Part 14

_P._ Gently, Diogenes. Anger not thy mind with quick speech that is void of wisdom. Let us inquire into this matter with the calmness and deliberation befitting the dignity of philosophy. Is not pride self-respect, and is not self-respect an admirable virtue?

_D._ Nay, nay, Plato. Thou art surely in the wrong here. Pride is vanity, and it leadeth to contempt for the merits of thy fellows. Thus is aristocracy fostered.

_P._ If it were as you affirm, then would I quickly eschew pride. But I do not so hold, nor did Socrates. Methinks it were vanity, and not pride, thou wouldst condemn, Diogenes, and pride and vanity, I hold, are very different matters.

_D._ Thy reasons? Give me thy reasons for this opinion. I do maintain that pride is the root and substance of vanity.

_P._ Then thou dost surely not think wisely. To be proud is to esteem one’s self, while the vain man is anxious about the praise of the mob. Pride is self-reliant, confident, courageous. Vanity is fawning, anxious, and cowardly. And thou, too, art proud, Diogenes. Thy contempt for what thou callest my pride is the offspring of thy greater pride. Thou believest in the wisdom of Diogenes more than in that of Plato. Is not this thy pride?

_D._ But Plato lives in a palace and clothes his person with costly raiment. Diogenes despiseth costly raiment and lives in a tub.

_P._ Diogenes is therefore shown to be not only prouder than Plato, but vainer also.

_D._ Vain, dost thou say, Plato? Art in thy right mind to call Diogenes vain?

_P._ I call thee vain, Diogenes, and if thou but hear me I will prove it. Thou art vain of thy fame, for thou art famous for thy humility. Thou art proud of thy wisdom, also, Diogenes, and vain of thy learning. Thou thinkest that thou art wiser than Plato, else thou wouldst become his disciple; and richer than Alexander, else thou wouldst not scorn his gifts. ’Tis Diogenes who is the aristocrat. He thinks himself better than others, and is therefore above his fellows.

_D._ Hold thee there, Plato. Thou surely doest me wrong. Do I not live like a peasant, and scorn only the rich and they that are in high places; and is that pride?

_P._ Thou dost indeed wear the garb of a peasant, but thou also carriest a lantern to search for an honest man, boldly proclaiming that until such a man is found thou wilt live alone. Is not this virtuous aristocracy? Fie on thy democracy, Diogenes! By thine own argument thou art a greater aristocrat than Plato. But learn this, and add it to thy stock of wisdom: True pride is consistent with philosophy, and philosophy is the foe of vanity.

LORNA DOONE.

R. D. BLACKMORE.

Place, London; time, about 1680; reign of James II.

Characters:

JOHN RIDD, a countryman. Judge GEORGE JEFFREYS, Lord Chief Justice of England.

_J. R._ May it please your worship, here I am, according to order, awaiting your good pleasure.

_J. J._ Thou art made to weight, John, more than order. How much dost thou tip the scales to?

_J. R._ Only twelve score pounds, my lord, when I be in wrestling trim. And sure I must have lost weight here, fretting so long in London.

_J. J._ Ha, much fret there is in thee! Has his Majesty seen thee?

_J. R._ Yes, my lord, twice, or even thrice, and he made some jest concerning me.

_J. J._ A very poor one, I doubt not. Now, is there in thy neighborhood at Exmoor a certain nest of robbers, miscreants, and outlaws, whom all men fear to handle?

_J. R._ Yes, my lord; at least I believe some of them be robbers; and all of them are outlaws.

_J. J._ And what is your high-sheriff about that he doth not hang them all? Or send them up for me to hang, without more to do about it?

_J. R._ I reckon that he is afraid, my lord. It is not safe to meddle with them. They are of good birth, and reckless, and their place is very strong.

_J. J._ Good birth! What was Lord Russell of, Lord Essex, and Sidney? ’Tis the surest heirship to the block to be the chip of an old one. What is the name of this pestilent race, and how many of them are there?

_J. R._ They are the Doones of Bagworthy Forest, may it please your worship. And we reckon there be about forty of them, besides the women and children.

_J. J._ Forty Doones all forty thieves! How long have they been there, then?

_J. R._ Before the great war they came, longer back than I can remember.

_J. J._ Ay, long before thou wast born, John. Good, thou speakest plainly. Woe betide a liar, whenso I get hold of him. Ye need me on the Western Circuit, and ye shall have me when London traitors are hung and swung. Now, a few more things, John Ridd, and, for the present, I have done with thee. Is there any sound, round your way of disaffection to his most gracious Majesty?

