THEISSE
[Sidenote: _Richter_]
In his seventy-second year his face is a thanksgiving for his former
life, and a love-letter to all mankind.
RICHTER
[Sidenote: _Carlyle_]
We have heard that he was a man universally loved, as well as honoured
... a friendly, true, and high-minded man; copious in speech, which was
full of grave, genuine humour; contented with simple people and simple
pleasures; and himself of the simplest habits and wishes.
BROKEN STUDIES
[Sidenote: _Richter_]
I deny myself my evening meal in my eagerness to work; but the
interruptions by my children I cannot deny myself.
THE GREAT CONDÉ
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
The Great Condé passing through the city of Sens, which belonged to
Burgundy, and of which he was the governor, took great pleasure in
disconcerting the different companies who came to compliment him. The
Abbé Boileau, brother of the poet, was commissioned to make a speech to
the Prince at the head of the chapter. Condé wishing to disconcert the
orator, advanced his head and large nose towards the Abbé, as if with
the intention of hearing him more distinctly, but in reality to make him
blunder if possible. The Abbé, who perceived his design, pretended to be
greatly embarrassed, and thus began his speech: "My lord, your highness
ought not to be surprised to see me tremble, when I appear before you at
the head of a company of ecclesiastics; were I at the head of an army of
thirty thousand men, I should tremble much more." The Prince was so
charmed with this sally that he embraced the orator without suffering
him to proceed. He asked his name; and when he found that he was brother
to M. Despreaux, he redoubled his attentions, and invited him to dinner.
The Prince on another occasion thought himself offended by the Abbé de
Voisenon; Voisenon, hearing of this, went to Court to exculpate himself.
As soon as the Prince saw him he turned away from him. "Thank God!" said
Voisenon, "I have been misinformed, sir; your highness does not treat me
as if I were an enemy." "How do you see that, M. Abbé?" said his
highness coldly over his shoulder. "Because, sir," answered the Abbé,
"your highness never turns your back upon an enemy." "My dear Abbé,"
exclaimed the Prince and Field-Marshal, turning round and taking him by
the hand, "it is quite impossible for any man to be angry with you."
A CLASSICAL ASS
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
The ass, though the dullest of all unlaughing animals, is reported to
have once accomplished a great feat in the way of exciting laughter.
Marcus Crassus, the grandfather of the hero of that name, who fell in
the Parthian War, was a person of such immovable gravity of countenance
that, in the whole course of his life, he was never known to laugh but
once, and hence was surnamed Agelastus. Not all that the wittiest men of
his time could say, nor aught that comedy or farce could produce on the
stage, was ever known to call up more than a smile on his iron-bound
countenance. Happening one day, however, to stray into the fields, he
espied an ass browsing on thistles; and in this there appears to have
been something so eminently ridiculous in those days that the man who
never laughed before could not help laughing at it outright. It was but
the burst of a moment; Agelastus immediately recovered himself, and
never laughed again.
MEMORY
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
A player being reproached by Rich for having forgot some of the words in
"The Beggar's Opera," on the fifty-third night of its performance, cried
out, "What! do you think one can remember a thing for ever?"
"COME IN HERE"
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
Burton, in his "Melancholy," quoting from Poggius, the Florentine, tells
us of a physician in Milan who kept a house for the reception of
lunatics, and, by way of cure, used to make his patients stand for a
length of time in a pit of water, some up to the knees, some to the
girdle, and others as high as the chin, _pro modo insaniæ_, according as
they were more or less affected. An inmate of this establishment, who
happened, "by chance," to be pretty well recovered, was standing at the
door of the house, and, seeing a gallant cavalier ride past with a hawk
on his fist, and his spaniels after him, he must needs ask what all
these preparations meant. The cavalier answered, "To kill game." "What
may the game be worth which you kill in the course of a year?" rejoined
the patient. "About five or ten crowns." "And what may your horse, dogs,
and hawks stand you in?" "Four hundred crowns more." On hearing this,
the patient with great earnestness of manner, bade the cavalier
instantly begone, as he valued his life and welfare; "For," said he, "if
our master come and find you here, he will put you into his pit up to
the very chin."
A POPE INNOCENT
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
When King James I. visited Sir Thomas Pope, knt., in Oxfordshire, his
lady had lately brought him a daughter, and the babe was presented to
the King with a paper of verses in her hand; "Which," quoth Fuller, "as
they pleased the King, I hope they will please the reader."
