Literary Lapses (12 page)

 

REFLECTIONS ON RIDING

T
he writing of this paper has been inspired by a debate recently held at the literary society of my native town on the question, “Resolved: that the bicycle is a nobler animal than the horse.” In order to speak for the negative with proper authority, I have spent some weeks in completely addicting myself to the use of the horse. I find that the difference between the horse and the bicycle is greater than I had supposed.

The horse is entirely covered with hair; the bicycle is not entirely covered with hair, except the '89 model they are using in Idaho.

In riding a horse the performer finds that the pedals in which he puts his feet will not allow of a good circular stroke. He will observe, however, that there is a saddle in which–especially while the horse is trotting–he is expected to seat himself from time to time. But it is simpler to ride standing up, with the feet in the pedals.

There are no handles to a horse, but the
1910
model has a string to each side of its face for turning its head when there is anything you want it to see.

Coasting on a good horse is superb, but should be under control. I have known a horse to suddenly begin to coast with me about two miles from home, coast down the main street of my native town at a terrific rate, and finally coast through a platoon of the Salvation Army into its livery stable.

I cannot honestly deny that it takes a good deal of physical courage to ride a horse. This, however, I have. I get it at about forty cents a flask, and take it as required.

I find that in riding a horse up the long street of a country town, it is not well to proceed at a trot. It excites unkindly comment. It is better to let the horse walk the whole distance. This may be made to seem natural by turning half round in the saddle with the hand on the horse's back, and gazing intently about two miles up the road. It then appears that you are the first in of about fourteen men.

Since learning to ride, I have taken to noticing the things that people do on horse-back in books. Some of these I can manage, but most of them are entirely beyond me. Here, for instance, is a form of equestrian performance that every reader will recognise and for which I have only a despairing admiration:

“With a hasty gesture of farewell, the rider set spurs to his horse and disappeared in a cloud of dust.”

With a little practice in the matter of adjustment, I think I could set spurs to any size of horse, but I could never disappear in a cloud of dust–at least, not with any guarantee of remaining disappeared when the dust cleared away.

Here, however, is one that I certainly can do:

“The bridle-rein dropped from Lord Everard's listless hand, and, with his head bowed upon his bosom, he suffered his horse to move at a foot's pace up the sombre avenue. Deep in thought, he heeded not the movement of the steed which bore him.”

That is, he looked as if he didn't; but in my case, Lord Everard has his eye on the steed pretty closely, just the same.

This next I am doubtful about:

“To horse! to horse!” cried the knight, and leaped into the saddle.

I think I could manage it if it read:

“To horse!” cried the knight, and, snatching a stepladder from the hands of his trusty attendant, he rushed into the saddle.

As a concluding remark, I may mention that my experience of riding has thrown a very interesting side-light upon a rather puzzling point in history. It is recorded of the famous Henry the Second that he was “almost constantly in the saddle, and of so restless a disposition that he never sat down, even at meals.” I had hitherto been unable to understand Henry's idea about his meals, but I think I can appreciate it now.

 

SALOONIO

A STUDY IN SHAKESPEAREAN CRITICISM

T
hey say that young men fresh from college are pretty positive about what they know. But from my own experience of life, I should say that if you take a comfortable, elderly man who hasn't been near a college for about twenty years, who has been pretty liberally fed and dined ever since, who measures about fifty inches around the circumference, and has a complexion like a cranberry by candlelight, you will find that there is a degree of absolute certainty about what he thinks he knows that will put any young man to shame. I am specially convinced of this from the case of my friend Colonel Hogshead, a portly, choleric gentleman who made a fortune in the cattle-trade out in Wyoming, and who, in his later days, has acquired a chronic idea that the plays of Shakespeare are the one subject upon which he is most qualified to speak personally.

He came across me the other evening as I was sitting by the fire in the club sitting-room looking over the leaves of
The Merchant of Venice
, and began to hold forth to me about the book.

