DIALOGUES.
Alexander Dumas.
Note.—The scandal concerning this famous necklace—upon which the story is founded—was one of the many misfortunes endured by the unhappy Queen Marie Antoinette.
Characters:
Monsieur Boehmer.We do not come to offer anything to your Majesty, we should fear to be indiscreet; but we come to fulfill a duty concerning the necklace which your Majesty did not deign to take.
Marie Antoinette.Oh! then the necklace has come again! It was really beautiful, M. Boehmer.
M. B.So beautiful that your Majesty alone was worthy to wear it.
M. A.My consolation is that it cost a million and a half francs, and in these times there is no sovereign that can give such a sum for a necklace; so that although I cannot wear it, no one else can.
M. B.That is an error of your Majesty’s. The necklace is sold.
M. A.Sold! To whom?
M. B.Ah, Madame, that is a state secret.
M. A.Oh, I think I am safe. A state secret means that there is nothing to tell.
M. B.With your Majesty we do not act as with others. The necklace is sold, but in the most secret manner, and an embassador—
M. A.I really think you believe it yourself! Come, M. Boehmer, tell me at least the country he comes from, or, at all events, the first letter of his name.
M. B.Madame, it is the embassador from Portugal.
M. A.The embassador from Portugal! There is none here, M. Boehmer.
M. B.He came expressly for this, Madame.
M. A.Well, so much the better for the Queen of Portugal. We will speak of it no more.
M. B.We could not let the diamonds leave France without expressing our regret to your Majesty. It is a necklace which is now known all over Europe, and we wished to know definitely that your Majesty really refused it before we parted with it.
M. A.My refusal has been made public, and has been too much applauded for me to repent it.
M. B.Oh, Madame, if the people found it admirable that your Majesty preferred a ship of war to a necklace, the nobility at least would not think it surprising if you bought the necklace after all.
M. A.Do not speak of it any more!
M. B.It has touched your Majesty’s neck; it ought not to belong to any one else. We will return to-morrow.
M. A.Impossible! I have amused myself with these jewels; to do more would be a fault.
M. B.Your Majesty, then, refuses them?
M. A.Yes, oh yes. Take the necklace back. Put it away immediately!
Epes Sargent.
Characters:
Isabella.And so, Don Gomez, you think we ought to dismiss the proposition of this worthy Genoese?
Don Gomez.His scheme, your Majesty, is fanciful in the extreme. I am a plain man. I do not see visions and dream dreams like some men.
I.And yet Columbus has given us good reasons for believing that he can reach India by sailing in a westerly direction.
D. G.Delusion, your Majesty! Admitting that the earth is a sphere, how would it be possible for him to return, if he once descended the sphere in the direction he proposes? Would not the coming back be all up-hill? Could a ship accomplish it even with the most favorable wind?
I.What have you to say to these objections, Columbus?
Col.With your Majesty’s leave, I would suggest that if the earth is a sphere, the same laws of adhesion and motion must operate at every point on its surface.
D. G.Don’t try to makeme, a grandee of Spain, believe such stuff as that there are people on the earth who walk with their heads down, like flies on a ceiling! Would not the blood run into my head if I were standing upside down?
Col.I have already answered that objection. If there are people on the earth who are our antipodes, it should be remembered that we are also theirs.
I.To cut short the discussion, you think that the enterprise,which Columbus proposes, is one unworthy of our serious consideration?
D. G.As a matter-of-fact man, I must confess that I do so regard it. Has your Majesty ever seen an embassador from this unknown coast?
I.Have you ever seen an embassador from the unknown world of spirits?
D. G.Certainly not. Through faith we look forward to it.
I.Even so, by faith, does Columbus look forward, far over the misty ocean, to an undiscovered shore. Know, Don Gomez, that theabsurdity, as you style it, shall be tested, and that forthwith.
D. G.Your Majesty will excuse me if I remark that I have from your royal consort himself the assurance that the finances of the government are so exhausted by the late wars that he cannot consent to advance the necessary funds for fitting out an expedition of the kind proposed.
