POLONIUS TO LAERTES.
Years went by. I studied; outgrew my jackets; became a young man. It was
time, in short, that I walked the hospitals, and passed my examination.
I had spoken to my father more than once upon the subject--spoken
earnestly and urgently, as one who felt the necessity and justice of his
appeal. But he put me off from time to time; persisted in looking upon
me as a boy long after I had become acquainted with the penalties of the
razor; and counselled me to be patient, till patience was well-nigh
exhausted. The result of this treatment was that I became miserable and
discontented; spent whole days wandering about the woods; and
degenerated into a creature half idler and half misanthrope. I had never
loved the profession of medicine. I should never have chosen it had I
been free to follow my own inclinations: but having diligently fitted
myself to enter it with credit, I felt that my father wronged me in this
delay; and I felt it perhaps all the more bitterly because my labor had
been none of love. Happily for me, however, he saw his error before it
was too late, and repaired it generously.
"Basil," said he, beckoning me one morning into the consulting-room, "I
want to speak to you."
I obeyed sullenly, and stood leaning up against the window, with my
hands in my pockets.
"You've been worrying me, Basil, more than enough these last few
months," he said, rummaging among his papers, and speaking in a low,
constrained voice. "I don't choose to be worried any longer. It is time
you walked the hospitals, and--you may go."
"To London, sir?"
"No. I don't intend you to go to London."
"To Edinburgh, then, I suppose," said I, in a tone of disappointment.
"Nor to Edinburgh. You shall go to Paris."
"To Paris!"
"Yes--the French surgeons are the most skilful in the world, and Chéron
will do everything for you. I know no eminent man in London from whom I
should choose to ask a favor; and Chéron is one of my oldest
friends--nay, the oldest friend I have in the world. If you have but two
ounces of brains, he will make a clever man of you. Under him you will
study French practice; walk the hospitals of Paris; acquire the language
and, I hope, some of the polish of the French people. Are you
satisfied?"
"More than satisfied, sir," I replied, eagerly.
"You shall not want for money, boy; and you may start as soon as you
please. Is the thing settled?"
"Quite, as far as I am concerned."
My father rubbed his head all over with both hands, took off his
spectacles, and walked up and down the room. By these signs he expressed
any unusual degree of satisfaction. All at once he stopped, looked me
full in the face, and said:--
"Understand me, Basil. I require one thing in return."
"If that thing be industry, sir, I think I may promise that you shall
not have cause to complain,"
My father shook his head.
"Not industry," he said; "not industry alone. Keep good company, my boy.
Keep good hours. Never forget that a gentleman must look like a
gentleman, dress like a gentleman, frequent the society of gentlemen. To
be a mere bookworm is to be a drone in the great hive. I hate a
drone--as I hate a sloven."
"I understand you, father," I faltered, blushing. "I know that of late
I--I have not...."
My father laid his hand suddenly over my mouth.
"No confessions--no apologies," he said hastily. "We have both been to
blame in more respects than one, and we shall both know how to be wiser
in the future. Now go, and consider all that you may require for
your journey."
Agitated, delighted, full of hope, I ran up to my own room, locked the
door, and indulged in a delightful reverie. What a prospect had suddenly
opened before me! What novelty! what adventure! To have visited London
would have been to fulfil all my desires; but to be sent to Paris was to
receive a passport for Fairyland!
That day, for the first time in many months, I dressed myself carefully,
and went down to dinner with a light heart, a cheerful face, and an
unexceptionable neckcloth.
As I took my place at the table, my father looked up cheerily and gave
me a pleased nod of recognition.
Our meal passed off very silently. It was my father's maxim that no man
could do more than one thing well at a time--especially at table; so we
had contracted a habit which to strangers would have seemed even more
unsociable than it really was, and gave to all our meals an air more
penitential than convivial. But this day was, in reality, a festive
occasion, and my father was disposed to be more than usually agreeable.
When the cloth was removed, he flung the cellar-key at my head, and
exclaimed, in a burst of unexampled good-humor:--
"Basil, you dog, fetch up a bottle of the particular port!"
Now it is one of my theories that a man's after-dinner talk takes much
of its weight, color, and variety from the quality of his wines. A
generous vintage brings out generous sentiments. Good fellowship,
hospitality, liberal politics, and the milk of human kindness, may be
uncorked simultaneously with a bottle of old Madeira; while a pint of
thin Sauterne is productive only of envy, hatred, malice, and all
uncharitableness. We grow sententious on Burgundy--logical on
Bordeaux--sentimental on Cyprus--maudlin on Lagrima Christi--and witty
on Champagne.
Port was my father's favorite wine. It warmed his heart, cooled his
temper, and made him not only conversational, but expansive. Leaning
back complacently in his easy-chair, with the glass upheld between his
eye and the window, he discoursed to me of my journey, of my prospects
in life, and of all that I should do and avoid, professionally
and morally.
"Work," he said, "is the panacea for every sorrow--the plaster for every
pain--your only universal remedy. Industry, air, and exercise are our
best physicians. Trust to them, boy; but beware how you publish the
prescription, lest you find your occupation gone. Remember, if you wish
to be rich, you must never seem to be poor; and as soon as you stand in
need of your friends, you will find yourself with none left. Be discreet
of speech, and cultivate the art of silence. Above all things, be
truthful. Hold your tongue as long as you please, but never open your
lips to a lie. Show no man the contents of your purse--he would either
despise you for having so little, or try to relieve you of the burden
of carrying so much. Above all, never get into debt, and never fall in
love. The first is disgrace, and the last is the devil! Respect
yourself, if you wish others to respect you; and bear in mind that the
world takes you at your own estimate. To dress well is a duty one owes
to society. The man who neglects his own appearance not only degrades
himself to the level of his inferiors, but puts an affront upon his
friends and acquaintances."
"I trust, sir," I said in some confusion, "that I shall never incur the
last reproach again."
"I hope not, Basil," replied my father, with a smile. "I hope not. Keep
your conscience clean and your boots blacked, and I have no fear of you.
You are no hero, my boy, but it depends upon yourself whether you become
a man of honor or a scamp; a gentleman or a clown. You have, I see,
registered a good resolution to-day. Keep it; and remember that
Pandemonium will get paved without your help. There would be no
industry, boy, if there was no idleness, and all true progress begins
with--Reform."