See, this little mistress here,
Did never sit in Peter's chair,
Or a triple crown did wear,
And yet she is a Pope.
No benefice she ever sold,
Nor did dispense with sins for gold,
She hardly is a se'nnight old,
And yet she is a Pope.
No king her feet did ever kiss,
Or had from her worse look than this;
Nor did she ever hope
To saint one with a rope,
And yet she is a Pope.
A female Pope you'll say, a second Joan!
No, sure she is Pope _Innocent_, or none!
A GOOD PARAPHRASE
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
On the eve of a battle an officer came to ask permission of the Maréchal
de Toiras to go and see his father, who was on his death-bed. "Go," said
the general, "you honour your father and your mother, that your days may
be long in the land."
IRISH PRIEST
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
An Irish peasant complained to the Catholic priest of his parish that
some person had stolen his best pig, and supplicated his reverence to
help him to the discovery of the thief. The priest promised his best
endeavours; and, his inquiries soon leading him to a correct enough
guess as to the offender, he took the following amusing method of
bringing the matter home to him. Next Sunday, after the service of the
day, he called out with a loud voice, fixing his eyes on the suspected
individual, "Who stole Pat Doolan's pig?" There was a long pause, and no
answer; he did not expect that there would be any; and descended from
the pulpit without saying a word more. A second Sunday arriving without
the pig being restored in the interval, his reverence, again looking
steadfastly at the stubborn purloiner and throwing a deep note of anger
into the tone of his voice, repeated the question. "Who stole Pat
Doolan's pig? I say, who stole _poor_ Pat Doolan's pig?" Still there was
no answer, and the question was left as before, to work its effect in
secret on the conscience of the guilty individual. The hardihood of the
offender, however, exceeded all the honest priest's calculations. A
third Sunday arrived, and Pat Doolan was still without his pig. Some
stronger measure now became necessary. After service was performed his
reverence, dropping the question of "Who stole Pat Doolan's pig?" but
still without directly accusing any one of the theft, reproachfully
exclaimed, "Jimmie Doran! Jimmie Doran! you trate me with contimpt."
Jimmie Doran hung down his head, and next morning the pig was found at
the door of Pat Doolan's cabin.
A DIGRESSION
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
The celebrated Henderson, the actor, was seldom known to be in a
passion. When at Oxford, he was one day debating with a fellow student,
who, not keeping his temper, threw a glass of wine in his face. Mr.
Henderson took out his handkerchief, wiped his face, and coolly said,
"That, sir, was a digression; now for the argument."
FORTUNE-TELLER
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
A fortune-teller was arrested at his theatre of divination, _al fresco_,
at the corner of the rue de Bussy in Paris, and carried before the
tribunal of correctional police. "You know to read the future?" said the
president, a man of great wit, but too fond of a joke for a magistrate.
"In this case," said the judge, "you know the judgment we intend to
pronounce." "Certainly." "Well, what will happen to you?" "Nothing."
"You are sure of it?" "You will acquit me." "Acquit you!" "There is no
doubt of it." "Why?" "Because, sir, if it had been your intention to
condemn me, you would not have added irony to misfortune." The
president, disconcerted, turned to his brother judges, and the sorcerer
was acquitted.
GASCONADES
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
A Gascon, passing one night through a churchyard, thought he saw a
spectre drawing forth his sword. He called out aloud, "Aha! do you want
to be killed a second time? I am your man."
Another hero of the same country used to say that he could not look into
a mirror without being afraid of himself.
When Robespierre had been guillotined at Paris, a Gascon officer in the
French army thus expressed the dread he had entertained of that tyrant:
"As often as the name of Robespierre was mentioned to me, I used to take
off my hat, in order to see if my head was in it."
TRIBUTE TO BEAUTY
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
As the late beautiful Duchess of Devonshire was one day stepping out of
her carriage, a dustman, who was accidentally standing by, and was about
to regale himself with his accustomed whiff of tobacco, caught a glance
of her countenance, and instantly exclaimed, "Love and bless you, my
lady, let me light my pipe in your eyes!" It is said the duchess was so
delighted with this compliment that she frequently afterwards checked
the strain of adulation, which was so constantly offered to her charms,
by saying, "Oh! after the dustman's compliment, all others are insipid."
BEGGING QUARTER
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
A French regiment at the battle of Spires had orders to give no quarter.
A German officer, being taken, begged his life. The Frenchman replied,
"Sir, you may ask me for any other favour; but, as for your life, it is
impossible for me to grant it."
