to discuss them in a manner that drove every idea from my head. There
was nothing left for me to do but to record their talk in order to make
my complaint perfectly clear to your honorable board. This was the
conversation:
"Well, now, this says that Daniel Pingree died at Marblehead in 1703.
If that's so, how under the sun, I'd like to know, was he married to
Pamela Perkins in 1706?"
"Why, it doesn't say that, does it?"
"Look for yourself. There it is. And who was Pamela Pingree who died in
1689?"
"Oh, she was his great-aunt. I've got her traced all clear enough.
Her mother was a Jimson. They lived in the old Jimson homestead in
Worcester. Her father was Zachariah Jimson, and he was my ancestor; he
was the third cousin of the Earl of Dingleberry. I got into the 'Grand
Dames of the Pequot War,' and the 'United Order of American Descendants
of Third Cousins of Earls'--both of them, through Zachariah. But that
doesn't explain how Molly Bixby, whose mother came over in the Sarah
Jane from Bristol, and who settled at Cohasset in 1690, turned up
in Philadelphia in 1775 married to an officer in the English army.
Then I am nearly distracted about Jabez Whicher. He was an intimate
friend of Sir Harry Vane, and I don't see how I can ever get into the
'Descendants of Persons Who Were Acquainted With People Worth While'
unless I can find out something about him."
"Are you sure there was such a man?"
"Of course I am. My mother was a Whicher. I have been all through the
town history of Tinkleham, where he came from. We have two samplers
at home, worked by his great-granddaughter. And I have hunted in the
genealogies of the Diddleback family--he married a Diddleback, my
grandfather always said, and in the genealogies of the Fritterleys
and the Nynkums, because they were the most prominent families of
Tinkleham."
"What have you got there?"
"This? Oh, this is the town and court records of Footleboro'--it is
only three miles from Tinkleham, you know, and I thought I might find
out something about him. Let me see, let me see--gracious, what fine
print! There, here are the Whichers, lots of them. Andrew, Benjamin,
Charles--why, here he is! Victory at last! 'Whicher, Jabez.' That's the
man! Now, page 719. Here we are! What's this--'Site of the Old Pump'?
Why, what's the matter with this index? It says page 719 clear enough.
And, look here, isn't this page 719?"
"Why, yes, it seems to be. I don't understand. Oh, this is it--that
means paragraph 719. Look under that. There you are. What? 'June 2d,
1659, Jabez Whicher was accused before the justices of stealing sundry
fowl and swine from several of the townsfolk, and he did plead that he
was guilty, and was fined twelve pence, and sentenced to confinement in
the jail for one year, and to be branded with the letter T on his right
cheek.' Dear me, is that your ancestor?"
"Why no, certainly not; how ridiculous! Another person of the same
name, of course."
"But it is a very unusual name."
"Not at all, Whicher is a common name--I mean, that is--I mean--oh, of
course this is some one else."
I cannot chronicle their conversation any further. Enough has been
given to show you the nature of the annoyances to which I was subjected
yesterday. I look to you, gentlemen, for relief.
Yours very truly,
OBADIAH WURZBERGER.
To the Board of Directors of the Blankville Public Library.
Gentlemen: I regret to hear from my colleague, Dr. O. Wurzberger,
that you have denied his application for relief in the matter of
conversation within the library alcoves. Dr. Wurzberger has been unable
to work for over a week on account of the disturbing chatter that goes
on in the alcove next to his, and yet you reply that conversation
has always been allowed there, and that you do not see your way to
forbidding it.
In order to show you that he is not alone in finding this conversation
disturbing, I wish to state that I have been intolerably annoyed. I
have been trying to work in the alcove on the other side of the one
where the talking occurs. The first volume of my Arabic dictionary (on
which I have been engaged continuously since 1867) is soon to appear,
and I had hoped to devote a few weeks to a final revision. But how much
I was able to accomplish to-day, for instance, you may see from this
clack and chatter which took place within eight feet of me.
The first to begin, at half-past nine o'clock, were two youths. This is
a literal account of what they said:
"When is the exam?"
"September 22d."
"What in thunder are you beginning to grind now for?"
"Why, we are going to start for Squid Cove day after to-morrow, and we
always stay till after Labor Day. Of course I shan't do any grinding
down there; and then when we get back Pete Brown and I are going to
take the car and go up to Lake George for the rest of the month--or
till the exam, anyhow."
"So you've only got to-day and to-morrow?"
"That's all."
"Gee! What does the course cover?"