I.Be mine, then, the privilege! I have jewels, by the pledging of which I can raise the amount required; and I have resolved that they shall be pledged to this enterprise without more delay.
Col.Your Majesty shall not repent your heroic resolve. I will return—be sure I will return—and lay at your feet such a jewel as never queen wore yet, an imperishable fame that shall couple with your memory the benedictions of millions yet unborn in climes yet unknown to civilized man. There is a conviction in my mind that your Majesty will live to bless the hour you came to this decision.
George Eliot.
Characters:
Maggie.I’ll help you now, Tom. I’ve come to the school to stay ever so long. I’ve brought my box and my pinafores—haven’t I, father?
Tom.Youhelp me, you silly little thing! I should like to see you doing one of my lessons. Why, I learn Latin, too. Girls never learn such things. They’re too silly.
M.I know what Latin is very well. Latin’s a language. There are Latin words in the dictionary. There’sbonus, a gift.
T.Now you’re just wrong there, Miss Maggie. You think you’re very wise. But “bonus” means “good,” as it happens—bonus, bona, bonum.
M.Well, that’s no reason why it shouldn’t mean “gift.” It may mean several things—almost every word does. There’s “lawn”—it means the grass-plot as well as the stuff pocket-handkerchiefs are made of.
T.Now, then, come with me into the study, Maggie.
M.Oh, what books! How I should like to have as many books as that!
T.Why, you couldn’t read one of ’em. They’re all Latin.
M.No, they aren’t. I can read the back of this, “History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.”
T.Well, what does that mean?Youdon’t know.
M.But I could soon find out. I should look inside and see what it was about.
T.Oh, I say, Maggie, we must keep quiet here, you know. If we break anything, we’ll have to cry peccavi.
M.What’s that?
T.It’s the Latin for a good scolding.
M.Is your Mrs. Stelling a cross woman, Tom?
T.I believe you!
M.I think all women are crosser than men. Aunt Glegg’s a great deal crosser than Uncle Glegg, and mother scolds me more than father does.
T.Well, you’ll be a woman some day, soyouneedn’t talk.
M.But I shall be acleverwoman, Tom.
T.Oh, I dare say, and a nasty conceited thing. Everybody’ll hate you.
M.But you oughtn’t to hate me, Tom. It will be very wicked of you, for I shall be your sister.
T.Oh, bother! Come, it’s time for me to learn my lessons. Just see what I’ve got to do!
Characters:
Mrs. P.My new bonnet has come home, Bessy.
Mrs. T.Has it, sister? And how do you like it?
Mrs. P.It’s apt to make a mess with clothes, taking them out and putting them in again. But it would be a pity for you to go away without seeing it. There’s no knowing what may happen.
Mrs. T.I’m afraid it’ll be troublesome to you getting it out, sister; but I should like to see what kind of a crown she’s made you.
Mrs. P.You’d like to see it on, sister? I’ll open the shutter a bit farther.
Mrs. T.Well, if you don’t mind taking off your cap, sister.
Mrs. P.I’ve sometimes thought there’s a loop too much of ribbon on the left side, sister. What doyouthink?
Mrs. T.Well, I think it’s best as it is. If you meddled with it, sister, you might repent. How much might she charge you for that bonnet, sister?
Mrs. P.Pullet pays for it. He said I was to have the best bonnet at Garum Church, let the next best be whose it would. I may never wear it twice, sister; who knows?
Mrs. T.Don’t talk of that, sister. I hope you’ll keep your health this summer.
Mrs. P.But there may come a death in the family, as there did soon after I had my green satin bonnet.
Mrs. T.Thatwouldbe unlucky. There’s never so much pleasure in wearing a bonnet a second year, especially when the crowns are so chancy—never two summers alike.
Mrs. P.Ah, it’s the way of the world! Sister, if you should never see that bonnet again till I’m dead and gone, you’ll remember I showed it to you this very day.
