LANTERNS
I may be mistaken, but my impression is that "The Light of the
World," by Holman Hunt, is the only celebrated picture in the world
of which there are two originals. One of these may be seen at Oxford
and the other in St. Paul's, London. Neither is a copy of the other,
and yet they are both alike, so far as one may judge without having
them side by side. The picture represents Christ standing at a door
knocking, with a lantern in one hand from which light is streaming.
When I think of a lantern the mind instantly flashes to this picture,
to Diogenes and his lantern, and to the old tin lantern with its
perforated cylinder which I used to carry out to the barn to arrange
the bed-chambers for the horses. All my life have I been hearing
folks speak of the association of ideas as if one idea could conjure
up innumerable others. The lantern that I carried to the barn never
could have been associated with Diogenes if I had not read of the
philosopher, nor with the picture at Oxford if I had never seen or
heard of it. In order that we have association of ideas, we must
first have the ideas, according to my way of thinking.
Thus it chanced that when I came upon some reference to Holman Hunt
and his great masterpiece, my mind glanced over to the cynical
philosopher and his lantern. The more I ponder over that lantern the
more puzzled I become as to its real significance. The popular
notion is that it is meant to show how difficult it was in his day to
find an honest man. But popular conceptions are sometimes
superficial ones, and if Diogenes was the philosopher we take him to
have been there must have been more to that lantern than the mere
eccentricity of the man who carried it. If we could go back of the
lantern we might find the cynic's definition of honesty, and that
would be worth knowing. Back home we used to say that an honest man
is one who pays his debts and has due respect for property rights.
Perhaps Diogenes had gone more deeply into the matter of paying debts
as a mark of honesty than those who go no further in their thinking
than the grocer, the butcher, and the tax-man.
This all tends to set me thinking of my own debts and the possibility
of full payment. I'm just a schoolmaster and people rather expect me
to be somewhat visionary or even fantastic in my notions. But, with
due allowance for my vagaries, I cannot rid myself of the feeling
that I am deeply in debt to somebody for the Venus de Milo. She has
the reputation of being the very acme of sculpture, and certainly the
Parisians so regard her or they would not pay her such a high tribute
in the way of space and position. She is the focus of that whole
wonderful gallery. No one has ever had the boldness to give her a
place in the market quotations, but I can regale myself with her
beauty for a mere pittance. This pittance does not at all cancel my
indebtedness, and I come away feeling that I still owe something to
somebody, without in the least knowing who it is or how I am to pay.
I can't even have the poor satisfaction of making proper
acknowledgment to the sculptor.
I can acknowledge my obligation to Michael Angelo for the Sistine
ceiling, but that doesn't cancel my indebtedness by any means. It
took me fifteen years to find the Cumaean Sibyl. I had seen a
reproduction of this lady in some book, and had become much
interested in her generous physique, her brawny arms, her
wide-spreading toes, and her look of concentration as she delves into
the mysteries of the massive volume before her. Naturally I became
curious as to the original, and wondered if I should ever meet her
face to face. Then one day I was lying on my back on a wooden bench
in the Sistine Chapel, having duly apologized for my violation of the
conventions, when, wonder of wonders, there was the Cumaean Sibyl in
full glory right before my eyes, and the quest of all those years was
ended in triumph. True, the Sibyl does not compare in greatness with
the "Creation of Adam" in one of the central panels, but for all that
I was glad to have her definitely localized.
I have never got it clearly figured out just how the letters of the
alphabet were evolved, nor who did the work, but I go right on using
them as if I had evolved them myself. They seem to be my own
personal property, and I jostle them about quite careless of the fact
that some one gave them to me. I can't see how I could get on
without them, and yet I have never admitted any obligation to their
author. The same is true of the digits. I make constant use of
them, and sometimes even abuse them, as if I had a clear title to
them. I have often wondered who worked out the table of logarithms,
and have thought how much more agreeable life has been for many
people because of his work. I know my own debt to him is large, and
I dare say many others have a like feeling. Even the eighth-grade
boys in the Castle Road school, London, share this feeling,
doubtless, for in a test in arithmetic that I saw there I noted that
in four of the twelve problems set for solution they had permission
to use their table of logarithms. They probably got home earlier for
supper by their use of this table.
