Chapter 20

The gin gone, and Mr. Testator wondering what was to follow it, the visitor rose and said, with increased stiffness, "At what hour of the morning, sir, will it be convenient?" Mr. Testator hazarded, "At ten?" "Sir," said the visitor, "at ten to the moment, I shall be here." He then contemplated Mr. Testator somewhat at leisure, and said, "God bless you! How is your wife?" Mr. Testator (who never had a wife) replied with much feeling, "Deeply anxious, poor soul, but otherwise well." The visitor thereupon turned and went away, and fell twice in going downstairs. From that hour he was never heard of. Whether he was a ghost, or a spectral illusion of conscience, or a drunken man, who had no business there, or the drunken rightful owner of the furniture, with a transitory gleam of memory; whether he got safe home, or had no home to get to; whether he died of liquor on the way, or lived in liquor ever afterwards; he never was heard of more.

A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH [Sidenote: _Mark Twain_]

Distressing Accident.--Last evening, about six o'clock, as Mr. William Schuyler, an old and respectable citizen of South Park, was leaving his residence to go down town, as has been his usual custom for many years, with the exception only of a short interval in the spring of 1850, during which he was confined to his bed by injuries received in attempting to stop a runaway horse by thoughtlessly placing himself directly in its wake and throwing up his hands and shouting, which if he had done so even a single moment sooner, must inevitably have frightened the animal still more instead of checking its speed, although disastrous enough to himself as it was, and rendered more melancholy and distressing by reason of the presence of his wife's mother, who was there and saw the sad occurrence, notwithstanding it is at least likely, though not necessarily so, that she should be reconnoitring in another direction when incidents occur, not being vivacious and on the look out, as a general thing, but even the reverse, as her own mother is said to have stated, who is no more, being a Christian woman and without guile, as it were, or property, in consequence of the fire of 1849, which destroyed every single thing she had in the world. But such is life. Let us all take warning by this solemn occurrence, and let us endeavour so to conduct ourselves that when we come to die we can do it. Let us place our hands upon our hearts, and say with earnestness and sincerity that, from this day forth, we will beware of the intoxicating bowl.

"FOREVER" [Sidenote: _Calverley_]

Forever; 'tis a single word! Our rude forefathers deem'd it two: Can you imagine so absurd A view?

Forever! What abysms of woe The word reveals, what frenzy, what Despair! For ever (printed so) Did not.

It looks, ah me! how trite and tame! It fails to sadden or appal Or solace--it is not the same At all.

O thou to whom it first occurr'd To solder the disjoin'd, and dower Thy native language with a word Of power:

We bless thee! Whether far or near Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair Thy kingly brow, is neither here Nor there.

But in men's hearts shall be thy throne While the great pulse of England beats, Thou coiner of a word unknown To Keats!

And nevermore must printer do As men did long ago; but run "For" into "ever," bidding two Be one.

Forever! passion-fraught, it throws O'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour It's sweet, it's strange; and I suppose It's grammar.

Forever! 'Tis a single word! And yet our fathers deem'd it two: Nor am I confident they err'd; Are you?

OPEN AIR [Sidenote: _Thoreau_]

My spirits infallibly rise in proportion to the outward dreariness. Give me the ocean, the desert or the wilderness! In the desert, pure air and solitude compensate for want of moisture and fertility. The traveller Burton says of it: "Your _morale_ improves; you become frank and cordial, hospitable and single-minded.... In the desert, spirituous liquors excite only disgust. There is a keen enjoyment in a mere animal existence." They who have been travelling long on the steppes of Tartary say: "On re-entering cultivated lands, the agitation, perplexity, and turmoil of civilisation oppressed and suffocated us; the air seemed to fail us, and we felt every moment as if about to die of asphyxia." When I would recreate myself, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most interminable, and, to the citizen, most dismal swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred place--a _sanctum sanctorum_. There is the strength, the marrow of Nature. The wild-wood covers the virgin mould--and the same soil is good for men and for trees. A man's health requires as many acres of meadow to his prospect as his farm does loads of muck. There are the strong meats on which he feeds. A town is saved, not more by the righteous men in it than by the woods and swamps that surround it. A township where one primitive forest waves above while another primitive forest rots below--such a town is fitted to raise not only corn and potatoes, but poets and philosophers for the coming ages. In such a soil grew Homer and Confucius and the rest, and out of such a wilderness comes the Reformer eating locusts and wild honey.