Susan Warner.
Characters:
Rufus.We’ve got the farm in pretty good order now.
Winthrop.Yes, father has, if those stumps were once out. We ought to have good crops this year of most things.
R.I am sure I have spent four or five years ofmylife in hard work upon it.
W.Your life ain’t much the worse for it. Father has spent more than that. How hard he has worked—to make this farm!
R.It was a pretty tough subject to begin with; but now it’s the handsomest farm in the county. It ought to pay considerable after this.
W.It hasn’t brought us in much so far, Rufus, except just to keep along; and a pretty tight fit at that.
R.If the farm was clear, I’d stand the chance of its paying. It’s that keeps us down—the debt.
W.Debt! What debt?
R.The interest on the mortgage.
W.What is the debt?
R.Several thousands, I believe.
W.You and I must pay off that money, Rufus.
R.Ay; but still there’s the question, which is the best way to do it?
W.The best way, I’ve a notion, is not to take too long noon-spells in the afternoon.
R.Stop a bit. Sit down again; I want to speak to you. Do you want to spend all your life following the oxen?
W.What is the matter, Rufus?
R.Matter! Why, Winthrop, that I am not willing to stay here and be a ploughman all my life, when I might be something better.
W.How can you be anything better, Rufus?
R.Do you think all the world is like this little world which these hills shut in? There is another sort of world, Winthrop, where people know something; where other things are to be done than running plough furrows; where men may read and write—do something great—distinguish themselves. I want to be in that world.
W.But what will you do, Rufus, to get into that world? We are shut in here.
R.Iam not shut in! I will live for something greater than this!
W.So would I, if I could; but what are we to do?
R.There is only one thing to do. I shall go to college.
W.But some preparation is necessary, Rufus; isn’t it? How will you get that? Father wants us this summer. We are just beginning to help him.
R.We can help him much better the other way. Farming is the most miserable slow way of making money that ever was contrived.
W.How doyoupropose to make money, Rufus?
R.I don’t know. I am not thinking about making money at present.
W.It takes a great deal to go to college, don’t it?
R.Yes. But I intend to go, Winthrop.
W.Yes, you’ll go.
R.I’lltryfor it.
W.And you’ll get it, too, Rufus!
Dinah Mulock Craik.
Characters:
Selina.I’m sure I don’t know how we are to manage with Elizabeth. That greedy—
Hilary.And growing—
S.I say that greedy girl eats as much as both of us. And as for her clothes—her mother doesn’t keep her decent.
H.She would find it hard on three pounds a year.
S.Hilary, how dare you contradict me? I am only stating a plain fact.
H.And I another. But, indeed, I don’t want to talk, Selina.
S.You never do except when you are wished to be silent, and then your tongue goes like any race-horse.
H.Does it? Well, like Gilpin’s,
“It carries weight, it rides a race,’Tis for a thousand pound!”
“It carries weight, it rides a race,’Tis for a thousand pound!”
“It carries weight, it rides a race,
’Tis for a thousand pound!”
—and I only wish it were. Heigh-ho! If I could but earn a thousand pounds!
S.I’m sure she was as black as a chimney-sweep all to-day. Her pinafore had three rents in it, which she never thinks of mending, though I gave her needles and thread myself a week ago. She doesn’t know how to use them any more than a baby.
H.Possibly nobody ever taught her.
S.Yes, she went for a year to the National School, she says.
H.Well, her forte is certainly children. She is wonderfully patient with our troublesome scholars.
S.You always find something to say for her.
H.I should be ashamed if I could not find something to say for anybody who is always abused. How can I help it, Selina, if a girl fifteen years old is not a paragon of perfection? as we all are, if we only could find it out.
S.Her month ends to-morrow. Let her go.
H.And perhaps get in her place a story-teller, a tale-bearer, even a thief. By the bye, the first step in the civilization of the Polynesians was giving them clothes. Suppose we try the experiment with Elizabeth?
