As this--The Captain's Toll-Gate--is the last of the works of Frank R.
Stockton that will be given to the public, it is fitting that it be
accompanied by some account of the man whose bright spirit illumined
them all. It is proper, also, that something be said of the stories
themselves; of the circumstances in which they were written, the
influences that determined their direction, and the history of their
evolution. It seems appropriate that this should be done by the one who
knew him best; the one who lived with him through a long and beautiful
life; the one who walked hand in hand with him along the whole of a
wonderful road of ever-changing scenes: now through forests peopled with
fairies and dryads, griffins and wizards; now skirting the edges of an
ocean with its strange monsters and remarkable shipwrecks; now on the
beaten track of European tourists, sharing their novel adventures and
amused by their mistakes; now resting in lovely gardens imbued with
human interest; now helping the young to make happy homes for
themselves; now sympathizing with the old as they look longingly toward
a heavenly home; and, oftenest, perhaps, watching girls and young men as
they were trying to work out the problems of their lives. All this, and
much more, crowded the busy years until the Angel of Death stood in the
path; and the journey was ended.
In regard to the present story--The Captain's Toll-Gate--although it is
now after his death first published, it was all written and completed by
Mr. Stockton himself. No other hand has been allowed to add to, or to
take from it. Mr. Stockton had so strong a feeling upon the literary
ethics involved in such matters that he once refused to complete a book
which a popular and brilliant author, whose style was thought to
resemble his own, had left unfinished. Mr. Stockton regarded the
proposed act in the light of a sacrilege. The book, he said, should be
published as the author left it. Knowing this fact, readers of the
present volume may feel assured that no one has been permitted to tamper
with it. Although the last book by Mr. Stockton to be published, it is
not the last that he wrote. He had completed The Captain's Toll-Gate,
and was considering its publication, when he was asked to write another
novel dealing with the buccaneers. He had already produced a book
entitled Buccaneers and Pirates of our Coasts. The idea of writing a
novel while the incidents were fresh in his mind pleased him, and he put
aside The Captain's Toll-Gate, as the other book--Kate Bonnet--was
wanted soon, and he did not wish the two works to conflict in
publication. Steve Bonnet, the crazy-headed pirate, was a historical
character, and performed the acts attributed to him. But the charming
Kate, and her lover, and Ben Greenaway were inventions.
Francis Richard Stockton, born in Philadelphia in 1834, was, on his
father's side, of purely English ancestry; on his mother's side, there
was a mixture of English, French, and Irish. When he began to write
stories these three nationalities were combined in them: the peculiar
kind of inventiveness of the French; the point of view, and the humor
that we find in the old English humorists; and the capacity of the Irish
for comical situations.
Soon after arriving in this country the eldest son of the first American
Stockton settled in Princeton, N.J., and founded that branch of the
family; while the father, with the other sons, settled in Burlington
County, in the same State, and founded the Burlington branch of the
family, from which Frank R. Stockton was descended. On the female side
he was descended from the Gardiners, also of New Jersey. His was a
family with literary proclivities. His father was widely known for his
religious writings, mostly of a polemical character, which had a
powerful influence in the denomination to which he belonged. His
half-brother (much older than Frank) was a preacher of great eloquence,
famous a generation ago as a pulpit orator.
When Frank and his brother John, two years younger, came to the age to
begin life for themselves, they both showed such decided artistic genius
that it was thought best to start them in that direction, and to have
them taught engraving; an art then held in high esteem. Frank chose
wood, and John steel engraving. Both did good work, but their hearts
were not in it, and, as soon as opportunity offered, they abandoned
engraving. John went into journalism; became editorially connected with
prominent newspapers; and had won a foremost place in his chosen
profession; when he was cut off by death at a comparatively early age.
[Illustration: THE HOLT, MR STOCKTON'S HOME NEAR CONVENT. N.J.]
Frank chose literature. He had, while in the engraving business, written
a number of fairy tales, some of which had been published in juvenile
magazines; also a few short stories, and quite an ambitious long story,
which was published in a prominent magazine. He was then sufficiently
well known as a writer to obtain without difficulty a place on the
staff of Hearth and Home, a weekly New York paper, owned by Orange Judd,
and conducted by Edward Eggleston. Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge had charge of
the juvenile department, and Frank went on the paper as her assistant.