"MARY POWELL" [Sidenote: _Anonymous_]

_Journall_

Forest Hill, _May 1st, 1643_.

Seventeenth Birthday. A gypsie Woman at the Gate would fame have tolde my Fortune; but _Mother_ chased her away, saying she had doubtless harboured in some of the low Houses in _Oxford_, and mighte bring us the Plague. Coulde have cried for Vexation; she had promised to tell me the Colour of my Husband's Eyes; but _Mother_ says she believes I shall never have one, I am soe sillie. _Father_ gave me a gold Piece. Dear _Mother_ is chafed, methinks, touching this Debt of five hundred Pounds, which _Father_ says he knows not how to pay. Indeed, he sayd, overnighte, his whole personal Estate amounts to but five hundred Pounds, his Timber and Wood to four hundred more, or thereabouts; and the Tithes and Messuages of _Whateley_ are no great Matter, being mortgaged for about as much more, and he hath lent Sights of Money to them that won't pay, so 'tis hard to be thus prest. Poor _Father!_ 'twas good of him to give me this gold Piece.

May 2nd.--Cousin _Rose_ married to Master _Roger Agnew_. Present, _Father, Mother,_ and _Brother_ of _Rose_; _Father, Mother, Dick, Bob, Harry_, and I; Squire _Paice_ and his Daughter _Audrey_; an olde Aunt of Master _Roger's_, and one of his Cousins, a stiffe-backed Man with large Eares, and such a long Nose! Cousin _Rose_ looked bewtifulle--pitie so faire a Girl should marry so olde a Man--'tis thoughte he wants not manie Years of fifty.

May 7th.--New misfortunes in the Poultrie Yarde. Poor _Mother's_ Loyalty cannot stand the Demands for her best Chickens, Ducklings, &c, for the Use of his Majesty's Officers since the King hath beene in _Oxford_. She accuseth my _Father_ of having beene wonne over by a few faire Speeches to be more of a Royalist than his natural Temper inclineth him to; which, of course, he will not admit.

May 8th.--Whole Day taken up in a Visit to _Rose_, now a Week married, and growne quite matronlie already. We reached _Sheepscote_ about an Hour before Noone. A long, broade, strait Walke of green Turf, planted with Holly-oaks, Sunflowers, &c, and some earlier flowers alreadie in Bloom, led up to the rusticall Porch of a truly farm-like House, with low gable Roofs, a long lattice Window on either Side the Doore, and three Casements above. Such, and no more, is _Rose's_ House! But she is happy, for she came running forthe, soe soone as she hearde _Clover's_ Feet, and helped me from my Saddle all smiling, tho' she had not expected to see us. We had Curds and Creams; and she wished it were the Time of Strawberries, for she sayd they had large Beds; and then my _Father_ and the Boys went forthe to looke for Master _Agnew_. Then _Rose_ took me up to her Chamber, singing as she went; and the long, low Room was sweet with flowers. Sayd I, "_Rose_, to be Mistress of this pretty Cottage, t'were hardlie amisse to marry a man as old as Master _Roger_." "Olde!" quoth she, "deare _Moll_, you must not deeme him olde; why, he is but forty-two; and am not I twenty-three?" She lookt soe earneste and hurte, that I coulde not but falle a laughing.

May 9th.--_Mother_ gone to _Sandford_. She hopes to get Uncle _John_ to lend _Father_ this Money. _Father_ says she may _try_. 'Tis harde to discourage her with an ironicalle Smile, when she is doing all she can, and more than manie Women woulde, to help _Father_ in his Difficultie; but suche, she sayth somewhat bitterlie, is the lot of our Sex. She bade _Father_ mind that she had brought him three thousand Pounds, and askt what had come of them. Answered; helped to fille the Mouths of nine healthy Children, and stop the Mouth of an easie Husband; soe, with a Kiss, made it up. I have the Keys, and am left Mistress of alle, to my greate Contentment; but the Children clamour for Sweetmeats, and _Father_ sayth, "Remember, _Moll_, Discretion is the better Part of Valour."