GASCON REPROVED
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
A descendant of a family in Gascony, celebrated for its flow of language
and love of talking, and not for any deeds of glory, descanted before a
numerous company upon the well-known bravery of his ancestors and
relations. He then, to show that the race had not degenerated,
_modestly_ launched into a _faithful_ description of his own battles,
duels, and successes. He was once, he said, a passenger on board a
French frigate during the war, and, falling in with an English squadron
composed of three seventy-fours, fought with them for five hours, when
luckily, the ship taking fire, he was blown up, with ten of his
countrymen, and dropped into one of the seventy-fours, the crew of which
laid down their arms and surrendered; while the two remaining
men-of-war, struck with dismay at the sight of one of their ships in the
possession of the enemy, crowded sails and ran away!
Such were his _faithful_ accounts, with which he would still have
continued to annoy the company, had not one of his countrymen, more
enlightened, frankly acknowledged the natural propensity which leads the
inhabitants of Gascony to revel in imaginary scenes, resolved to awe him
into silence, and thus addressed him: "All your exploits are mere
commonplace, in comparison to those which I have achieved; and I will
relate a single one that surpasses all yours."
The babbler opened his ears, no doubt secretly intending to appropriate
this story to himself in future time, when none of the hearers should be
present, and modestly owned, that all those he had mentioned were mere
children's tricks, performed without any exertion, but that he had some
in store which might shine unobscured by the side of the most brilliant
deeds of ancient ages.
"One evening," said the other, "as I was returning to town from the
country, I had to pass through a narrow lane, well known for being
infested with highwaymen. My horse was in good order, my pistols loaded,
and my broadsword hung at my side; I entered the lane without any
apprehension. Scarcely had I reached the middle when a loud shout behind
me made me turn my head, and I saw a man with a short gun running fast
towards me. I was going to face him with my horse, when two men with
large cudgels in their hands, rushing from the hedge, seized the reins,
and threatened me with instant death. Undaunted, I took my two pistols;
but, before I had time to fire, one was knocked out of my hand, the
other went off, and one of the robbers fell. I then drew my sword, and,
though bruised by the blows I had received, struck with all my might,
and split the head of the other in two. Freed from my danger on their
side, I attempted a second time to turn my horse." Here he paused a
while; and our babbler, longing to know the end of this adventure,
exclaimed, "And the third!" "Oh, the third!" answered the other; "he
shot me dead."
ABSENT MAN
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
A celebrated living poet, occasionally a little absent in mind, was
invited by a friend, whom he met in the street, to dine with him the
next Sunday at a country lodging, which he had taken for the summer
months. The address was, "near the _Green Man_ at _Dulwich_"; which, not
to put his inviter to the trouble of pencilling down, the _absent_ man
promised faithfully to remember. But when Sunday came, he, fully late
enough, made his way to Greenwich, and began inquiring for the sign of
the _Dull Man_! No such sign was to be found; and, after losing an hour,
a person guessed that though there was no _Dull Man_ at Greenwich, there
was a _Green Man_ at Dulwich, which the _absent_ man might _possibly_
mean! This remark connected the broken chain, and the poet was under the
necessity of taking his chop by himself.
PRIDE
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
A Spaniard rising from a fall, whereby his nose had suffered
considerably, exclaimed, "Voto, a tal, esto es caminar por la turru!"
(This comes of walking upon earth!)
WITTY COWARD
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
A French marquis having received several blows with a stick, which he
never thought of resenting, a friend asked him, "How he could reconcile
it with his honour to suffer them to pass without notice?" "Poh!"
replied the marquis, "I never trouble my head with anything that passes
behind my back."
VALUING BEAUTY
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
The Persian Ambassador, Mirza Aboul Hassan, while he resided in Paris
was an object of so much curiosity that he could not go out without
being surrounded by a multitude of gazers, and the ladies even ventured
so far as to penetrate his hotel.
On returning one day from a ride, he found his apartments crowded with
ladies, all elegantly dressed, but not all equally beautiful. Astonished
at this unexpected assemblage, he inquired what these European
odalisques could possibly want with him. The interpreter replied that
they had come to look at his Excellency. The Ambassador was surprised to
find himself an object of curiosity among a people who boast of having
attained the acme of civilisation; and was not a little offended at
conduct which, in Asia, would have been considered an unwarrantable
breach of good-breeding; he accordingly revenged himself by the
following little scheme.