Not long after Scribner's Monthly was started by Charles Scribner (the
elder), in conjunction with Roswell Smith, and J.G. Holland. Later Mr.
Smith and his associates formed The Century Company; and with this
company Mr. Stockton was connected for many years: first on the Century
Magazine, which succeeded Scribner's Monthly, and afterward on St.
Nicholas, as assistant to Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, and, still later, when
he decided to give up editorial work, as a constant contributor. After a
few years he resigned his position in the company with which he had been
so pleasantly associated in order to devote himself exclusively to his
own work. By this time he had written and published enough to feel
justified in taking, what seemed to his friends, a bold, and even rash,
step, because so few writers then lived solely by the pen. He was never
very strong physically; he felt himself unable to do his editorial work,
and at the same time write out the fancies and stories with which his
mind was full. This venture proved to be the wisest thing for him; and
from that time his life was, in great part, in his books; and he gave
to the world the novels and stories which bear his name.
I have mentioned his fairy stories. Having been a great lover of fairy
lore when a child, he naturally fell into this form of story writing as
soon as he was old enough to put a story together. He invented a goodly
number; and among them the Ting-a-Ling stories, which were read aloud in
a boys' literary circle, and meeting their hearty approval, were
subsequently published in The Riverside Magazine, a handsome and popular
juvenile of that period; and, much later, were issued by Hurd & Houghton
in a very pretty volume. In regard to these, he wrote long afterward as
follows:
"I was very young when I determined to write some fairy tales because my
mind was full of them. I set to work, and in course of time produced
several which were printed. These were constructed according to my own
ideas. I caused the fanciful creatures who inhabited the world of
fairy-land to act, as far as possible for them to do so, as if they were
inhabitants of the real world. I did not dispense with monsters and
enchanters, or talking beasts and birds, but I obliged these creatures
to infuse into their extraordinary actions a certain leaven of common
sense."
It was about this time, while very young, that he and his brother
became ambitious to write stories, poems, and essays for the world at
large. They sent their effusions to various periodicals, with the result
common to ambitious youths: all were returned. They decided at last that
editors did not know a good thing when they saw it, and hit upon a
brilliant scheme to prove their own judgment. One of them selected an
extract from Paradise Regained (as being not so well known as Paradise
Lost), and sent it to an editor, with the boy's own name appended,
expecting to have it returned with some of the usual disparaging
remarks, which they would greatly enjoy. But they were disappointed. The
editor printed it in his paper, thereby proving that he did know a good
thing if he did not know his Milton. Mr. Stockton was fond of telling
this story, and it may have given rise to a report, extensively
circulated, that he tried to gain admittance to periodicals for many
years before he succeeded. This is not true. Some rebuffs he had, of
course--some with things which afterward proved great successes--but not
as great a number as falls to the lot of most beginners.
The Ting-a-Ling tales proved so popular that Mr. Stockton followed them
at intervals with long and short stories for the young which appeared in
various juvenile publications, and were afterward published in book
form--Roundabout Rambles. Tales out of School, A Jolly Fellowship,
Personally Conducted, The Story of Viteau, The Floating Prince, and
others. Some years later, after he had begun to write for older readers,
he wrote a series of stories for St. Nicholas, ostensibly for children,
but really intended for adults. Children liked the stories, but the
deeper meaning underlying them all was beyond the grasp of a child's
mind. These stories Mr. Stockton took very great pleasure in writing,
and always regarded them as some of his best work, and was gratified
when his critics wrote of them in that way. They have become famous, and
have been translated into several languages, notably Old Pipes and the
Dryad, The Bee Man of Orne, and The Griffin and the Minor Canon. This
last story was suggested by Chester Cathedral, and he wrote it in that
venerable city. The several tales were finally collected into a volume
under the title: The Bee Man of Orne and Other Stories, which is
included in the complete edition of his novels and stories. During the
whole of his literary career Mr. Stockton was an occasional contributor
of short stories and essays to The Youth's Companion.
Mr. Stockton considered his career as an editor of great advantage to
him as an author. In an autobiographical paper he writes:
"Long-continued reading of manuscripts submitted for publication which
are almost good enough to use, and yet not quite up to the standard of
the magazine, can not but be of great service to any one who proposes a
literary career. Bad work shows us what we ought to avoid, but most of
us know, or think we know, what that is. Fine literary work we get
outside the editorial room. But the great mass of literary material
which is almost good enough to print is seen only by the editorial
reader, and its lesson is lost upon him in a great degree unless he is,
or intends to be, a literary worker."