After _Mother_ had left, went into the Paddock, to feed the Colts with Bread; and while they were putting their Noses into _Robin's_ Pockets, _Dick_ brought out the two Ponies, and set me on one of them, and we had a mad Scamper through the Meadows and down the Lanes; I leading. Just at the Turne of _Holford's Close_, came shorte upon a Gentleman walking under the Hedge, clad in a sober, genteel Suit, and of most beautifulle Countenance, with Hair like a Woman's, of a lovely pale brown, long and silky, falling over his Shoulders. I nearlie went over him, for _Clover's_ hard Forehead knocked against his Chest; but he stoode it like a Rock; and lookinge first at me and then at _Dick_, he smiled and spoke to my Brother, who seemed to know him, and turned about and walked by us, sometimes stroking _Clover's_ shaggy Mane. I felte a little ashamed; for _Dick_ had sett me on the Poney just as I was, my Gown somewhat too shorte for riding: however, I drewe up my Feet and let _Clover_ nibble a little Grasse, and then got rounde to the neare Side, our new Companion stille between us. He offered me some wild Flowers, and askt me theire Names; and when I tolde them, he sayd I knew more than he did, though he accounted himselfe a prettie fayre Botaniste: and we went on thus, talking of the Herbs and Simples in the Hedges; and I sayd how prettie some of theire Names were, and that, methought, though Adam had named alle the Animals in Paradise, perhaps Eve had named all the Flowers. He lookt earnestlie at me, on this and muttered "Prettie." Then _Dick_ askt of him News from _London_, and he spoke, methought, reservedlie; ever and anon turning his bright, thoughtfulle Eyes on me. At length, we parted at the Turn of the Lane.

I askt _Dick_ who he was, and he told me he was one Mr. _John Milton_.

A SONNET [Sidenote: _J.K. Stephen_]

Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep: And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst: At other times--good Lord! I'd rather be Quite unacquainted with the A.B.C. Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

EPIGRAMS [Sidenote: _Matthew Prior_]

To John I ow'd great obligation; But John, unhappily, thought fit To publish it to all the nation: Sure John and I are more than quit.

Yes, every poet is a fool: By demonstration Ned can show it: Happy, could Ned's inverted rule Prove every fool to be a poet.

DR. JOHNSON AT COURT [Sidenote: _Boswell_]

In February, 1767, there happened one of the most remarkable incidents of Johnson's life, which gratified his monarchical enthusiasm, and which he loved to relate with all its circumstances, when requested by his friends. This was his being honoured by a private conversation with his Majesty, in the library at the Queen's House. He had frequently visited those splendid rooms, and noble collection of books, which he used to say was more numerous and curious than he supposed any person could have made in the time which the King had employed. Mr. Barnard, the librarian, took care that he should have every accommodation that could contribute to his ease and convenience, while indulging his literary taste in that place--so that he had here a very agreeable resource at leisure hours.

His Majesty having been informed of his occasional visits, was pleased to signify a desire that he should be told when Dr. Johnson came next to the library. Accordingly, the next time that Johnson did come, as soon as he was fairly engaged with a book, on which, while he sat by the fire, he seemed quite intent, Mr. Barnard stole round to the apartment where the King was, and, in obedience to his Majesty's commands, mentioned that Dr. Johnson was then in the library. His Majesty said that he was at leisure, and would go to him: upon which Mr. Barnard took one of the candles that stood on the King's table, and lighted his Majesty through a suite of rooms, till they came to a private door into the library, of which his Majesty had the key. Being entered, Mr. Barnard stepped forward hastily to Dr. Johnson, who was still in a profound study, and whispered him, "Sir, here is the King." Johnson started up, and stood still. His Majesty approached him, and at once was courteously easy.