Edward Bulwer Lytton.
City destroyed,A.D.August 24, 79. Discovered, 1750.
Characters:
Clodius.When is our next wild-beast fight?
Pausa.It stands fixed for the ninth ide of August. We have a most lovely young lion for the occasion.
C.Whom shall we get for him to eat? Alas! there is a great scarcity of criminals. You must positively find some innocent or other to condemn to the lion, Pausa.
P.Indeed, I have thought very seriously about it of late. It was a most infamous law which forbade us to send our own slaves to the wild beasts. Not to let us do what we like with our own! That’s what I call an infringement on property itself.
C.Not so in the good old days of the Republic.
P.And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is such a disappointment to the poor people. How they do love to see a good tough battle between a man and a lion! And all this innocent pleasure they may lose—if the gods don’t send us a good criminal soon—from this cursed law.
C.What can be worse policy than to interfere with the manly amusements of the people?
P.Well, thank Jupiter and the Fates! We have no Nero at present.
C.He was, indeed, a tyrant. He shut up our amphitheatre for ten years.
P.I wonder it didn’t create a rebellion.
C.As it very nearly did.
Characters:
Sallust.Ah, it is a lustrum since I saw you!
Glaucus.And how have you spent the lustrum? What new dishes have you discovered?
S.I have been scientific, and have made some experiments in the feeding of lampreys. I confess I despair of bringing them to the perfection which our Roman ancestors attained.
G.Miserable man! and why?
S.Because it is no longer lawful to give them a slave to eat. But slaves are not slaves nowadays, and have no sympathy with their masters’ interest, or one of mine would destroy himself to oblige me.
Lepidus.What news from Rome?
S.The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to the senators.
L.He is a good creature. They say he never sends a man away without granting his request.
S.Perhaps he would let me kill a slave for my reservoir?
G.Not unlikely; for he who grants a favor to one Roman must always do it at the expense of another. Be sure that for every smile Titus has caused a hundred eyes have wept.
S.Long live Titus! He has promised my brother a quæstorship because he has run through his fortune.
L.And wishes now to enrich himself among the people.
S.Exactly so.
G.That is putting the people to some use. Well, let us to the baths. This is the time when all the world is there, and Fulvius, whom you admire so much, is going to read us an ode.
Fanny Fern.
Characters:
Mrs. H.Good morning, Ruth;Mrs. Hall, I suppose, Ishouldcall you, only that I can’t get used to being shoved aside so suddenly.
Ruth.Oh, pray don’t say Mrs. Hall tome. Call me any name that best pleases you; I shall be quite satisfied.
Mrs. H.I suppose you understand all about housekeeping, Ruth?
Ruth.No. I have but just returned from boarding-school.
Mrs. H.It is a great pity you were not brought up properly. Harry has his fortune yet to make, you know. Young people nowadays seem to think money comes in showers. Harry has been brought up sensibly. He has been taught economy. Do you know how to iron, Ruth?
Ruth.Yes. I have sometimes clear-starched my own muslins and laces.
Mrs. H.Glad to hear it. Can you make bread? When I saybread, Imeanbread,—none of your soda, saleratus mixtures,—old-fashioned yeast-rizbread. Do you know how to make it?
Ruth.No. People in the city always buy baker’s bread; my father did.
Mrs. H.Your father! Land’s sake, child, you mustn’t quote your father, now you’re married. I hope you won’t be always running home, or running anywhere, in fact. Do you know I should like your looks better if you didn’t curl your hair?
Ruth.I don’t curl it; it curls naturally.
Mrs. H.That’s a pity. You should avoid everything that looks frivolous. And, Ruth, if you should feel the need of exercise, don’t gad in the streets. There is nothing like a broom and a dust-pan to make the blood circulate. I hope you don’t read novels and such trash. I have a very select little library containing a most excellent sermon on Predestination by our good old minister, Dr. Diggs. Any time you stand in need ofrationalreading, come to me.