_J. R._ No, my lord; no sign whatever. We pray for him in church, and talk about him afterward, hoping it may do him good, as it is intended. But after that we have naught to say, not knowing much about him—at least till I get home again.

_J. J._ That is as it should be, John, and the less you say the better. Now, John, I have taken a liking to thee; for never man told me the truth, without fear or favor, more truly than thou hast done. I meant to use thee as my tool, but thou art too honest and simple; and never let me find thee, John, a tool for the other side, or a tube for my words to pass through.

THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT.

Characters:

AUNT TABITHA. LAURA.

_A. T._ Thy grandmother, child, thy grandmother used to play upon a much better instrument than thine.

_L._ Indeed; how could it have been better? You know a piano is the most fashionable instrument, and is used by everybody that is _anything_.

_A. T._ Thy grandmother was _something_, yet she never saw a piano-forte.

_L._ But what was the name of the instrument? Had it strings, and was it played by the hand?

_A. T._ You must give me time to recollect the name. It was, indeed, a stringed instrument, and was played with the hand.

_L._ By the hands alone? How vulgar! But I should really like to see one, and papa must buy me one when I return to the city. Do you think we can obtain one?

_A. T._ No; you probably will not obtain one there; but, doubtless, they may be found in some of the country towns.

_L._ How many strings had it? Must one play with both hands? And could one play the double-bass?

_A. T._ I know not whether it would play the double-bass, as you call it; but it was played with both hands, and had two strings.

_L._ Two strings only? Surely you are jesting! How could good music be procured from such an instrument, when the piano has two or three hundred?

_A. T._ Oh, the strings were very long, one of them about fourteen feet, and the other may be lengthened at pleasure, even to fifty feet or more.

_L._ What a prodigious deal of room it must take up! But no matter. I will have mine in the old hall, and papa may have an addition built to it, for he says I shall never want for anything, and so does mamma. But what kind of sound did it make? Were the strings struck with little mallets, like the piano? or were they snapped like a harp?

_A. T._ Like neither of those instruments, as I recollect; but it produced a soft kind of humming music, and was peculiarly agreeable to the husband and relations of the performer.

_L._ Oh, as to pleasing one’s husband or relations, you know that is altogether vulgar in fashionable society. But I am determined to have one, at any rate. Was it easily learned? and was it taught by French and Italian masters?

_A. T._ It was easily learned, but taught neither by Frenchmen nor Italians.

_L._ Can you not possibly remember the name? How shall we know what to inquire for?

_A. T._ Yes. I do now remember the name, and you must inquire for a Spinning-wheel.

PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE.

A STORY OF THE TRADES-UNIONS.

CHARLES READE.

Characters:

Mr. GROTAIT, Proprietor of The Cutlers’ Arms. HENRY LITTLE, Inventor, and Manufacturer of Cutlers’ Tools.

_Mr. G._ Well, Mr. Little, now, between ourselves, don’t you think it rather hard that the poor workman should have to hang and race the master’s grindstone for nothing?

_Mr. L._ Why, they share the loss between them. The stone costs the master three pounds, and hanging it only costs the workman four or five shillings. Where’s the grievance?

_Mr. G._ Hanging and racing a stone shortens the grinder’s life; fills his lungs with grit. Is the workman to give Life and Labor for a forenoon, and is Capital to contribute nothing? Is that your view of Life, Labor, and Capital, young man?

_Mr. L._ That is smart; but a rule of trade is a rule till it is altered by consent of the parties that made it. Now, right or wrong, it is the rule of trade here that the small grinders find their own stones and pay for power. Cheetham is smarting under your rules, and you can’t expect him to go against any rule that saves him a shilling.

_Mr. G._ What does this grinder—Cheetham—think?

_Mr. L._ You might as well ask what the grindstone thinks.

_Mr. G._ Well, what does the grinder _say_, then?

_Mr. L._ Says he’d rather run the old stone out than lose a forenoon.

_Mr. G._ Well, sir, it is his business.

_Mr. L._ It may be a man’s business to hang himself; but it is the bystanders’ to hinder him.

_Mr. G._ You mistake me. I mean that the grinder is the only man who knows whether a stone is safe.