The illustrious foreigner affected to be charmed with the ladies; he
looked at them attentively alternately, pointing to them with his
finger, and speaking with great earnestness to his interpreter, who, he
was well aware, would be questioned by his fair visitants; and whom he
therefore instructed in the part he was to act. Accordingly, the eldest
of the ladies, who, in spite of her age, probably thought herself the
prettiest of the whole party, and whose curiosity was particularly
excited, after his Excellency had passed through the suite of rooms,
coolly inquired what had been the object of his examination? "Madam,"
replied the interpreter, "I dare not inform you." "But I wish
particularly to know, sir." "Indeed, madam, it is impossible!" "Nay,
sir, this reserve is vexatious; I desire to know." "Oh! since you
desire, madam, know then that his Excellency has been valuing you!"
"Valuing us! how, sir?" "Yes, ladies, his Excellency, after the custom
of his country, has been setting a price upon each of you!" "Well,
that's whimsical enough; and how much may that lady be worth, according
to his estimation?" "A thousand crowns." "And the other?" "Five hundred
crowns." "And that young lady with fair hair?" "The same price." "And
that lady who is painted?" "Fifty crowns." "And pray, sir, what may I be
worth in the tariff of his Excellency's good graces?" "Oh, madam, you
really must excuse me, I beg." "Come, come, no concealments." "The
Prince merely said as he passed you--" "Well, what did he say?" inquired
the lady with great eagerness. "He said, madam, that he did not know the
small coin of this country."
PRO ARIS ET FOCIS
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]
At the establishment of volunteer corps, a certain corporation agreed to
form a body, on condition that they should _not be obliged to quit the
country_. The proposal was submitted to Mr. Pitt; who said he had no
objection to the terms, if they would permit him to add, "_except_, in
case of _invasion_."
THE GENTLE READER
[Sidenote: _Anon._]
No British Museum the fisherman needs:
He simply goes down to the river and reeds.
CLERGYMEN AND CHICKENS
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
Why, let me ask, should a hen lay an egg, which egg can become a chicken
in about three weeks and a full-grown hen in less than a twelvemonth,
while a clergyman and his wife lay no eggs, but give birth to a baby
which will take three-and-twenty years before it can become another
clergyman? Why should not chickens be born and clergymen be laid and
hatched? Or why, at any rate, should not the clergyman be born
full-grown and in Holy Orders, not to say already beneficed?
MELCHISEDEC
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
He was a really happy man. He was without father, without mother, and
without descent. He was an incarnate bachelor. He was a born orphan.
EATING AND PROSELYTISING
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
All eating is a kind of proselytising--a kind of dogmatising--a
maintaining that the eater's way of looking at things is better than the
eatee's. We convert the food, or try to do so, to our own way of
thinking, and, when it sticks to its own opinion and refuses to be
converted, we say it disagrees with us. An animal that refuses to let
another eat it has the courage of its convictions, and, if it gets
eaten, dies a martyr to them....
It is good for the man that he should not be thwarted--that he should
have his own way as far, and with as little difficulty, as possible.
Cooking is good because it makes matters easier by unsettling the meat's
mind and preparing it for new ideas. All food must first be prepared for
us by animals and plants, or we cannot assimilate it; and so thoughts
are more easily assimilated that have been already digested by other
minds. A man should avoid converse with things that have been stunted or
starved, and should not eat such meat as has been overdriven or underfed
or afflicted with disease, nor should he touch fruit or vegetables that
have not been well grown.
Sitting quiet after eating is akin to sitting still during divine
service so as not to disturb the congregation. We are catechising and
converting our proselytes, and there should be no row. As we get older
we must digest more quietly still; our appetite is less, our gastric
juices are no longer so eloquent, they have lost that cogent fluency
which carried away all that came in contact with it. They have become
sluggish and unconciliatory. This is what happens to any man when he
suffers from an attack of indigestion.
Or, indeed, any other sickness, is the inarticulate expression of the
pain we feel on seeing a proselyte escape us just as we were on the
point of converting it.
ASSIMILATION AND PERSECUTION
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
We cannot get rid of persecution; if we feel at all we must persecute
something; the mere acts of feeding and growing are acts of persecution.
Our aim should be to persecute nothing but such things as are absolutely
incapable of resisting us. Man is the only animal that can remain on
friendly terms with the victims he intends to eat until he eats them.