T. A. Bland.
Diogenes.Fie on thy philosophy, Plato! In spite of all, thou art the veriest of aristocrats, while philosophy teacheth humility.
Plato.Thou hast spoken truly, Diogenes, but not in wisdom; thy speech is wise, ’tis true, but thy thought is foolish. That I am proud, I own, and that I am a democrat, I do most sincerely maintain.
D.Now thou speakest in riddles. Thy words are double, and thy answer as the answer of the fool.
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 quicklyeschew 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 onlythe 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.
R. D. Blackmore.
Place, London; time, about 1680; reign of James II.
Characters:
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 touse 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.
Characters:
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 isanything.
A. T.Thy grandmother wassomething, 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.
A STORY OF THE TRADES-UNIONS.
Charles Reade.
Characters:
Mr. G.Well, Mr. Little, now, between ourselves, don’t you think it rather hard that the poor workmanshould 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 grindersay, 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 itwhen 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!
John Bunyan.
Characters:
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 sayAmento; 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.
Charles Kingsley.
Characters:
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 thepapier-machégentleman that runs against us!
Characters:
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, whatdoesa 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!
Louisa M. Alcott.
[By permission of Roberts Bros.]
Characters:
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 youcan’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.Whatdoyou 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 differencedoesit make?
C. D.I know the end is the same; but itdoesmake a differencehowthey turn to ashes, andhowI 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.
Scene: A café in Paris. Time: June 28, 1793.
Characters:
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.
Danton.That is madness! Robespierre, the danger is a circle, and we are within it. If this continue and we do not put things in order, the French Revolution will kill the King of France for the King of Prussia’s sake.
Marat.You have each one his hobby. Danton, yoursis Prussia; Robespierre, yours is the Vendée. I am going to state facts in my turn. You do not perceive the real peril. It is the cafés and the gaming-houses. It is the paper money, the famine, the stock-brokers, and the monopolists—there is the danger. You see the danger at a distance when it is close at hand. Yes, the danger is everywhere, and above all in the centre.
Danton.There, there, there!
Marat.What is needed is a dictator. Robespierre, you know that I want a dictator.
Rob.I know, Marat. You or me?
Marat.Me or you?
Danton.The dictatorship! Only try it!
Marat.Hold! One last effort. Let us get some agreement. The situation is worth the trouble. Paris must assume the government of the Revolution. So be it. Well, the conclusion is a dictatorship. Let us seize the dictatorship—we three who represent the Revolution. We are the three heads of Cerberus. Of these three heads, one talks—that is you, Robespierre; one roars—that is you, Danton.
Danton.The other bites—that is you, Marat.
Rob.All three bite.
Marat.Ah, Robespierre! Ah, Danton! You will not listen to me! Well, you are lost; I tell you so. You do things which shut every door against you—except that of the tomb.
Danton.That is our grandeur.
Marat.Danton, beware! Ah, you shrug your shoulders! Sometimes a shrug of the shoulders makes the head fall. And as for thee, Robespierre, go on, powder thyself, dress thy hair, brush thy clothes, play the coxcomb. Fine as thou art, thou wilt be dragged at the tails of four horses!
Rob.Echo of Coblentz!
Danton.I am the echo of nothing—I am the cry of the whole, Robespierre.
Marat.Ah, you are young, you! How old art thou, Danton? Four-and-thirty. How many are your years, Robespierre? Thirty-three. Well, I—I have lived always. I am the old human suffering—I have lived six thousand years.
Danton.That is true. For six thousand years Cain has been preserved in hatred like the toad in a rock; the rock breaks, Cain springs out among men, and is called Marat.
Marat.Danton!
Danton.Marat talks very loud about the dictatorship and unity, but he has only one ability—that of breaking to pieces.
Rob.As for me, I say neither Roland nor Marat.
Marat.And I say neither Danton nor Robespierre. Let me give you advice, Danton. Do not meddle any more with politics—be wise. Adieu, gentlemen.