The first house in which we set up our own household goods stood in
Nutley, N.J. We had with us an elderly _attaché_ of the Stockton family
as maid-of-all-work; and to relieve her of some of her duties I went
into New York, and procured from an orphans' home a girl whom Mr.
Stockton described as "a middle-sized orphan." She was about fourteen
years old, and proved to be a very peculiar individual, with strong
characteristics which so appealed to Mr. Stockton's sense of humor that
he liked to talk with her and draw out her opinions of things in
general, and especially of the books she had read. Her spare time was
devoted to reading books, mostly of the blood-curdling variety; and she
read them to herself aloud in the kitchen in a very disjointed fashion,
which was at first amusing, and then irritating. We never knew her real
name, nor did the people at the orphanage. She had three or four very
romantic ones she had borrowed from novels while she was with us, for
she was very sentimental.
Mr. Stockton bestowed upon her the name of Pomona, which is now a
household word in myriads of homes. This extraordinary girl, and some
household experiences, induced Mr. Stockton to write a paper for
Scribner's Monthly which he called Rudder Grange. This one paper was all
he intended to write, but it attracted immediate attention, was
extensively noticed, and much talked about. The editor of the magazine
received so many letters asking for another paper that Mr. Stockton
wrote the second one; and as there was still a clamor for more, he,
after a little time, wrote others of the series. Some time later they
were collected in a book. For those interested in Pomona I will add,
that while the girl was an actual personage, with all the
characteristics given to her by her chronicler, the woman Pomona was a
development in Mr. Stockton's mind of the girl as he imagined she would
become, for the original passed out of our lives while still a girl.
Rudder Grange was Mr. Stockton's first book for adult readers, and a
good deal of comment has been made upon the fact that he had reached
middle life when it was published. His biographers and critics assume
that he was utterly unknown at that time, and that he suddenly jumped
into favor, and they naturally draw the inference that he had until then
vainly attempted to get before the public. This is all a misapprehension
of the facts. It will be seen from what I have previously stated, that
at this time he was already well known as a juvenile writer, and not
only had no difficulty in getting his articles printed, but editors and
publishers were asking him for stories. He had made but few slight
attempts to obtain a larger audience. That he confined himself for so
long a time to juvenile literature can be easily accounted for. For one
thing, it grew out of his regular work of constantly catering for the
young, and thinking of them. Then, again, editorial work makes urgent
demands upon time and strength, and until freed from it he had not the
leisure or inclination to fashion stories for more exacting and critical
readers. Perhaps, too, he was slow in recognizing his possibilities.
Certain it is that the public were not slow to recognize him. He did,
however, experience difficulties in getting the collected papers of
Rudder Grange published in book form. I will quote his own account,
which is interesting as showing how slow he was to appreciate the fact
that the public would gladly accept the writings of a humorist:
"The discovery that humorous compositions could be used in journals
other than those termed comic marked a new era in my work. Periodicals
especially devoted to wit and humor were very scarce in those days, and
as this sort of writing came naturally to me, it was difficult, until
the advent of Puck, to find a medium of publication for writings of this
nature. I contributed a good deal to this paper, but it was only partly
satisfactory, for articles which make up a comic paper must be terse and
short, and I wanted to write humorous tales which should be as long as
ordinary magazine stories. I had good reason for my opinion of the
gravity of the situation, for the editor of a prominent magazine
declined a humorous story (afterward very popular) which I had sent him,
on the ground that the traditions of magazines forbade the publication
of stories strictly humorous. Therefore, when I found an editor at last
who actually _wished_ me to write humorous stories, I was truly
rejoiced. My first venture in this line was Rudder Grange. And, after
all, I had difficulty in getting the series published in book form. Two
publishers would have nothing to do with them, assuring me that although
the papers were well enough for a magazine, a thing of ephemeral nature,
the book-reading public would not care for them. The third publisher to
whom I applied issued the work, and found the venture satisfactory."
The book-reading public cared so much for this book that it would not
remain satisfied with it alone. Again and again it demanded of the
author more about Pomona, Euphemia, and Jonas. Hence The Rudder Grangers
Abroad and Pomona's Travels.
