The learned man labors in his lair, and trains his telescope across a
million leagues of air, among the stars to grope. He would increase
the little store of knowledge we possess, and so he toils forever more,
and often in distress. His whiskers and his hair are long, and in the
zephyrs wave, because--alas! such things are wrong--he can't afford a
shave. His trousers bag about the knees, his ancient coat's a botch;
his shoes allow his feet to freeze, he bears a dollar watch. And when
the grocer's store he seeks to buy a can of hash, in frigid tones the
merchant speaks: "I'll have to have the cash!" And when he's dead a
hundred years the people will arise, and praise the man who found new
spheres cavorting through the skies. The children in the public
schools will learn to bless his name, and guide their studies by his
rules, and glory in his fame. And in the graveyard, where he went
unhonored by the town, a big fat marble monument will hold the wise man
down.
The low-brow spars a dozen rounds, before an audience, and he is loaded
down with pounds, and shillings, crowns and pence. Where'er he goes
the brawny Goth is lionized by all, like Caesar, when he cut a swath
along the Lupercal. Promoters grovel at his feet, and offer heaps of
scads, if he will condescend to meet some other bruising lads. The
daily journals print his face some seven columns wide, call him the
glory of the race, the nation's hope and pride. And having thus become
our boast, the wonder of our age, he battles with his larynx most, and
elevates the stage. In fifty years when people speak the savant's name
with pride, the pug's renown you'll vainly seek--it with its owner died.
There may be consolation there for him who bravely tries to solve great
problems in his lair, and make the world more wise; but when the world
is really wise--may that day come eftsoons!--we'll give the men of
learning pies, and give the fighters prunes.