I hereby make my humble apologies to Mr. Thomas A. Edison for my
thoughtlessness in not writing to him before this to thank him for
his many acts of kindness to me. I have been exceedingly careless in
the matter. I owe him for the comfort and convenience of this
beautiful electric light, and yet have never mentioned the matter to
him. He has a right to think me an ingrate. I have been so busy
enjoying the gifts he has sent me that I have been negligent of the
giver. As I think of all my debts to scientists, inventors, artists,
poets, and statesmen, and consider how impossible it is for me to pay
all my debts to all these, try as I may, I begin to see how difficult
it was for Diogenes to find a man who paid all his debts in full.
Hence, the lantern.
It seems to me that, of the varieties of late potatoes the Carmen is
the premier. Part of the charm of hoeing potatoes lies in
anticipating the joys of the potato properly baked. Charles Lamb may
write of his roast pig, and the epicures among the ancients may
expatiate upon the glories of a dish of peacock's tongues and their
other rare and costly edibles, but they probably never knew to what
heights one may ascend in the scale of gastronomic joys in the
immediate presence of a baked Carmen. When it is broken open the
steam ascends like incense from an altar, while at the magic touch
the snowy, flaky substance billows forth upon the plate in a drift
that would inspire the pen of a poet. The further preliminaries
amount to a ceremony. There can be, there must be no haste. The
whole summer lies back of this moment. There on the plate are weeks
of golden sunshine, interwoven with the singing of birds and the
fragrance of flowers; and it were sacrilege to become hurried at the
consummation. When the meat has been made fine the salt and pepper
are applied, deliberately, daintily, and then comes the butter, like
the golden glow of sunset upon a bank of flaky clouds. The artist
tries in vain to rival this blending of colors and shades. But the
supreme moment and the climax come when the feast is glorified and
set apart by its baptism of cream. At such a moment the sense of my
indebtedness to the man who developed the Carmen becomes most acute.
If the leaders of contending armies could sit together at this table
and join in this gracious ceremony, their rancor and enmity would
cease, the protocol would be signed, and there would ensue a
proclamation of peace. Then the whole world would recognize its debt
to the man who produced this potato.
Having eaten the peace-producing potato, I feel strengthened to make
another trial at an interpretation of that lantern. I do not know
whether Diogenes had any acquaintance with the Decalogue, but have my
doubts. In fact, history gives us too few data concerning his
attainments for a clear exposition of his character. But one may
hazard a guess that he was looking for a man who would not steal, but
could not find him. In a sense that was a high compliment to the
people of his day, for there is a sort of stealing that takes rank
among the fine arts. In fact, stealing is the greatest subject that
is taught in the school. I cannot recall a teacher who did not
encourage me to strive for mastery in this art. Every one of them
applauded my every success in this line. One of my early triumphs
was reciting "Horatius at the Bridge," and my teacher almost
smothered me with praise. I simply took what Macaulay had written
and made it my own. I had some difficulty in making off with the
conjugation of the Greek verb, but the more I took of it the more my
teacher seemed pleased. All along the line I have been encouraged to
appropriate what others have produced and to take joy in my
pilfering. Mr. Carnegie has lent his sanction to this sort of thing
by fostering libraries. Shakespeare was arrested for stealing a
deer, but extolled for stealing the plots of "Romeo and Juliet,"
"Comedy of Errors," and others of his plays. It seems quite all
right to steal ideas, or even thoughts, and this may account again
for the old man's lantern. But, even so, it would seem quite
iconoclastic to say that education is the process of reminding people
of their debts and of training them to steal.