“
Merchant of Venice
, eh? There's a play for you, sir!
There's genius! Wonderful, sir, wonderful! You take the characters in that play and where will you find anything like them? You take Antonio, take Sherlock, take Saloonio–”

“Saloonio, Colonel?” I interposed mildly, “aren't you making a mistake? There's a Bassanio and a Salanio in the play, but I don't think there's any Saloonio, is there?”

For a moment Colonel Hogshead's eye became misty with doubt, but he was not the man to admit himself in error:

“Tut, tut! young man,” he said with a frown, “don't skim through your books in that way. No Saloonio? Why, of course there's a Saloonio!”

“But I tell you, Colonel,” I rejoined, “I've just been reading the play and studying it, and I know there's no such character–”

“Nonsense, sir, nonsense!” said the Colonel, “why he comes in all through; don't tell me, young man, I've read that play myself. Yes, and seen it played, too, out in Wyoming, before you were born, by fellers, sir, that could act. No Saloonio, indeed! why, who is it that is Antonio's friend all through and won't leave him when Bassoonio turns against him? Who rescues Clarissa from Sherlock, and steals the casket of flesh from the Prince of Aragon? Who shouts at the Prince of Morocco, ‘Out, out, you damned candlestick'? Who loads up the jury in the trial scene and fixes the doge? No Saloonio! By gad! in my opinion, he's the most important character in the play–”

“Colonel Hogshead,” I said very firmly, “there isn't any Saloonio and you know it.”

But the old man had got fairly started on whatever dim recollection had given birth to Saloonio; the character seemed to grow more and more luminous in the Colonel's mind, and he continued with increasing animation:

“I'll just tell you what Saloonio is: he's a type. Shakespeare means him to embody the type of the perfect Italian gentleman. He's an idea, that's what he is, he's a symbol, he's a unit–”

Meanwhile I had been searching among the leaves of the play. “Look here,” I said, “here's the list of the Dramatis Personæ. There's no Saloonio there.”

But this didn't dismay the Colonel one atom. “Why, of course there isn't,” he said. “You don't suppose you'd find Saloonio there! That's the whole art of it! That's Shakespeare! That's the whole gist of it! He's kept clean out of the Personæ–gives him scope, gives him a free hand, makes him more of a type than ever. Oh, it's a subtle thing, sir, the dramatic art!” continued the Colonel, subsiding into quiet reflection; “it takes a feller quite a time to get right into Shakespeare's mind and see what he's at all the time.”

I began to see that there was no use in arguing any further with the old man. I left him with the idea that the lapse of a little time would soften his views on Saloonio. But I had not reckoned on the way in which old men hang on to a thing. Colonel Hogshead quite took up Saloonio. From that time on Saloonio became the theme of his constant conversation. He was never tired of discussing the character of Saloonio, the wonderful art of the dramatist in creating him, Saloonio's relation to modern life, Saloonio's attitude toward women, the ethical significance of Saloonio, Saloonio as compared with Hamlet, Hamlet as compared with Saloonio–and so on, endlessly. And the more he looked into Saloonio, the more he saw in him.

Saloonio seemed inexhaustible. There were new sides to him–new phases at every turn. The Colonel even read over the play, and finding no mention of Saloonio's name in it, he
swore that the books were not the same books they had had out in Wyoming; that the whole part had been cut clean out to suit the book to the infernal public schools, Saloonio's language being–at any rate, as the Colonel quoted it–undoubtedly a trifle free. Then the Colonel took to annotating his book at the side with such remarks as, “Enter Saloonio,” or “A tucket sounds; enter Saloonio, on the arm of the Prince of Morocco.” When there was no reasonable excuse for bringing Saloonio on the stage the Colonel swore that he was concealed behind the arras, or feasting within with the doge.