His Majesty began by observing that he understood he came sometimes to the library: and then mentioned his having heard that the Doctor had been lately at Oxford, asked him if he was not fond of going thither. To which Johnson answered, that he was indeed fond of going to Oxford sometimes, but was likewise glad to come back again. The King then asked him what they were doing at Oxford. Johnson answered, he could not much commend their diligence, but that in some respects they were mended, for they had put their press under better regulations, and were at that time printing Polybius. He was then asked whether there were better libraries at Oxford or Cambridge. He answered, he believed the Bodleian was larger than any they had at Cambridge; at the same time adding, "I hope, whether we have more books or not than they have at Cambridge, we shall make as good use of them as they do." Being asked whether All-Souls or Christ Church library was the largest he answered, "All-Souls library is the largest we have, except the Bodleian." "Aye," said the King, "that is the public library."

His Majesty inquired if he was then writing anything. He answered he was not, for he had pretty well told the world what he knew, and must now read to acquire more knowledge. The king, as it should seem with a view to urge him to rely on his own stores as an original writer, and to continue his labours, then said, "I do not think you borrow much from anybody." Johnson said he thought he had already done his part as a writer. "I should have thought so too," said the king, "if you had not written so well." Johnson observed to me, upon this, that "no man could have paid a handsomer compliment; and it was fit for a king to pay. It was decisive." When asked by another friend, at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, whether he made any reply to this high compliment, he answered, "No, sir. When the King had said it, it was to be so. It was not for me to bandy civilities with my sovereign." Perhaps no man who had spent his whole life in courts could have shown a more nice and dignified sense of true politeness than Johnson did in this instance....

During the whole of this interview, Johnson talked to his Majesty with profound respect, but still in his firm, manly manner, with a sonorous voice, and never in that subdued tone which is commonly used at the levee and in the drawing-room. After the king withdrew, Johnson showed himself highly pleased with his Majesty's conversation and gracious behaviour. He said to Mr. Barnard, "Sir, they may talk of the king as they will; but he is the finest gentleman I have ever seen." And he afterwards observed to Mr. Langton, "Sir, his manners are those of as fine a gentleman as we may suppose Louis the Fourteenth or Charles the Second."

At Sir Joshua Reynolds's, where a circle of Johnson's friends was collected round him to hear his account of this memorable conversation, Dr. Joseph Warton, in his frank and lively manner, was very active in pressing him to mention the particulars. "Come now, sir, this is an interesting matter; do favour us with it." Johnson, with great good humour, complied.

He told them, "I found his Majesty wished I should talk, and I made it my business to talk. I find it does a man good to be talked to by his sovereign. In the first place, a man cannot be in a passion--" Here some question interrupted him, which is to be regretted, as he certainly would have pointed out and illustrated many circumstances of advantage, from being in a situation where the powers of the mind are at once excited to vigorous exertion and tempered by reverential awe.

LANDORISMS [Sidenote: _Landor_]

From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass Like little ripples down a sunny river; Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.

* * * * *

Metellus is a lover: one whose ear (I have been told) is duller than his sight. The day of his departure had drawn near; And (meeting her beloved over-night) Softly and tenderly Corinna sigh'd: "Won't you be quite as happy now without me?" Metellus, in his innocence replied, "Corinna! O Corinna! can you doubt me?"

* * * * *

One leg across his wide arm-chair, Sat Singleton, and read Voltaire; And when (as well he might) he hit Upon a splendid piece of wit, He cried: "I do declare now, this Upon the whole is not amiss." And spent a good half-hour to show By metaphysics why 'twas so.

* * * * *

"Why do I smile?" To hear you say, "One month, and then the shortest day!" The shortest, whate'er month it be, Is the bright day you pass with me.

* * * * *

Each year bears something from us as it flies, We only blow it farther with our sighs.

WIT AND LAUGHTER [Sidenote: _Hazlitt_]

There is nothing more ridiculous than laughter without a cause, nor anything more troublesome than what are called laughing people. A professed laugher is as contemptible and tiresome a character as a professed wit: the one is always contriving something to laugh at, the other is always laughing at nothing. An excess of levity is as impertinent as an excess of gravity. A character of this sort is well personified by Spenser, in the "Damsel of the Idle Lake":

Who did assay To laugh at shaking of the leavès light.