"English literature from Beowulf to the death of Swinburne."
"Know anything about it?"
"Not a damned thing."
"Know who Beowulf was?"
"No,--I thought you were going to put me on to that."
"Well, you know who Swinburne was, don't you?"
"Sure thing; he wrote 'The Blessed Damozel.'"
"Snappy work, old man. You came pretty near it, anyhow. Only, don't
put that in the exam. You won't get asked many questions about modern
writers, so don't worry over them. Perhaps you'll get one on Tennyson.
Don't say he lived in the Craigie House on Brattle street, and wrote
'Evangeline,' will you? Now, we might as well open the book, and take a
chance anywhere. Here's Milton. Ever hear of him?"
"John Milton, England's greatest epic poet, was the son of a scrivener.
He was born in 1608 in Grub Street, London. He lived there till he was
sixteen, so it is possible that his youthful eyes may have beheld
Shakspeare, his only superior. He--"
"Well, well! Where did you get all this?"
"Wait a minute. Little did his worthy parents realize that their son
was destined to write some of the most charming lyrics, the most
powerful sonnets, and the greatest epic in the English language, and
to lose his sight in--in--oh! I forget what he lost his sight in.
But, say, how is that? Learned it this morning, while I was eating
breakfast."
"Marvelous! But what was that about Grub Street? This book says Bread
Street."
"Yes, that's right--Bread Street. Knew it was something about grub."
"Well, you better cut all that out about the street. You might get
mixed again, and put it Pudding Lane. It doesn't make a hit, anyhow.
They would rather have some drool about his influence on literature,
or something of that sort. They'll probably ask you to contrast
'L'Allegro' with 'Il Penseroso,' or describe his attitude toward the
Presbyterians, or--"
"That's all right--I'm there with the goods. 'L'Allegro' describes the
care-free life of the happy man--the philosophy falsely attributed
to the followers of Epicurus, which is summed up in the maxim, 'Eat,
drink and be merry,' more completely described in the Rubaiyat of Omar
Khayyam. 'Il Penseroso,' on the other hand, is the thoughtful, sober
student by no means to be confounded with the melancholy man, but, on
the other hand--oh, I've got that down cold--I can go on that way for
three pages."
"We'll let Milton alone, then. You seem to know everything to be known
about him. How are you on Swift, Addison and that crowd? They always
give you three or four questions about them."
"I've got to read over what that book says on that period. I am not
very sure whether Swift or Defoe wrote the 'Tatler,' and those other
things--they're all mixed up in my mind, anyway."
"How about Shakspeare?"
"Oh, yes. No one knows when he was born or died, what he did, or
whether he wrote his plays or not."
"You'll get in trouble if you say that. I don't believe you will get
any question about him. Here's Jane Austen."
"She was the woman that was married three or four times, and ought to
have been two or three other times, wasn't she?"
"No; you've mixed her with someone else. You ought to be able to
discuss her style, and compare it with Charlotte Bronte's. They're
dippy about Jane out there, so be sure and read her up. And don't fail
to express great admiration for Spenser, if you get a chance."
"Was he the fellow who said we were all descended from monkeys?"
"No, no. What are you talking about? He was a poet--time of Shakspeare,
or about then. You ought to read some of him. Read some of 'The
Shepherd's Calendar' and quote from it. You'll hate it, but it will
work a great swipe with the examiner."
"Well, I'll have to go along now. Mighty good of you to put me on to
these points."
"Don't mention it."
"Let's see--Swift, Jane Austen and Spenser are the ducks you say I
ought to look up?"
"Yes; and Addison and Marlowe. And say, find out something about
Wordsworth. They'll ask about his attitude toward the French
Revolution, or some damfool thing like that."
"All right, I will. What was his attitude toward it?"
"I don't know. I had it all down fine once--when I took that exam. He
liked it or else he didn't, I forget which. But say, you want to know a
little about Dryden and Pope, too."
"Dryden and Pope. All right, I got 'em on my list. I'll be able to
write three pages about both of 'em before I go to bed. So long!"
"So long!"
* * * * *
They parted; but the alcove was empty only three minutes. It was then
occupied by a man and a woman. The woman began the conversation.
"Mrs. Brooks said I certainly ought to consult you, Mr. Wigglesworth.
She said your knowledge of local history will be indispensable to us."
"Now, I wonder if I understand you correctly. You and the other ladies
of your club wish to give a pageant, illustrating past events in the
history of the town?"