NIGHT-SHIRTS AND BABIES
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
On Hindhead, last Easter, we saw a family wash hung out to dry. There
were papa's two great night-shirts and mamma's two lesser night-gowns,
and then the children's smaller articles of clothing and mamma's drawers
and the girls' drawers, all full swollen with a strong north-east wind.
But mamma's night-gown was not so well pinned on, and, instead of being
full of steady wind like the others, kept blowing up and down as though
she were preaching wildly. We stood and laughed for ten minutes. The
housewife came to the window and wondered at us, but we could not
resist the pleasure of watching the absurdly life-like gestures which
the night-gowns made. I should like a _Santa Famiglia_ with clothes
drying in the background.
A love-story might be told in a series of sketches of the clothes of two
families hanging out to dry in adjacent gardens. Then a gentleman's
night-shirt from one garden and a lady's night-gown from the other
should be shown hanging in a third garden by themselves. By and by there
should be added a little night-shirt.
A philosopher might be tempted, on seeing the little night-shirt, to
suppose that the big night-shirts had made it. What we do is much the
same, for the body of a baby is not much more made by the two old
babies, after whose pattern it has cut itself out, than the little
night-shirt is made by the big ones. The thing that makes either the
little night-shirt or the little baby is something about which we know
nothing whatever at all.
DOES MAMMA KNOW?
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
A father was telling his eldest daughter, aged about six, that she had a
little sister, and was explaining to her how nice it all was. The child
said it was delightful, and added:
"Does mamma know? Let's go and tell her."
CROESUS AND HIS KITCHEN-MAID
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
I want people to see either their cells as less parts of themselves than
they do, or their servants as more.
Croesus's kitchen-maid is part of him, bone of his bone and flesh of his
flesh, for she eats what comes from his table, and, being fed of one
flesh, are they not brother and sister to one another in virtue of
community of nutriment, which is but a thinly veiled travesty of
descent? When she eats peas with her knife, he does so too; there is not
a bit of bread and butter she puts into her mouth, nor a lump of sugar
she drops into her tea, but he knoweth it altogether, though he knows
nothing whatever about it. She is en-Croesused and he en-scullery-maided
so long as she remains linked to him by the golden chain which passes
from his pocket to hers, and which is greatest of all unifiers.
True, neither party is aware of the connection at all as long as things
go smoothly. Croesus no more knows the name of, or feels the existence
of, his kitchen-maid than a peasant in health knows about his liver;
nevertheless, he is awakened to a dim sense of an undefined something
when he pays his grocer or his baker. She is more definitely aware of
him than he of her, but it is by way of an overshadowing presence rather
than a clear and intelligent comprehension. And though Croesus does not
eat his kitchen-maid's meals otherwise than vicariously, still to eat
vicariously is to eat: the meals so eaten by his kitchen-maid nourish
the better ordering of the dinner which nourishes and engenders the
better ordering of Croesus himself. He is fed, therefore, by the feeding
of his kitchen-maid.
And so with sleep. When she goes to bed he, in part, does so too. When
she gets up and lays the fire in the back kitchen he, in part, does so.
He lays it through her and in her, though knowing no more what he is
doing than we know when we digest, but still doing it as by what we call
a reflex action. _Qui facit per alium facit per se_, and when the
back-kitchen fire is lighted on Croesus's behalf it is Croesus who
lights it, though he is all the time fast asleep in bed.
Sometimes things do not go smoothly. Suppose the kitchen-maid to be
taken with fits just before dinner-time; there will be a reverberating
echo of disturbance throughout the whole organisation of the palace. But
the oftener she has fits, the more easily will the household know what
it is all about when she is taken with them. On the first occasion Lady
Croesus will send some one rushing down into the kitchen; there will, in
fact, be a general flow of blood (i.e. household) to the part affected
(that is to say, to the scullery-maid); the doctor will be sent for and
all the rest of it. On each repetition of the fits the neighbouring
organs, reverting to a more primary undifferentiated condition, will
discharge duties for which they were not engaged, in a manner for which
no one would have given them credit; and the disturbance will be less
and less each time, till by and by, at the sound of the crockery
smashing below, Lady Croesus will just look up to papa and say:
"My dear, I am afraid Sarah has got another fit."
And papa will say she will probably be better again soon, and will go on
reading his newspaper.
In course of time the whole thing will come to be managed automatically
downstairs without any references either to papa, the cerebrum, or to
mamma, the cerebellum, or even to the _medulla oblongata_, the
housekeeper. A precedent or routine will be established, after which
everything will work quite smoothly.