_Mr. L._ But this grinder does not pretend his stone is safe; all he says is, safe or not, he’ll run it. So now the question is, will you pay four shillings yourself for this blockhead’s loss of time in hanging and racing a new stone? Your Union can find money. Why grudge it when there’s life to be saved, perhaps, and ten times cheaper than you pay for blood?

_Mr. G._ Young man, did you come here to insult us with these worn-out slanders?

_Mr. L._ No; but I came to see whether you secretaries, who can find pounds to assassinate men and blow up women and children with gunpowder, can find shillings to secure the life of one of your own members.

_Mr. G._ Well, sir, the application is without precedent, and I must decline it; but this I beg to do as courteously as the application has been made uncourteously.

_Mr. L._ Oh, it is easy to be polite when you’ve got no heart.

_Mr. G._ You are the first ever brought that charge against me. Now, have you nothing to say to us on your own account?

_Mr. L._ Not a word!

_Mr. G._ But suppose I could suggest a way by which you could carry on your trade here and offend nobody?

_Mr. L._ I should decline to hear it. You and I are at war on that. You have done your worst, and I shall do my best to make you all smart for it, the moment I get a chance.

_Mr. G._ So be it, then!

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.

JOHN BUNYAN.

Characters:

FAITHFUL, } TALKATIVE, } Pilgrims.

_Faith._ Friend, whither away? Are you going to the Heavenly Country?

_Talk._ I am going to the same place.

_F._ That is well. Then I hope we may have your good company.

_T._ With a very good will will I be your companion.

_F._ Come on then, and let us go together, and let us spend our time in discoursing of things that are profitable.

_T._ To talk of things that are good, to me is very acceptable, with you or with any other; for to speak the truth, there are but few who care thus to spend their time, but choose much rather to be speaking of things to no profit, and this hath been a trouble to me.

_F._ That is indeed a thing to be lamented; for what things so worthy of the use of the tongue and mouth of men on earth as are the things of the God of Heaven?

_T._ I like you wonderful well, for your saying is full of conviction. What things so pleasant?—that is, if a man hath any delight in things that are wonderful. If, for instance, a man doth delight to talk of the History or the Mystery of things.

_F._ That’s true; but to be profited by such things in our talk, should be that which we design.

_T._ That’s it that I said. Further, by this a man may learn to refute false opinions, to vindicate the truth, and also to instruct the ignorant.

_F._ All this is true, and glad am I to hear these things from you. Well then, what is that one thing that we shall at this time found our discourse upon?

_T._ What you will. I will talk of things Heavenly, or things Earthly; things Moral, or things Evangelical; things Sacred, or things Profane; things past, or things to come; things foreign, or things at home; things more Essential, or things Circumstantial; provided that all be done to our profit.

_F._ Doth your life and conversation testify to Faith, Love, and Grace? or standeth your Religion in Word or in Tongue, and not in Deed and Truth? Pray if you incline to answer me in this, say no more than you know the God above will say _Amen_ to; and also nothing but what your conscience can justify you in.

_T._ This kind of talk I did not expect; nor am I inclined to give an answer to such questions, because I count not myself bound thereto, unless you take upon you to be a Catechizer; and though you should do so, yet I may refuse to make you my Judge. But, I pray, will you tell me why you ask me such questions?

_F._ Because I saw you forward to talk, and because I knew that you had naught else but notion.

_T._ Since you judge so rashly as you do, I cannot but conclude you are some peevish or melancholy man, not fit to be discoursed with; and so adieu.

ALTON LOCKE, TAILOR AND POET.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Characters:

Mr. CROSSTHWAITE, Tailor. ALTON LOCKE, Tailor’s Apprentice.

Time, 1830.

_A. L._ Mr. Crossthwaite, I want to speak to you. I want you to advise me.

_Mr. C._ I have known that a long time.

_A. L._ Then why did you never say a kind word to me?

_Mr. C._ I was waiting to see whether you were worth it. Besides, I wanted to see whether you trusted me enough to ask me. Now you’ve broke the ice at last, in with you head and ears, and see what you can fish out.

_A. L._ I am very unhappy.

_Mr. C._ That’s no new disorder, as I know of.

_A. L._ No; but I think the reason I am unhappy is a strange one; at least, I never read of but one person else in the same way. I want to educate myself and I can’t.