Any one must be mainly ignorant, or thoughtless, who is surprised at everything he sees; or wonderfully conceited, who expects everything to conform to his standard of propriety. Clowns and idiots laugh on all occasions; and the common failing of wishing to be thought satirical often runs through whole families in country places, to the great annoyance of their neighbours. To be struck with incongruity in whatever comes before us does not argue great comprehension or refinement of perception, but rather a looseness and flippancy of mind and temper, which prevents the individual from connecting any two ideas steadily or consistently together. It is owing to a natural crudity and precipitateness of the imagination, which assimilates nothing properly to itself. People who are always laughing, at length laugh on the wrong side of their faces; for they cannot get others to laugh with them. In like manner, an affectation of wit by degrees hardens the heart, and spoils good company and good manners. A perpetual succession of good things puts an end to common conversation. There is no answer to a jest, but another; and even where the ball can be kept up in this way without ceasing, it tires the patience of the bystanders, and runs the speakers out of breath. Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food.

LOVE IN WINTER [Sidenote: _Austin Dobson_]

Between the berried holly-bush The blackbird whistled to the thrush: "Which way did bright-eyed Bella go? Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,-- Are those her dainty tracks I see, That wind beside the shrubbery?"

The throstle pecked the berries still. "No need for looking, Yellowbill; Young Frank was there an hour ago, Half frozen, waiting in the snow; His callow beard was white with rime,-- 'Tchuck,--'tis a merry pairing-time!"

"What would you?" twittered in the wren; "These are the reckless ways of men. I watched them bill and coo as though They thought the sign of spring was snow; If men but timed their loves as we, 'Twould save this inconsistency."

"Nay, gossip," chirped the robin, "nay; I like their unreflective way. Besides, I heard enough to show Their love is proof against the snow:-- 'Why wait,' he said, 'why wait for May, When love can warm a winter's day?'"

MENTAL PHOTOGRAPHS [Sidenote: _Mark Twain_]

I have received from the publishers, New York, a neatly-printed page of questions, with blanks for answers, and am requested to fill those blanks. These questions are so arranged as to ferret out the most secret points of a man's nature without his ever noticing what the idea is until it is all done, and his "character" gone for ever. A number of these sheets are bound together and called a Mental Photograph Album. Nothing could induce me to fill those blanks but the asseveration of my pastor, that it will benefit my race by enabling young people to see what I am, and giving them an opportunity to become like somebody else. This overcomes my scruples. I have but little character, but what I have I am willing to part with for the public good. I do not boast of this character, further than that I built it up by myself, at odd hours, during the last thirty years, and without other educational aid than I was able to pick up in the ordinary schools and colleges. I have filled the blanks as follows:

What is your favourite...

Colour?--Anything but dun.

Tree?--Any that bears forbidden fruit.

Hour in the Day?--The leisure hour.

Perfume?--Cent, per cent.

Style of Beauty?--The Subscriber's.

Names, Male and Female?--_M'aimez_ (Maimie) for a female, and Tacus and Marius for males.

Painters?--Sign-painters.

Poet?--Robert Browning, when he has a lucid interval.

Poetess?--Timothy Titcomb.

Prose Author?--Noah Webster, LL.D.

Characters in Romance?--The Napoleon Family.

In History?--King Herod.

Book to take up for an hour?--Rothschild's pocket-book.

If not yourself, who would you rather be?--The Wandering Jew, with a nice annuity.

What is your idea of happiness?--Finding the buttons all on.

Your idea of Misery?--Breaking an egg in your pocket.

What is your _bête noire_?--(What is my which?)

What do you most dread?--Exposure.

What do you believe to be your Distinguishing Characteristic?--Hunger.

What is the Sublimest Passion of which human nature is capable?--Loving your sweetheart's enemies.

What are the Sweetest Words in the world?--"Not Guilty."

What is your Aim in Life?--To endeavour to be absent when my time comes.

What is your Motto?--Be virtuous, and you will be eccentric.

ANGLING CHEER [Sidenote: _Izaak Walton_]