"That's it, exactly. Now, we thought it would be so nice if we could
have the visit of Lafayette to Blankville, for one thing. I am to be
the Marquise de Lafayette, in a Louis Quinze gown and powdered hair."
"Ah, yes. And your husband, I presume, will represent the marquis?"
"Daniel? Oh dear, no. Mr. Jones would never take any interest in it.
He is so busy, you know. Dr. Peabody will be Lafayette."
"I see. Dr. Peabody will be Lafayette. I suppose, of course, that you
wish to carry out the pageant with due regard for historical accuracy,
correctness of costume, and all that sort of thing?"
"Oh, yes. Certainly! That is what will make it so charming, and
interesting, and picturesque, and er--er--educational. Dr. Peabody
has picked out his costume already. He has spent hours over it. It is
all white satin, high-heeled shoes, a jeweled sword, and a powdered
wig. We thought we would represent the ball given to the marquis and
marchioness by the leading citizens of the town. Then we could have a
minuet, you know. Dr. Peabody dances so beautifully."
"Ah, yes. I see only one objection to this. From the point of view of
historical truth, I mean. Lafayette did not visit Blankville on his
first sojourn in this country."
"Oh, would that make any difference?"
"Well, it would, rather."
"I don't see why."
"Well, for one thing, when he did come here he was an old man. He was
about old enough to be Dr. Peabody's grandfather, I should judge."
"Oh!"
"Furthermore, there was no ball given by the leading citizens, and no
minuet."
"But there must have been something!"
"There was. The selectmen gathered at the post-house and presented an
address of welcome."
"Well, why couldn't we have that?"
"Undoubtedly you could. But it occurred at about nine o'clock on a
rainy night. Lafayette did not alight from his coach, for he was
trying to get on to Fairfield that night. He was suffering from a
headache, and not only had on a nightcap, but had his head swathed
in flannel bandages as well. He merely put out his head for a moment
from the coach window, took the address, thanked the selectmen and
immediately retired from view. There is no doubt at all about this,
for Abner Willcox, the first historian of Blankville, was one of the
selectmen."
"I don't see how we could have that very well."
"It is possible that you could persuade Dr. Peabody to appear in a
nightcap and flannel bandages, but from what I know of the young man I
should think it extremely doubtful."
"Well, it would not be picturesque!"
"Possibly not; but it would be historically correct, which is even
better."
"I do not think so. I do not believe that a pageant should follow the
facts of history slavishly. The object is to reproduce in a beautiful
manner the events of the past."
"Exactly so, Mrs. Jones. I have no objection to the beauty of the
spectacle, but if the Historical Association, whose president and
representative I am, are to contribute toward the pageant, I must
insist upon some regard for historical truth."
"Well, what could we have? Are there not some events that would be
suitable? Did not General Washington and Mrs. Washington visit our
town?"
"They did not. They seem to have overlooked it."
"Was there never an Indian raid?"
"Yes; there was. In 1641."
"How would that do?"
"I will leave you to judge. The Indians--there were three of them--were
all intoxicated. They endeavored to steal a horse, but were discovered
by a servant girl of one Enoch Winslow, who owned the horse. She locked
them up in the barn until the constable could come and take them to the
village jail."
"It does not sound very dramatic."
"I am no judge of what is or is not dramatic, Mrs. Jones. I merely give
you the facts. Possibly you might like to represent the landing of the
first settlers."
"Yes; that sounds delightful."
"It was not a delightful occasion for the settlers. It is a matter of
record that on landing they were instantly attacked by mosquitoes in
such large numbers that they had to beat a hasty retreat to their ship."
"Perhaps we could have that and leave out the mosquitoes,--it would be
hard to have them, anyway."
"That would be impossible, madam. The modern school of history, of
which I am a follower, allows the omission of no detail which makes for
accuracy. Perhaps you would not be able to introduce the mosquitoes,
though it might be managed. If not, I should insist that the persons
representing the settlers beat their arms and hands about, and retreat
to the vessel in evident distress."
"It does seem hard to find anything. I must go now. I hope you will
think it over, Mr. Wigglesworth. Good morning."
* * * * *
These, gentlemen of the board, were the annoyances I suffered to-day.
Can you do nothing to remedy this state of things?
Respectfully yours,
NICHOLAS JASPER, Ph.D.
THE LITERARY ZOO
THE LITERARY ZOO
"The idea is not exactly original," I complained.