But though papa and mamma are unconscious of the reflex action which has
been going on within their organisation, the kitchen-maid and the cells
in her immediate vicinity (that is to say, her fellow-servants) will
know all about it. Perhaps the neighbours will think that nobody in the
house knows, and that, because the master and mistress show no sign of
disturbance, therefore there is no consciousness. They forget that the
scullery-maid becomes more and more conscious of the fits if they grow
upon her, as they probably will, and that Croesus and his lady do show
more signs of consciousness, if they are watched closely, than can be
detected on first inspection. There is not the same violent
perturbation that there was on the previous occasions, but the tone of
the palace is lowered. A dinner-party has to be put off; the cooking is
more homogeneous and uncertain, it is less highly differentiated than
when the scullery-maid was well; and there is a grumble when the doctor
has to be paid, and also when the smashed crockery has to be replaced.
If Croesus discharges his kitchen-maid and gets another, it is as though
he cut out a small piece of his finger and replaced it in due course by
growth. But even the slightest cut may lead to blood-poisoning, and so
even the dismissal of a kitchen-maid may be big with the fate of
empires. Thus the cook--a valued servant--may take the kitchen-maid's
part and go too. The next cook may spoil the dinner and upset Croesus's
temper, and from this all manner of consequences may be evolved, even to
the dethronement and death of the King himself. Nevertheless, as a
general rule, an injury to such a low part of a great monarch's organism
as a kitchen-maid has no important results. It is only when we are
attacked in such vital organs as the solicitor or the banker that we
need be uneasy. A wound in the solicitor is a very serious thing, and
many a man has died from failure of his bank's action.
It is certain, as we have seen, that when the kitchen-maid lights the
fire it is really Croesus who is lighting it, but it is less obvious
that when Croesus goes to a ball the scullery-maid goes also. Still,
this should be held in the same way as it should be also held that she
eats vicariously when Croesus dines. For he must return from the ball
and the dinner-parties, and this comes out in his requiring to keep a
large establishment whereby the scullery-maid retains her place as part
of his organism and is nourished and amused also.
On the other hand, when Croesus dies it does not follow that the
scullery-maid should die at the same time. She may grow a new Croesus,
as Croesus, if the maid dies, will probably grow a new kitchen-maid;
Croesus's son or successor may take over the kingdom and palace, and the
kitchen-maid, beyond having to wash up a few extra plates and dishes at
coronation time, will know little about the change. It is as though the
establishment had had its hair cut and its beard trimmed; it is
smartened up a little, but there is no other change. If, on the other
hand, he goes bankrupt, or his kingdom is taken from him and his whole
establishment is broken and dissipated at the auction-mart, then, even
though not one of its component cells actually dies, the organism as a
whole does so, and it is interesting to see that the lowest, least
specialised, and least highly differentiated parts of the organism, such
as the scullery-maid and the stable-boys, most readily find an entry
into the life of some new system, while the more specialised and highly
differentiated parts, such as the steward, the old housekeeper, and,
still more so, the librarian or the chaplain, may never be able to
attach themselves to any new combination, and may die in consequence. I
heard once of a large builder who retired unexpectedly from business and
broke up his establishment, to the actual death of several of his older
employés.
So a bit of flesh, or even a finger, may be taken from one body and
grafted on to another, but a leg cannot be grafted; if a leg is cut off
it must die. It may, however, be maintained that the owner dies, too,
even though he recovers, for a man who has lost a leg is not the man he
was.
ADAM AND EVE
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
A little boy and a little girl were looking at a picture of Adam and
Eve.
"Which is Adam and which is Eve?" said one.
"I do not know," said the other, "but I could tell if they had their
clothes on."
FIRE
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
I was at one the other night, and heard a man say: "That corner stack is
alight now quite nicely." People's sympathies seem generally to be with
the fire so long as no one is in danger of being burned.
THE ELECTRIC LIGHT IN ITS INFANCY
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
I heard a woman in a 'bus boring her lover about the electric light. She
wanted to know this and that, and the poor lover was helpless. Then she
said she wanted to know how it was regulated. At last she settled down
by saying that she knew it was in its infancy. The word "infancy" seemed
to have a soothing effect upon her, for she said no more, but, leaning
her head against her lover's shoulder, composed herself to slumber.