_Mr. C._ You must have read precious little, then, if you think yourself in a strange way. Bless the boy’s heart! And what the dickens do you want to be educating yourself for? If you had one-tenth the trouble taken with you that is taken with every pig-headed son of an aristocrat—

_A. L._ Am I clever?

_Mr. C._ Clever? What, haven’t you found that out yet? Don’t try to put that on me!

_A. L._ Really, I never thought of it.

_Mr. C._ More simpleton you! I heard said the other day that you were a thorough young genius.

_A. L._ It sounds very grand, and I should certainly like to have a good education. But I can’t see whose injustice keeps me out of one if I can’t afford to pay for it.

_Mr. C._ Whose? Why, the parsons’, to be sure. They’ve got the monopoly of education in England, and get their bread by it. Of course, it’s their interest to keep up the price of their commodity, and let no man have a taste of it who can’t pay down handsomely.

_A. L._ But I thought the clergy were doing so much to help the poor. At least, I hear all the dissenting ministers grumbling at their continual interference.

_Mr. C._ Ay, educating them to make them slaves and bigots. They don’t teach them what they teach their own sons.

_A. L._ But there are countless stories of great Englishmen who have risen from the lowest ranks.

_Mr. C._ Ay; but where are the stories of those who have not risen? Dead men tell no tales; and this old whited sepulcher, society, ain’t going to turn informer against itself.

_A. L._ I trust and hope that if God intends me to rise he will open the way for me. Perhaps the very struggles and sorrows of a poor genius may teach him more than ever wealth and prosperity could.

_Mr. C._ True, Alton, my boy, and that’s my only comfort. It does make men of us, this bitter battle of life. We workingmen, when we do come out of the furnace, come out steel and granite, and woe to the _papier-maché_ gentleman that runs against us!

METAPHYSICS.

Characters:

TWO STUDENTS.

_First._ Pray tell me something about Metaphysics, for I cannot for my life make anything out of it.

_Second._ Metaphysics is the science of abstractions.

_F._ I am no wiser for that definition.

_S._ Well, take for example this earth. Now the earth may exist.

_F._ Who ever doubted that?

_S._ A great many men, and some very learned ones; although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyond all possible gainsaying or denial that it does not exist.

_F._ That is a point of considerable consequence to settle.

_S._ Now the earth may exist, and—

_F._ But how is all this to be found out?

_S._ By digging down to first principles.

_F._ Ay, there is nothing equal to the spade and pickaxe; ’tis by digging that we can find out whether the world exists or not.

_S._ That is true, because if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find no foundation, then it is clear that the world stands upon nothing; or, in other words, that it does not stand at all, therefore it stands to reason—

_F._ But if one can’t believe his own eyes, what signifies talking about it?

_S._ Our eyes are nothing but the inlets of sensation; we are sure of nothing that we see with our eyes.

_F._ Well, what _does_ a man begin to build upon in the metaphysical way?

_S._ Why, he begins by taking something for granted.

_F._ But is that a sure way of going to work?

_S._ Why it’s—the—only thing he—can—do. Metaphysics is the consideration of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essence of things. When we speak of essence of things, we mean the essence of locality, the essence of duration—

_F._ And the essence of peppermint?

_S._ The essence I mean is quite a different affair. It is a thing that has no matter. It has no substance nor solidity, large nor small, hot nor cold, long nor short.

_F._ Then what is the long and short of it?

_S._ Abstraction.

_F._ What do you say to a pitchfork as an abstraction?

_S._ A pitchfork would mean none in particular, but one in general, and would be a thing in abstraction.

_F._ It would be a thing in the haymow. What do you think of a red cow for an example?

_S._ A red cow, considered as an abstraction, would be an animal possessing neither hides nor horns, bones nor flesh; it would have no color at all, for its redness would be the mere counterfeit or imagination of such. It would neither go to pasture, chew cud, give milk, nor do anything of a like nature.

_F._ Nonsense! All the metaphysics under the sun wouldn’t make a pound of butter!

WORK: A STORY OF EXPERIENCE.

LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

[By permission of Roberts Bros.]

Characters:

Mrs. BETSY DEVON, CHRISTIE DEVON, her niece.

_C. D._ Aunt Betsy, there’s going to be a new Declaration of Independence.

_Mrs. D._ Bless us and save us! what do you mean, child?

_C. D._ I mean that, being of age, I’m going to take care of myself, and not be a burden any longer. Uncle thinks I ought to go away. I don’t intend to wait for him to tell me so, but, like the people in fairy tales, travel away into the world and seek my fortune. I know I can find it.