But he got satisfaction at last. He had found that there was nobody in our part of the country who knew how to put a play of Shakespeare on the stage, and took a trip to New York to see Sir Henry Irving and Miss Terry do the play. The Colonel sat and listened all through with his face just beaming with satisfaction, and when the curtain fell at the close of Irving's grand presentation of the play, he stood up in his seat and cheered and yelled to his friends: “That's it! That's him! Didn't you see that man that came on the stage all the time and sort of put the whole play through, though you couldn't understand a word he said? Well, that's him! That's Saloonio!”

 

HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS

I. MR. WORDSWORTH AND THE
LITTLE COTTAGE GIRL

 

“I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old she said

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.”

 

T
his is what really happened.

Over the dreary downs of his native Cumberland the aged laureate was wandering with bowed head and countenance of sorrow.

Times were bad with the old man.

In the south pocket of his trousers, as he set his face to the north, jingled but a few odd coins and a cheque for St. Leon water. Apparently his cup of bitterness was full.

In the distance a child moved–a child in form, yet the deep lines upon her face bespoke a countenance prematurely old.

The poet espied, pursued and overtook the infant. He observed that apparently she drew her breath lightly and felt her life in every limb, and that presumably her acquaintance with death was of the most superficial character.

“I must sit awhile and ponder on that child,” murmured the poet. So he knocked her down with his walking stick and seating himself upon her, he pondered.

Long he sat thus in thought. “His heart is heavy,” sighed the child.

At length he drew forth a note-book and pencil and prepared to write upon his knee.

“Now then, my dear young friend,” he said, addressing the elfin creature, “I want those lines upon your face. Are you seven?”

“Yes, we are seven,” said the girl sadly, and added, “I know what you want. You are going to question me about my afflicted family. You are Mr. Wordsworth, and you are collecting mortuary statistics for the Cottagers' Edition of the Penny Encyclopædia.”

“You are eight years old?” asked the bard.

“I suppose so,” answered she. “I have been eight years old for years and years.”

“And you know nothing of death, of course?” said the poet cheerfully.

“How can I?” answered the child.

“Now then,” resumed the venerable William, “let us get to business. Name your brothers and sisters.”

“Let me see,” began the child wearily; “there was Rube and Ike, two I can't think of, and John and Jane.”

“You must not count John and Jane,” interrupted the bard reprovingly; “they're dead, you know, so that doesn't make seven.”

“I wasn't counting them, but perhaps I added up wrongly,” said the child; “and will you please move your over-shoe off my neck?”

“Pardon,” said the old man. “A nervous trick, I have been absorbed; indeed, the exigency of the metre almost
demands my doubling up my feet. To continue, however; which died first?”

“The first to go was little Jane,” said the child.

“She lay moaning in bed, I presume?”

“In bed she moaning lay.”

“What killed her?”

“Insomnia,” answered the girl. “The gaiety of our cottage life, previous to the departure of our elder brothers for Conway, and the constant field-sports in which she indulged with John, proved too much for a frame never too robust.”

“You express yourself well,” said the poet. “Now, in regard to your unfortunate brother, what was the effect upon him in the following winter of the ground being white with snow and your being able to run and slide?”

“My brother John was forced to go,” answered she. “We have been at a loss to understand the cause of his death. We fear that the dazzling glare of the newly fallen snow, acting upon a restless brain, may have led him to a fatal attempt to emulate my own feats upon the ice. And, oh, sir,” the child went on, “speak gently of poor Jane. You may rub it into John all you like; we always let him slide.”

“Very well,” said the bard, “and allow me, in conclusion, one rather delicate question: Do you ever take your little porringer?”

“Oh, yes,” answered the child frankly–

 

“‘Quite often after sunset,

When all is light and fair,

I take my little porringer'–

 

I can't quite remember what I do after that, but I know that I like it.”