The most famous of Mr. Stockton's stories, The Lady or the Tiger?, was
written to be read before a literary society of which he was a member.
It caused such an interesting discussion in the society that he
published it in the Century Magazine. It had no especial announcement
there, nor was it heralded in any way, but it took the public by storm,
and surprised both the editor and the author. All the world must love a
puzzle, for in an amazingly short time the little story had made the
circuit of the world. Debating societies everywhere seized upon it as a
topic; it was translated into nearly all languages; society people
discussed it at their dinners; plainer people argued it at their
firesides; numerous letters were sent to nearly every periodical in the
country; and public readers were expounding it to their audiences. It
interested heathen and Christian alike; for an English friend told Mr.
Stockton that in India he had heard a group of Hindoo men gravely
debating the problem. Of course, a mass of letters came pouring in upon
the author.
A singular thing about this story has been the revival of interest in it
that has occurred from time to time. Although written many years ago, it
seems still to excite the interest of a younger generation; for, after
an interval of silence on the subject of greater or less duration,
suddenly, without apparent cause, numerous letters in relation to it
will appear on the author's table, and "solutions" will be printed in
the newspapers. This ebb and flow has continued up to the present time.
Mr. Stockton made no attempt to answer the question he had raised.
We both spent much time in the South at different periods. The dramatic
and unconsciously humorous side of the negroes pleased his fancy. He
walked and talked with them, saw them in their homes, at their
"meetin's," and in the fields. He has drawn with an affectionate hand
the genial, companionable Southern negro as he is--or rather as he
was--for this type is rapidly passing away. Soon there will be no more
of these "old-time darkies." They would be by the world forgot had they
not been embalmed in literature by Mr. Stockton, and the best Southern
writers.
There is one other notable characteristic that should be referred to in
writing of Mr. Stockton's stories--the machines and appliances he
invented as parts of them. They are very numerous and ingenious. No
matter how extraordinary might be the work in hand, the machine to
accomplish the end was made on strictly scientific principles, to
accomplish that exact piece of work. It would seem that if he had not
been an inventor of plots he might have been an inventor of instruments.
This idea is sustained by the fact that he had been a wood-engraver only
a short time when he invented and patented a double graver which cuts
two parallel lines at the same time. It is somewhat strange that more
than one of these extraordinary machines has since been exploited by
scientists and explorers, without the least suspicion on their part that
the enterprising romancer had thought of them first. Notable among these
may be named the idea of going to the north pole under the ice, the one
that the center of the earth is an immense crystal (Great Stone of
Sardis), and the attempt to manufacture a gun similar to the Peace
Compeller in The Great War Syndicate.
In all of Mr. Stockton's novels there were characters taken from real
persons who perhaps would not recognize themselves in the peculiar
circumstances in which he placed them. In the crowd of purely
imaginative beings one could easily recognize certain types modified and
altered. In The Casting away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine he
introduced two delightful old ladies whom he knew, and who were never
surprised at anything that might happen. Whatever emergency arose, they
took it as a matter of course, and prepared to meet it. Mr. Stockton
amused himself at their expense by writing this story. He was not at
first interested in the Dusantes, and had no intention of ever saying
anything further about them. When there was a demand for knowledge of
the Dusantes Mr. Stockton did not heed it. He was opposed to writing
sequels. But when an author of distinction, whose work and friendship he
highly valued, wrote to him that if he did not write something about the
Dusantes, and what they said when they found the board money in the
ginger jar, he would do it himself, Mr. Stockton set himself to writing
The Dusantes.
I have been asked to give some account of the places in which Mr.
Stockton's stories and novels were written, and their environments. Some
of the Southern stories were written in Virginia, and, now and then, a
short story elsewhere, as suggested by the locality, but the most of his
work was done under his own roof-tree. He loved his home; it had to be a
country home, and always had to have a garden. In the care of a garden
and in driving, he found his two greatest sources of recreation.
[Illustration: CLAYMONT, MR. STOCKTON'S HOME NEAR CHARLES TOWN, WEST
VIRGINIA.]