"Perhaps not," Mr. Gooch replied, "at least, perhaps it isn't wholly
original in a general sense. Still, disregarding what private
collectors may have done, I am sure this is the first public library to
establish a literary-zoölogical annex on so extensive a scale. We aim
at nothing less than completeness."
"Oh! that is what you call it--a literary-zoölogical annex? I thought I
had heard it called a literary zoo."
"We think the other name a little more dignified. That is what it will
be termed on the invitations. Let me see; I believe I sent you an
advance invitation? They are not to be issued till next Monday."
He had sent me one, and I took it from my pocket and read it over again.
"The Public Library of East Caraway," it said, "requests the honor
of your presence at the opening of its Literary-Zoölogical Annex,
Thursday, September 1st, at ten o'clock A.M."
"We have to set that hour," Mr. Gooch explained, "because the animals
are so much brighter then. In the afternoon they get sleepy, and at
four o'clock, which is feeding time, they are noisy and quarrelsome.
But come, we will go and inspect them."
He rose and led the way out of his office. We went through the delivery
room, where a dozen or twenty people were waiting for books, and out
through the stacks to the door of the big wooden annex. Mr. Gooch drew
a bunch of keys from his pocket and unfastened the padlock.
"Of course you understand," said he, as he pushed back the heavy
doors, "there are still very many empty cages. Our collection is about
one-fifth what we hope to have in two years. It is slow work, and most
of the specimens are obtained only after long research and difficult
negotiation. Some owners of the most desirable animals hold them at
prices absolutely prohibitive to a library like ours. I could tell you
of haggling and bargaining that we have done! Well, you would never
believe, for instance, what the owner of the horse who brought the news
from Ghent to Aix wants for him, and as for Circe's swine--there are
only two of them extant now--they might be made of pure gold, those
pigs! But we have enough animals to make a respectable showing on
opening day, I think, and I believe the collection will be decidedly
educational in its effects."
Mr. Gooch has a firmer trust in the educational value of many things
than I have been able to share, but I looked forward with great
interest to this first view of his animals.
"This section is devoted to birds," said Mr. Gooch; "that swan floating
around on the pool is the one who was once an ugly duckling; the
cockatoo on the perch belonged to Count Fosco; and the red bird is, of
course, the Kentucky Cardinal.
"One moment," I interposed, "how do you classify your animals? Not by
authors, I take it?"
Mr. Gooch looked a little embarrassed. "Well, no," he admitted; "it
was a very painful thing, for as a librarian I naturally wished to
do everything according to library methods. But it was absolutely
impossible. We tried it, and we had some harrowing experiences."
Mr. Gooch wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
"The Kipling section was a perfect pandemonium in no time," he went
on, "there was a terrific battle between the tiger and one of the
elephants. I thought the whole place would be torn to pieces. We got
them separated somehow, and we saw then that it would be utterly
impossible to classify by authors. In some cases it might be done,
but we had to stick to one system or another, so we adopted the usual
methods of the zoölogical museums--the birds by themselves, the
carnivora together, and so on. It is hardly scholarly, I know, but we
had to do it."
I could not deny that he had acted for the best. By way of changing
the subject I asked him about a small bird of inconspicuous appearance.
"It is the nightingale that inspired John Keats," he replied, "he sings
sometimes, on moonlit nights. I can tell you, however, that the Ode is
better than his song. The raven, sitting there on the pallid bust of
Pallas, you will recognize without any difficulty. This other raven--"
"Belonged to Barnaby Rudge, I suppose?"
"No, _he_ is owned by a private collector. This one flew and croaked
ahead of Queen Guinevere, when she fled all night long by glimmering
waste and weald, and heard the spirits of the waste and weald moan as
she fled. Our ravens are not very cheerful birds. The other large,
black bird is Solomon Caw, who lived in Kensington Gardens. There at
the edge of the pool stands the Caliph Stork."
"And this hen?" I asked.
"That is Em'ly, who was once the object of attention from a Virginian.
The other is the Little Red Hin."
"You will be able to make an addition to your poultry soon," I remarked.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, one Chantecler."
"Will we? I don't know. We don't go in for every animal that becomes
notorious through advertising. Do you recognize the canary?"
"Little Nell's?"
"No, this one hung in the cabin of the brig Flying Scud. Here are
the dogs--well penned, you see--I didn't intend that outrageous
pun--because some of them are dangerous. This is Wolf, who once
belonged to Rip Van Winkle. Many persons have the impression that
his name is Snider. The bloodhound is one of those which pursued
Eliza across the ice. There are many impostors, but our specimen is
undoubtedly genuine."