NEW-LAID EGGS
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
When I take my Sunday walks in the country, I try to buy a few really
new-laid eggs warm from the nest. At this time of the year (January)
they are very hard to come by, and I have long since invented a sick
wife who has implored me to get a few eggs laid not earlier than the
self-same morning. Of late, as I am getting older, it has become my
daughter, who has just had a little baby. This will generally draw a
new-laid egg, if there is one about the place at all.
At Harrow Weald it has always been my wife who for years has been a
great sufferer and finds a really new-laid egg the one thing she can
digest in the way of solid food. So I turned her on as movingly as I
could not long since, and was at last sold some eggs that were no
better than common shop-eggs, if so good. Next time I went I said my
poor wife had been made seriously ill by them; it was no good trying to
deceive her; she could tell a new-laid egg from a bad one as well as any
woman in London, and she had such a high temper that it was very
unpleasant for me when she found herself disappointed.
"Ah! sir," said the landlady, "but you would not like to lose her."
"Ma'am," I replied, "I must not allow my thoughts to wander in that
direction. But it's no use bringing her stale eggs, anyhow."
SNAPSHOTTING A BISHOP
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]
I must some day write about how I hunted the late Bishop of Carlisle
with my camera, hoping to shoot him when he was sea-sick crossing from
Calais to Dover, and how St. Somebody protected him and said I might
shoot him when he was well, but not when he was sea-sick. I should like
to do it in the manner of the "Odyssey":
... And the steward went round and laid them all on the sofas and
benches, and he set a beautiful basin by each, variegated and adorned
with flowers; but it contained no water for washing the hands, and
Neptune sent great waves that washed over the eyelet-holes of the cabin.
But when it was now the middle of the passage and a great roaring arose
as of beasts in the Zoological Gardens, and they promised hecatombs to
Neptune if he would still the raging of the waves....
At any rate I shot him and have him in my snap-shot book; but he was not
sea-sick.
_From the Note-Books of Samuel Butler._
GOETHE'S MOTHER
[Sidenote: _G.H. Lewes_]
That he was the loveliest baby ever seen, exciting admiration wherever
nurse or mother carried him, and exhibiting, in swaddling clothes, the
most wonderful intelligence, we need no biographer to tell us. Is it not
said of every baby? But that he was in truth a wonderful child we have
undeniable evidence, and of a kind less questionable than the statement
of mothers and relatives. At three years old he could seldom be brought
to play with little children, and only on the condition of their being
pretty. One day, in a neighbour's house, he suddenly began to cry and
exclaim, "That black child must go away! I can't bear him!" And he
howled till he was carried home, where he was slowly pacified; the whole
cause of his grief being the ugliness of the child.
A quick, merry little girl grew up by the boy's side. Four other
children also came, but soon vanished. Cornelia was the only companion
who survived, and for her his affection dated from the cradle. He
brought his toys to her, wanted to feed her and attend on her, and was
very jealous of all who approached her. "When she was taken from the
cradle, over which he watched, his anger was scarcely to be quieted. He
was altogether much more easily moved to anger than to tears." To the
last his love for Cornelia was passionate.
In old German towns, Frankfurt among them, the ground-floor consists of
a great hall where the vehicles were housed. This floor opens in folding
trap-doors, for the passage of wine-casks into the cellars below. In one
corner of the hall there is a sort of lattice, opening by an iron or
wooden grating upon the street. This is called the Geräms. Here the
crockery in daily use was kept; here the servants peel their potatoes,
and cut their carrots and turnips, preparatory to cooking; here also the
housewife would sit with her sewing, or her knitting, giving an eye to
what passed in the street (when anything did pass there) and an ear to a
little neighbourly gossip. Such a place was, of course, a favourite with
the children.
One fine afternoon, when the house was quiet, Master Wolfgang, with his
cup in his hand, and nothing to do, finds himself in this Geräms,
looking out into the silent street, and telegraphing to the young
Ochsensteins who dwelt opposite. By way of doing something, he begins to
fling the crockery into the street, delighted at the smashing music
which it makes, and stimulated by the approbation of the brothers
Ochsenstein, who chuckle at him from over the way. The plates and dishes
are flying in this way, when his mother returns: she sees the mischief
with a housewifely horror, melting into girlish sympathy, as she hears
how heartily the little fellow laughs at his escapade, and how the
neighbours laugh at him.