“That is immaterial,” said Wordsworth. “I can say that you take your little porringer neat, or with bitters, or in water after every meal. As long as I can state that you take a little porringer regularly, but never to excess, the public is satisfied. And now,” rising from his seat, “I will not detain you any longer. Here is sixpence–or stay,” he added hastily, “here is a cheque for St. Leon water. Your information has been most valuable, and I shall work it, for all I am Wordsworth.” With these words the aged poet bowed deferentially to the child and sauntered off in the direction of the Duke of Cumberland's Arms, with his eyes on the ground, as if looking for the meanest flower that blows itself.

 

II. HOW TENNYSON KILLED THE MAY QUEEN

 

“If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear.”

PART 1

As soon as the child's malady had declared itself the afflicted parents of the May Queen telegraphed to Tennyson, “Our child gone crazy on subject of early rising, could you come and write some poetry about her?”

Alfred, always prompt to fill orders in writing from the country, came down on the evening train. The old cottager greeted the poet warmly, and began at once to speak of the state of his unfortunate daughter.

“She was took queer in May,” he said, “along of a sort of bee that the young folks had; she ain't been just right since; happen you might do summat.”

With these words he opened the door of an inner room.

The girl lay in feverish slumber. Beside her bed was an alarm-clock set for half-past three. Connected with the clock was an ingenious arrangement of a falling brick with a string attached to the child's toe.

At the entrance of the visitor she started up in bed.
“Whoop,” she yelled, “I am to be Queen of the May, mother, ye-e!”

Then perceiving Tennyson in the doorway, “If that's a caller,” she said, “tell him to call me early.”

The shock caused the brick to fall. In the subsequent confusion Alfred modestly withdrew to the sitting-room.

“At this rate,” he chuckled, “I shall not have long to wait. A few weeks of that strain will finish her.”

PART II

Six months had passed.

It was now mid-winter.

And still the girl lived. Her vitality appeared inexhaustible.

She got up earlier and earlier. She now rose yesterday afternoon.

At intervals she seemed almost sane, and spoke in a most pathetic manner of her grave and the probability of the sun shining on it early in the morning, and her mother walking on it later in the day. At other times her malady would seize her, and she would snatch the brick off the string and throw it fiercely at Tennyson. Once, in an uncontrollable fit of madness, she gave her sister Effie a half-share in her garden tools and an interest in a box of mignonette.

The poet stayed doggedly on. In the chill of the morning twilight he broke the ice in his water-basin and cursed the girl. But he felt that he had broken the ice and he stayed.

On the whole, life at the cottage, though rugged, was not cheerless. In the long winter evenings they would gather around a smoking fire of peat, while Tennyson read aloud the
Idylls of the King
to the rude old cottager. Not to show his rudeness, the old man kept awake by sitting on a tin-tack. This also kept his mind on the right tack. The two found that they
had much in common, especially the old cottager. They called each other “Alfred” and “Hezekiah” now.

PART III

Time moved on and spring came.

Still the girl baffled the poet.

“I thought to pass away before,” she would say with a mocking grin, “but yet alive I am, Alfred, alive
I
am.”

Tennyson was fast losing hope.

Worn out with early rising, they engaged a retired Pullman-car porter to take up his quarters, and being a negro his presence added a touch of colour to their life.

The poet also engaged a neighbouring divine at fifty cents an evening to read to the child the best hundred books, with explanations. The May Queen tolerated him, and used to like to play with his silver hair, but protested that he was prosy.

At the end of his resources the poet resolved upon desperate measures.

He chose an evening when the cottager and his wife were out at a dinner-party.

At nightfall Tennyson and his accomplices entered the girl's room.

She defended herself savagely with her brick, but was overpowered.

The negro seated himself upon her chest, while the clergyman hastily read a few verses about the comfort of early rising at the last day.

As he concluded, the poet drove his pen into her eye.

“Last call!” cried the negro porter triumphantly.

 

III. OLD MR. LONGFELLOW ON BOARD THE
HESPERUS

 

“It was the schooner
Hesperus
that sailed the wintry sea,

And the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company.”