"And the stuffed bloodhound?" I inquired.
"He was shot with a bottle of Daffy's Elixir by Micah Clarke. The other
stuffed dog, that gigantic black one, is--"
"The Hound of the Baskervilles, of course!" I interrupted.
"Certainly; there are the marks of Sherlock Holmes's bullets. This fox
terrier, who is so lively and amiable, is Montmorency, who once went on
a trip with Three Men in a Boat. This stuffed pug, who looks flattened
and damaged, is Willoughby, who was killed by having a Fallen Idol
tumble on him. The enormous St. Bernard is Porthos, who belonged to
Peter Ibbetson, and that collie once had the extreme honor of being
chased about in the snow and caught by Mr. Van Bibber."
We walked on, down the long passage, with cages on either side. On
shelves, here and there, were animals, dead and stuffed. It had been
impossible to procure them alive. Mr. Gooch pointed out a fox, who
plainly had been cut in two. The stitches where the taxidermist sewed
him together were easy to see. It was the fox, so the librarian told
me, killed in Spain by the Brigadier Gerard.
"Here are the cats," announced Mr. Gooch, "and their characters vary.
The Persian kitten, who is chasing her tail, has been celebrated in
Rubaiyat. That large Tom is not named Tom, but Peter. He once had some
painkiller administered to him by Tom Sawyer. The disagreeable looking
creature belonged to Mr. Wilde, the repairer of reputations in 'The
King in Yellow.' Perhaps you recognize the other?"
"It must be The Black Cat!" I exclaimed.
"It is, indeed," said Mr. Gooch. "Before we look at the horses, I want
you to come into this little room. The collection here is unique--it
cannot be approached by any other in the world. This large cage is
intended for the Jabberwock--when we obtain him. In the meanwhile here
are some Mome Raths--a sort of green pig who has lost his way, you
know; two Borogoves and a Slithy Tove."
I gazed with feelings of deep emotion on the Slithy Tove--"something
like a badger, something like a lizard, and something like a
corkscrew." The two Borogoves, who were both very mimsy indeed, did
not belie their reputation for looking like live mops.
"This room is admirable! Have you any other animals in it?"
"Yes," Mr. Gooch replied, "here is the Pobble Who Has No Toes."
"The genuine Pobble?"
"Absolutely genuine. The veritable Pobble who went to fish for his
Aunt Jobiska's runcible cat with crimson whiskers. Over there you can
see the Griffin who once carried a Minor Canon on his back. And beside
him--"
I saw a large and sulky-looking bird, seated in a chair, in a state of
deep dejection and invalidism. His head was tied up, as if he were very
ill.
"Surely that is The Cockalorum."
Mr. Gooch nodded.
"Follow me, please. This room--" he opened a door that led into what
seemed to be a vast and absolutely empty apartment--"this room
contains a Snark, and the Invisible Dog who figured in the Stories of
Three Burglars. Beyond are some of the animals who once lived on a
certain island with one Dr. Moreau. Would you like to see them?"
I shuddered and declined.
"Very well, then. We will return to the main building."
We did so, and the librarian paused beside a small case. "Here is The
Gold Bug. This caterpillar is the one that Sergeant Troy removed on the
tip of his sword from the dress of Bathsheba Everdene. And the bees
were of the swarm that traveled about with the Bee Man of Orn."
The two cages beyond both contained large apes.
"Our orang-outangs," remarked Mr. Gooch, "have decidedly bad
reputations. The one on the right committed the murders in the Rue
Morgue. The other is called Bimi--he belonged to a Frenchman named
Bertran. The next cage has a miscellaneous assortment of Bander Log.
Oh! here are some horses and cattle. The pony once belonged to Tom
Bailey. This donkey was one of those which used to annoy Miss Betsy
Trotwood. Priscilla Alden, on her wedding-day, rode on this white bull.
The stuffed donkey is the one whose dead body lay once in the pathway
of a traveler on a Sentimental Journey. And the other donkey was the
foster-mother of the Luck of Roaring Camp."
I pointed to some enormous and repulsive-looking crabs that were
crawling about on the sand at the edge of a tank, and asked what they
were. The librarian told me that they were from the subterranean river
over which Allan Quatermain and his friends traveled.
"But they," said Mr. Gooch, "are nothing to the fellow in the next
tank."
I looked where he indicated and saw the most hideous monster it has
ever been my bad luck to come across. It was a tremendous crab--the
creature of a nightmare.