This genial, indulgent mother employed her faculty for story-telling to
his and her own delight. "Air, fire, earth, and water I represented
under the forms of princesses; and to all natural phenomena I gave a
meaning, in which I almost believed more fervently than my little
hearers. As we thought of paths which led from star to star, and that we
should one day inhabit the stars, and thought of the great spirits we
should meet there, I was as eager for the hours of story-telling as the
children themselves; I was quite curious about the future course of my
own improvisation, and any invitation which interrupted these evenings
was disagreeable. There I sat, and there Wolfgang held me with his large
black eyes; and when the fate of one of his favourites was not according
to his fancy, I saw the angry veins swell on his temples, I saw him
repress his tears. He often burst in with 'But, mother, the princess
won't marry the nasty tailor, even if he does kill the giant.' And when
I made a pause for the night, promising to continue it on the morrow, I
was certain that he would in the meanwhile think it out for himself, and
so he often stimulated my imagination. When I turned the story according
to his plan, and told him that he had found out the _dénouement_, then
was he all fire and flame, and one could see his little heart beating
underneath his dress! His grandmother, who made a great pet of him, was
the confidante of all his ideas as to how the story would turn out, and
as she repeated these to me, and I turned the story according to these
hints, there was a little diplomatic secrecy between us, which we never
disclosed. I had the pleasure of continuing my story to the delight and
astonishment of my hearers, and Wolfgang saw, with glowing eyes, the
fulfilment of his own conceptions, and listened with enthusiastic
applause." What a charming glimpse of mother and son!
She is one of the pleasantest figures in German literature, and one
standing out with greater vividness than almost any other. Her simple,
hearty, joyous, and affectionate nature endeared her to all. She was the
delight of children, the favourite of poets and princes. To the last
retaining her enthusiasm and simplicity, mingled with great shrewdness
and knowledge of character, "Frau Aja," as they christened her, was at
once grave and hearty, dignified and simple. She had read most of the
best German and Italian authors, had picked up considerable desultory
information, and had that "mother wit" which so often in women and poets
seems to render culture superfluous, their rapid intuitions anticipating
the tardy conclusions of experience. Her letters are full of spirit: not
always strictly grammatical; not irreproachable in orthography; but
vigorous and vivacious. After a lengthened interview with her, an
enthusiast exclaimed, "Now do I understand how Goethe has become the
man he is!" Wieland, Merck, Bürger, Madame de Staël, Karl August, and
other great people sought her acquaintance. The Duchess Amalia
corresponded with her as with an intimate friend; and her letters were
welcomed eagerly at the Weimar Court. She was married at seventeen to a
man for whom she had no love, and was only eighteen when the poet was
born. This, instead of making her prematurely old, seems to have
perpetuated her girlhood. "I and my Wolfgang," she said, "have always
held fast to each other, because we were both young together." To him
she transmitted her love of story-telling, her animal spirits, her love
of everything which bore the stamp of distinctive individuality, and her
love of seeing happy faces around her. "Order and quiet," she says in
one of her charming letters to Freiherr von Stein, "are my principal
characteristics. Hence I despatch at once whatever I have to do, the
most disagreeable always first, and I gulp down the devil without
looking at him. When all has returned to its proper state, then I defy
any one to surpass me in good humour." Her heartiness and tolerance are
the causes, she thinks, why every one likes her. "I am fond of people,
and _that_ every one feels directly--young and old. I pass without
pretension through the world, and that gratifies men. I never
_bemoralise_ any one--_always seek out the good that is in them, and
leave what is bad to Him who made mankind, and knows how to round off
the angles_. In this way I make myself happy and comfortable." Who does
not recognise the son in those accents? The kindliest of men inherited
his loving, happy nature from the heartiest of women.
WHERE--AND OH! WHERE?
[Sidenote: _Henry S. Leigh_]
Where are the times when--miles away
From the din and the dust of cities--
Alexis left his lambs to play,
And wooed some shepherdess half the day
With pretty and plaintive ditties?
Where are the pastures daisy-strewn
And the flocks that lived in clover;
The Zephyrs that caught the pastoral tune
And carried away the notes as soon
As ever the notes were over?
Where are the echoes that bore the strains
Each to his nearest neighbour;
And all the valleys and all the plains
Where all the nymphs and their love-sick swains
Made merry to pipe and tabor?
Where are they gone? They are gone to sleep
Where Fancy alone can find them;
But Arcady's times are like the sheep
That quitted the care of Little Bo-peep,
For they've left their tales behind them!
THE SECRETS OF THE HEART
[Sidenote: _Austin Dobson_]
"Le coeur mène où il va"
_SCENE--A Chalet covered with honeysuckle_