 

There were but three people in the cabin party of the
Hesperus:
old Mr. Longfellow, the skipper, and the skipper's daughter.

The skipper was much attached to the child, owing to the singular whiteness of her skin and the exceptionally limpid blue of her eyes; she had hitherto remained on shore to fill lucrative engagements as albino lady in a circus.

This time, however, her father had taken her with him for company. The girl was an endless source of amusement to the skipper and the crew. She constantly got up games of puss-in-the-corner, forfeits, and Dumb Crambo with her father and Mr. Longfellow, and made Scripture puzzles and geographical acrostics for the men.

Old Mr. Longfellow was taking the voyage to restore his shattered nerves. From the first the captain disliked Henry. He was utterly unused to the sea and was nervous and fidgety in the extreme. He complained that at sea his
genius had not a sufficient degree of latitude. Which was unparalleled presumption.

On the evening of the storm there had been a little jar between Longfellow and the captain at dinner. The captain had emptied it several times, and was consequently in a reckless, quarrelsome humour.

“I confess I feel somewhat apprehensive,” said old Henry nervously, “of the state of the weather. I have had some conversation about it with an old gentleman on deck who professed to have sailed the Spanish main. He says you ought to put into yonder port.”

“I have,” hiccoughed the skipper, eyeing the bottle, and added with a brutal laugh that he “could weather the roughest gale that ever wind did blow.” A whole Gaelic society, he said, wouldn't fizz on him.

Draining a final glass of grog, he rose from his chair, said grace, and staggered on deck.

All the time the wind blew colder and louder.

The billows frothed like yeast. It was a yeast wind.

The evening wore on.

Old Henry shuffled about the cabin in nervous misery.

The skipper's daughter sat quietly at the table selecting verses from a Biblical clock to amuse the ship's bosun, who was suffering from toothache.

At about ten Longfellow went to his bunk, requesting the girl to remain up in his cabin.

For half an hour all was quiet, save the roaring of the winter wind.

Then the girl heard the old gentleman start up in bed.

“What's that bell, what's that bell?” he gasped.

A minute later he emerged from his cabin wearing a cork jacket and trousers over his pyjamas.

“Sissy,” he said, “go up and ask your pop who rang that bell.”

The obedient child returned.

“Please, Mr. Longfellow,” she said, “pa says there weren't no bell.”

The old man sank into a chair and remained with his head buried in his hands.

“Say,” he exclaimed presently, “someone's firing guns and there's a glimmering light somewhere. You'd better go upstairs again.”

Again the child returned.

“The crew are guessing at an acrostic, and occasionally they get a glimmering of it.”

Meantime the fury of the storm increased.

The skipper had the hatches battered down.

Presently Longfellow put his head out of a porthole and called out, “Look here, you may not care, but the cruel rocks are goring the sides of this boat like the horns of an angry bull.”

The brutal skipper heaved the log at him. A knot in it struck a plank and it glanced off.

Too frightened to remain below, the poet raised one of the hatches by picking out the cotton batting and made his way on deck. He crawled to the wheelhouse.

The skipper stood lashed to the helm all stiff and stark. He bowed stiffly to the poet. The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow on his fixed and glassy eyes. The man was hopelessly intoxicated.

All the crew had disappeared. When the missile thrown by the captain had glanced off into the sea, they glanced after it and were lost.

At this moment the final crash came.

Something hit something. There was an awful click followed by a peculiar grating sound, and in less time than it takes to write it (unfortunately), the whole wreck was over.

As the vessel sank, Longfellow's senses left him. When he reopened his eyes he was in his own bed at home, and the editor of his local paper was bending over him.

“You have made a first-rate poem of it, Mr. Longfellow,” he was saying, unbending somewhat as he spoke, “and I am very happy to give you our cheque for a dollar and a quarter for it.”

“Your kindness checks my utterance,” murmured Henry feebly, very feebly.