I have mentioned Nutley, which lies in New Jersey, near New York. His
dwelling there was a pretty little cottage, where he had a garden, some
chickens, and a cow. This was his home in his editorial days, and here
Rudder Grange was written. It was a rented place. The next home we
owned. It stood at a greater distance from New York, at the place called
Convent, half-way between Madison and Morristown, in New Jersey. Here we
lived a number of years after Mr. Stockton gave up editorial work; and
here the greater number of his tales were written. It was a much larger
place than we had at Nutley, with more chickens, two cows, and a much
larger garden.
Mr. Stockton dictated his stories to a stenographer. His favorite spot
for this in summer was a grove of large fir-trees near the house. Here,
in the warm weather, he would lie in a hammock. His secretary would be
near, with her writing materials, and a book of her choosing. The book
was for her own reading while Mr. Stockton was "thinking." It annoyed
him to know he was being "waited for." He would think out pages of
incidents, and scenes, and even whole conversations, before he began to
dictate. After all had been arranged in his mind he dictated rapidly;
but there often were long pauses, when the secretary could do a good
deal of reading. In cold weather he had the secretary and an easy chair
in the study--a room he had built according to his own fancy. A fire of
blazing logs added a glow to his fancies.
I may state here that we always spent a part of every winter in New
York. A certain amount of city life was greatly enjoyed. Mr. Stockton
thus secured much intellectual pleasure. He liked his clubs, and was
fond of society, where he met men noted in various walks of life.[1]
[Footnote 1: Edward Gary, the secretary of the Century Club, in the
obituary notice of Mr. Stockton written by him for the club's annual
report, says of Mr. Stockton as a member: "It was but a dozen years ago
that Frank R. Stockton entered the fellowship of the Century, in which
he soon became exceedingly at home, winning friends here, as he won them
all over the land and in other lands, by the charm of his keen and
kindly mind shining in all that he wrote and said. He had an
extraordinary capacity for work and a rare talent for diversion, and the
Century was honored by his well-earned fame, and fortunate in its share
in his ever fresh and varying companionship."]
I am now nearing the close of a life which had had its trials and
disappointments, its struggles with weak health and with unsatisfying
labor. But these mostly came in the earlier years, and were met with
courage, an ever fresh-springing hope, and a buoyant spirit that would
not be intimidated. On the whole, as one looks back through the long
vista, much more of good than of evil fell to his lot. His life had been
full of interesting experiences, and one of, perhaps, unusual happiness.
At the last there came to pass the fulfilment of a dream in which he had
long indulged. He became the possessor of a beautiful estate containing
what he most desired, and with surroundings and associations dear to his
heart.
He had enjoyed The Holt, his New Jersey home, and was much interested in
improving it. His neighbors and friends there were valued companions.
But in his heart there had always been a longing for a home, not
suburban--a place in the _real_ country, and with more land. Finally,
the time came when he felt that he could gratify this longing. He liked
the Virginia climate, and decided to look for a place somewhere in that
State, not far from the city of Washington. After a rather prolonged
search, we one day lighted upon Claymont, in the Shenandoah Valley. It
won our hearts, and ended our search. It had absolutely everything that
Mr. Stockton coveted. He bought it at once, and we moved into it as
speedily as possible.
Claymont is a handsome colonial residence, "with all modern
improvements"--an unusual combination. It lies near the historic old
town of Charles Town, in West Virginia, near Harpers Ferry. Claymont is
itself an historic place. The land was first owned by "the Father of his
Country." This great personage designed the house, with its main
building, two cottages (or lodges), and courtyards, for his nephew
Bushrod, to whom he had given the land. Through the wooded park runs the
old road, now grass grown, over which Braddock marched to his celebrated
"defeat," guided by the youthful George Washington, who had surveyed the
whole region for Lord Fairfax. During the civil war the place twice
escaped destruction because it had once been the property of Washington.
But it was not for its historical associations, but for the place
itself, that Mr. Stockton purchased it. From the main road to the house
there is a drive of three-quarters of a mile through a park of great
forest-trees and picturesque groups of rocks. On the opposite side of
the house extends a wide, open lawn; and here, and from the piazzas, a
noble view of the valley and the Blue Ridge Mountains is obtained.