_Mrs. D._ What crazy idee you got in your head now?

_C. D._ A very sane and sensible one, that’s got to be worked out. I’ve had it a long time, and I’ve thought it over thoroughly, so I’m sure it’s the right thing to do. I hate to be dependent, and, now there’s no need of it, I can’t bear it any longer. I’m old enough to take care of myself, and if I’d been a boy I should have been told to do it long ago. I’m sick of this dull town, where the one idea is, Eat, drink, and get rich; so let me go, Aunt Betsy, and find my place, wherever it is.

_Mrs. D._ You mustn’t think your uncle don’t like you. He does, only he don’t show it. I don’t see why you can’t be contented. I’ve lived here all my days, and never found the place lonesome.

_C. D._ You and I are very different, ma’am. There was more yeast put into my composition, I guess; and after standing quiet in a warm corner so long, I begin to ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time so that I may turn out a wholesome loaf, else I shall turn sour and good for nothing. Does that make the matter any clearer?

_Mrs. D._ I see what you mean, Christie, but I never thought on’t before. You be better riz than me; though, let me tell you, too much emptins makes bread poor stuff, like baker’s trash; and too much workin’ up makes it hard and dry. Now fly round, for the big oven is ’most hot, and this cake takes a sight of time in the mixin’.

_C. D._ You haven’t said I might go, Aunt Betsy.

_Mrs. D._ (_Sorting ingredients and reading from cookbook_). I ain’t no right to keep you, dear, if you choose to take (a pinch of salt). I’m sorry you ain’t happy, and think you might be ef you’d only (beat six yolks and whites together). But if you can’t, and feel that you need (two cups of sugar) only speak to your uncle, and ef he says (a squeeze of fresh lemon) go, my dear, and take my blessin’ with you (not forgetting to cover with a piece of paper).

_C. D._ When I’ve done something to be proud of, you’ll be glad to see me back again. Yes, I’ll try my experiment; get rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be a Mrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or—

_Mrs. D._ How are you on’t for stockin’s, dear?

_C. D._ Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when I was soaring away too far and too fast. I’m poorly off for stockings, ma’am.

_Mrs. D._ Don’t you think you could be contented, Christie, ef I make the work lighter, and leave you more time for your books and things?

_C. D._ No, ma’am, for I can’t find what I want here.

_Mrs. D._ What _do_ you want to find, child?

_C. D._ Look in the fire and I’ll try to show you. Do you see those two logs? Well, that one smoldering dismally away in the corner is what my life is now; the other, blazing and singing, is what I want my life to be.

_Mrs. D._ Bless me, what an idee! They are both a burnin’ where they are put, and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference _does_ it make?

_C. D._ I know the end is the same; but it _does_ make a difference _how_ they turn to ashes, and _how_ I spend my life. I hope my life, like the log which fills the room with light, may, whether long or short, be useful and cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when it ends, and leave something behind besides ashes.

_Mrs. D._ A good smart blowin’ up with the belluses would make the green stick burn ’most as well as the dry one after a spell. I guess contentedness is the best bellus for young folks ef they would only think so.

_C. D._ I dare say you are right, Aunt Betsy, but I want to try for myself. If I fail, I’ll come back and follow your advice.

NINETY-THREE.

Scene: A café in Paris. Time: June 28, 1793.

Characters:

ROBESPIERRE. DANTON. MARAT.

_Danton._ Listen! There is only one thing imminent—the peril of the Republic. I only know one thing—to deliver France from the enemy. To accomplish that all means are fair. Let us be terrible and useful. Does the elephant stop to look where he sets his foot? We must crush the enemy.

_Robespierre._ I shall be very glad. The question is to know where the enemy is.

_Danton._ It is outside, and I have chased it there.

_Rob._ It is within, and I watch it.

_Marat._ Calm yourselves. It is everywhere, and you are lost.

_Rob._ A truce to generalities. I particularize. Here are facts. In fifteen days they will have an army of brigands numbering three hundred thousand men, and all Brittany will belong to the King of France.

_Marat._ That is to say, to the King of England.

_Rob._ No, to the King of France. It needs fifteen days to expel the stranger, and eighteen hundred years to eliminate monarchy.

_Danton._ Very well, we will expel the English as we expelled the Prussians.

_Rob._ Sit down again, Danton, and look at the map, instead of knocking it with your fist.