was intercepted by the earth's
satellite and became the guest of the man in the moon."
"A most delightful abode for a romantic lover. But, as you do not
believe in the attraction of gravitation, what have you to say about the
attraction of love?"
"The attraction of love? Another of your delusions, Thomas. Now, if you
had ever seen my definition of love, in the dictionary which I have in
manuscript, and intend to publish some day when Noah Webster shall have
become obsolete, you would not talk of attraction in that connection."
"What is your definition of love?"
"Love is a state of hostility between two persons of opposite sexes."
"Of hostility?"
"Yes; in which each belligerent endeavors to subjugate the other,
regardless of the sufferings inflicted."
"This is as queer a paradox as that in relation to the possibility of a
man falling upward."
"No paradox at all, but a most obvious truth. There is Claribel
Carrington, who looks like an innocent and enchanting little fairy."
"She is superbly beautiful, and Clarence Hastings would barter his
existence for a soft, kindly glance from her deep blue eye. They are in
love with one another, that is evident."
"And being in love, hostilities have commenced; and, if I mistake not,
the war will be conducted by the lady with unexampled barbarity. When
we enter the ball-room to-night, you will perceive this angelic creature
inflicting more torture on poor Clarence than a pitiless savage inflicts
with his scalping-knife on his victim; and all because she is dead in
love with him, and he with her."
"Toney Belton, you deserve to have your eyes scratched out by a bevy of
beautiful damsels for your disparaging opinion of the last best gift."
"Let them scratch; for women are like cats."
"Like cats?"
"There is a striking similitude between them; and when a man with a
pulpy brain and a penetrable bosom falls into the hands of a beautiful
and fascinating woman, he is much in the condition of an unfortunate
mouse in the paws of a remorseless pussy. Indeed, nearly all truly
faithful and devoted lovers have to undergo an ordeal like that of the
helpless captive in feline clutches. The cruel cat will at one moment
pat her victim softly on the head, and fondle it with the utmost
affection, as if it were the most precious treasure she had in the
world; she will apparently repent of her intention to hold it in
captivity, and will permit it to escape and run half-way over the floor,
when, with a sudden spring, she will pounce upon it again and hold it
fast, regardless of its squeals for mercy. Just so with a pretty woman
and her lover. Next to a tabby cat, the most remorseless and cruel
creature in the world is a woman who has a man completely in her power.
Indeed, there is so great a congeniality of disposition between the
female sex and the feline species that maidens, when they become elderly
and are not otherwise occupied, almost invariably take to nursing
cats,--there being a mysterious affinity which draws them together."
"Do you want me to believe that a woman will not marry a man until she
has first tortured the soul out of him, and made him utterly miserable?
Why, they say that marriages are made in heaven."
"In heaven they may be made, Thomas; but, if so, they are caught on the
horns of the moon as they are coming down; for I tell you that hardly
any woman ever marries the right man, and hardly any man ever marries
the right woman. You have only to open your eyes and you will perceive
this without the aid of an opera-glass."
"My observations have led me to no such conclusions."
"Have you never observed, oh, most sagacious Thomas, that no pretty
woman ever had an adorer without wishing to torment him with a rival?
And is it not a singular fact that she usually selects some male animal
to occupy that position who is in every respect the inferior of the
worthy man whom she is endeavoring to drive to distraction? Does she not
take every occasion to inflate the vanity of him whom she cares nothing
about, and to humiliate the man whom she really loves? Now, there are
Claribel Carrington and Imogen Hazlewood,--they are both pretty women."
"Pretty! They are both surpassingly beautiful, though not at all
alike!--the former a blonde, with deep blue eyes and golden tresses; the
latter a brunette, with locks as dark as a feather fallen from the wings
of night, and black eyes, from which Cupid, who continually lurks under
the long lashes, borrows the barbs for the arrows with which he mortally
wounds multitudes of unlucky swains."
"Do not be poetical, Thomas. Pray take your foot from the stirrup and
dismount before Pegasus carries you to the clouds, and you lose an
opportunity of listening to plain, sensible prose. Each one of these
young ladies has a devoted lover."
"You may well say devoted; for if Claribel or Imogen were to wish for an
icicle from the end of the North Pole with which to cool a lemonade,
either Harry Vincent or Clarence Hastings would hurry thither and slip
off into the unfathomable abyss of space in a desperate attempt to
obtain it."
"Your imagination is both hyperborean and hyperbolical. But let us
return from the North Pole to the ladies. Claribel loves Clarence, and
Imogen Harry, and yet neither will marry the man she loves."
"And why not, oh, prophet?"
"Because no pretty woman ever does. Each lady will select some nonentity
of the masculine gender, and expect her lover to enter into a contest
of rivalry. Each gentleman will decline the contest."
"Why so?"
"I know them both. Each is a proud man, and has an abundance of
self-respect. No daughter of Eve can comprehend a proud man, though
every woman knows how to manage a vain one to perfection. Although
either Harry or Clarence would, as you say, go to the North Pole in
obedience to the wishes of the woman he adores, neither of them will
consent to humiliation for her sake. She will persist in her course, and
will ultimately find herself abandoned by her lover. Then, after a few
years----"
"Well, what after a few years?"
"You will behold the once fairy-like Claribel a matron of robust
proportions, married to a plain man, who made her an offer in a
business-like manner."
"And Clarence?"
"A bald-headed man, who, having worked like a beaver and made a large
fortune, is enjoying it with a wife who is as ugly as sin, but is a most
excellent manager of his domestic affairs."
"Toney, when do you intend to publish your book of prophecies?"
"A prophet has no honor in his own country. But, do you not hear the
sound of music in the ball-room? Let us go in,--
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined,
No sleep till morn when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."