Besides the park and other grounds, there is a farm at Claymont of
considerable size. Mr. Stockton, however, never cared for farming,
except in so far as it enabled him to have horses and stock. But his
soul delighted in the big, old terraced garden of his West Virginia
home. Compared with other gardens he had had, the new one was like
paradise to the common world. At Claymont several short stories were
written. John Gayther's Garden was prepared for publication here by
connecting stories previously published into a series, told in a garden,
and suggested by the one at Claymont. John Gayther, however, was an
invention. Kate Bonnet and The Captain's Toll-Gate were both written at
Claymont.
[Illustration: A CORNER IN MR. STOCKTON'S STUDY AT CLAYMONT. Showing the
desk at which all his later books were written.]
Mr. Stockton was permitted to enjoy this beautiful place only three
years. They were years of such rare pleasure, however, that we can
rejoice that he had so much joy crowded into so short a space of his
life, and that he had it at its close. Truly life was never sweeter to
him than at its end, and the world was never brighter to him than when
he shut his eyes upon it. He was returning from a winter in New York to
his beloved Claymont, in good health, and full of plans for the summer
and for his garden, when he was taken suddenly ill in Washington, and
died three days later, on April 20, 1902, a few weeks after Kate Bonnet
was published in book form.
Mr. Stockton passed away at a ripe age--sixty-eight years. And yet his
death was a surprise to us all. He had never been in better health,
apparently; his brain was as active as ever; life was dear to him; he
seemed much younger than he was. He had no wish to give up his work; no
thought of old age; no mental decay. His last novels, his last short
stories, showed no falling-off. They were the equals of those written in
younger years. Nor had he lost the public interest. He was always sure
of an audience, and his work commanded a higher price at the last than
ever before. His was truly a passing away. He gently glided from the
homes he had loved to prepare here to one already prepared for him in
heaven, unconscious that he was entering one more beautiful than even he
had ever imagined.
Mr. Stockton was the most lovable of men. He shed happiness all around
him, not from conscious effort but out of his own bountiful and loving
nature. His tender heart sympathized with the sad and unfortunate, but
he never allowed sadness to be near, if it were possible to prevent it.
He hated mourning and gloom. They seemed to paralyze him mentally until
his bright spirit had again asserted itself, and he had recovered his
balance. He usually looked either upon the best, or the humorous side of
life. Pie won the love of every one who knew him--even that of readers
who did not know him personally, as many letters testify. To his friends
his loss is irreparable, for never again will they find his equal in
such charming qualities of head and heart.
[Illustration: THE UPPER TERRACES OF MR. STOCKTON'S GARDEN AT
CLAYMONT.]
This is not the place for a critical estimate of the work of Frank R.
Stockton.[2] His stories are, in great part, a reflex of himself. The
bright outlook on life; the courageous spirit; the helpfulness; the
sense of the comic rather than the tragic; the love of domestic life;
the sweetness of pure affection; live in his books as they lived in
himself. He had not the heart to make his stories end unhappily. He knew
that there is much of the tragic in human lives, but he chose to ignore
it as far as possible, and to walk in the pleasant ways which are
numerous in this tangled world. There is much philosophy underlying a
good deal that he wrote, but it has to be looked for; it is not
insistent, and is never morbid. He could not write an impure word, or
express an impure thought, for he belonged to the "pure in heart," who,
we are assured, "shall see God."
[Footnote 2: I may, however, properly quote from the sketch prepared by
Mr. Gary for the Century Club: "He brought to his later work the
discipline of long and rather tedious labor, with the capital amassed by
acute observation, on which his original imagination wrought the
sparkling miracles that we know. He has been called the representative
American humorist. He was that in the sense that the characters he
created had much of the audacity of the American spirit, the thirst for
adventures in untried fields of thought and action, the subconscious
seriousness in the most incongruous situations, the feeling of being at
home no matter what happens. But how amazingly he mingled a broad
philosophy with his fun, a philosophy not less wise and comprehending
than his fun was compelling! If his humor was American, it was also
cosmopolitan, and had its laughing way not merely with our British
kinsmen, but with alien peoples across the usually impenetrable barrier
of translation. The fortune of his jesting lay not in his ears, but in
the hearts of his hearers. It was at once appealing and revealing. It
flashed its playful light into the nooks and corners of our own being,
and wove close bonds with those at whom we laughed. There was no
bitterness in it. He was neither satirist nor preacher, nor of set
purpose a teacher, though it must be a dull reader that does not gather
from his books the lesson of the value of a gentle heart and a clear,
level outlook upon our perplexing world."]