“——a shower of rain?” said Bruno.
“Well, itlookedmore like the tail of a dog,” Mein Herr replied. “It was the most curious thing! Something rubbed affectionately against my knee. And I looked down. And I could seenothing! Only, about a yard off, there was a dog’s tail, wagging, all by itself!”
“Oh,Sylvie!” Bruno murmured reproachfully. “Oo didn’t finish making him visible!”
“I’msosorry!” Sylvie said, looking very penitent. “I meant to rub it along his back, but we were in such a hurry. We’ll go and finish him tomorrow. Poor thing! Perhaps he’ll get no supper tonight!”
“Coursehe won’t!” said Bruno. “Nobody never gives bones to a dog’s tail!”
Mein Herr looked from one to the other in blank astonishment. “I do not understand you,” he said. “I had lost my way, and I was consulting a pocket-map, and somehow I had dropped one of my gloves, and this invisibleSomething, that had rubbed against my knee, actually brought it back to me!”
“Course he did!” said Bruno. “He’swellyfond of fetching things.”
Mein Herr looked so thoroughly bewildered that I thought it best to change the subject. “What a useful thing a pocket-map is!” I remarked.
“That’s another thing we’ve learned fromyourNation,” said Mein Herr, “map-making. But we’ve carried it much further thanyou. What do you consider thelargestmap that would be really useful?”
“About six inches to the mile.”
“Onlysix inches!” exclaimed Mein Herr. “We very soon got to sixyardsto the mile. Then we tried ahundredyards to the mile. And then came the grandest idea of all! We actually made a map of the country, on the scale ofa mile to the mile!”
“Have you used it much?” I enquired.
“It has never been spread out, yet,” said Mein Herr: “the farmers objected: they said it would cover the whole country, and shut out the sunlight! So we now use the country itself, as its own map, and I assure you it does nearly as well. Now let me ask youanotherquestion. What is the smallestworldyou would care to inhabit?”
“Iknow!” cried Bruno, who was listening intently. “I’d like a little teeny-tiny world, just big enough for Sylvie and me!”
“Then you would have to stand on opposite sides of it,” said Mein Herr. “And so you would never see your sisterat all!”
“And I’d have nolessons,” said Bruno.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve been trying experiments inthatdirection!” I said.
“Well, notexperimentsexactly. We do not profess toconstructplanets. But a scientific friend of mine, who has made several balloon-voyages, assures me he has visited a planet so small that he could walk right round it in twenty minutes! There had been a great battle, just before his visit, which had ended rather oddly: the vanquished army ran away at full speed, and in a very few minutes found themselves face-to-face with the victorious army, who were marching home again, and who were so frightened at finding themselves betweentwoarmies, that they surrendered at once! Of course that lost them the battle, though, as a matter of fact, they had killedallthe soldiers on the other side.”
“Killed soldiersca’n’trun away,” Bruno thoughtfully remarked.
“‘Killed’ is a technical word,” replied Mein Herr. “In the little planet I speak of, the bullets were made of soft black stuff, which marked everything it touched. So, after a battle, all you had to do was to count how many soldiers on each side were ‘killed’—that means ‘marked on theback,’ for marks infrontdidn’t count.”
“Then you couldn’t ‘kill’ any, unless they ran away?” I said.
“My scientific friend found out a better plan thanthat. He pointed out that, if only the bullets were sentthe other way round the world, they would hit the enemy in theback. After that, theworstmarksmen were considered thebestsoldiers; andthe very worst of allalways got First Prize.”
“And how did you decide which wasthe very worst of all?”
“Easily. Thebestpossible shooting is, you know, to hit what is exactly infrontof you: so of course theworstpossible is to hit what is exactlybehindyou.”
“They were strange people in that little planet!” I said.
“They were indeed! Perhaps their method ofgovernmentwas the strangest of all. Inthisplanet, I am told, a Nation consists of a number of Subjects, and one King: but, in the little planet I speak of, it consisted of a number ofKings, and oneSubject!”
“You say you are ‘told’ what happens inthisplanet,” I said. “May I venture to guess that you yourself are a visitor from someotherplanet?”
Bruno clapped his hands in his excitement. “Is oo the Man-in-the-Moon?” he cried.
Mein Herr looked uneasy. “I amnotin the Moon, my child,” he said evasively. “To return to what I was saying. I thinkthatmethod of government ought to answerwell. You see, the Kings would be sure to make Laws contradicting each other: so the Subject could never be punished, because,whateverhe did, he’d be obeyingsomeLaw.”
“And, whatever he did, he’d bedisobeyingsomeLaw!” cried Bruno. “So he’dalwaysbe punished!”
Lady Muriel was passing at the moment, and caught the last word. “Nobody’s going to be punishedhere!” she said, taking Bruno in her arms. “This is Liberty-Hall! Would you lend me the children for a minute?”
“The children desert us, you see,” I said to Mein Herr, as she carried them off: “so we old folk must keep each other company!”
The old man sighed. “Ah, well! We’re old folknow; and yet I was a child myself, once—at least I fancy so.”
Itdidseem a rather unlikely fancy, I could not help owning to myself—looking at the shaggy white hair, and the long beard—that he couldeverhave been a child. “You are fond of young people?” I said.
“Youngmen,” he replied. “Not ofchildrenexactly. I used to teach young men—many a year ago—in my dear old University!”
“I didn’t quite catch itsname?” I hinted.
“I did not name it,” the old man replied mildly. “Nor would you know the name if I did. Strange tales I could tell you of all the changes I have witnessed there! But it would weary you, I fear.”
“No,indeed!” I said. “Pray go on. What kind of changes?”
But the old man seemed to be more in a humour for questions than for answers. “Tell me,” he said, laying his hand impressively on my arm, “tell me something. For I am a stranger in your land, and I know little ofyourmodes of education: yet something tells meweare further on thanyouin the eternal cycle of change—and that many a theorywehave tried and found to fail,youalso will try, with a wilder enthusiasm: you also will find to fail, with a bitterer despair!”
It was strange to see how, as he talked, and his words flowed more and more freely, with a certain rhythmic eloquence, his features seemed to glow with an inner light, and the whole man seemed to be transformed, as if he had grown fifty years younger in a moment of time.
The silence that ensued was broken by the voice of the musical young lady, who had seated herself near us, and was conversing with one of the newly-arrived guests. “Well!” she said in a tone of scornful surprise. “Weareto have something new in the way of music, it appears!”
I looked round for an explanation, and was nearly as much astonished as the speaker herself: it wasSylviewhom Lady Muriel was leading to the piano!
“Do try it, my darling!” she was saying. “I’m sure you can play very nicely!”
Sylvie looked round at me, with tears in her eyes. I tried to give her an encouraging smile, but it was evidently a great strain on the nerves of a child so wholly unused to be made an exhibition of, and she was frightened and unhappy. Yet here came out the perfect sweetness of her disposition: I could see that she was resolved to forget herself, and do her best to give pleasure to Lady Muriel and her friends. She seated herself at the instrument, and began instantly. Time and expression, so far as one could judge, were perfect: but her touch was one of such extraordinary lightness that it was at first scarcely possible, through the hum of conversation which still continued, to catch a note of what she was playing.
But in a minute the hum had died away into absolute silence, and we all sat, entranced and breathless, to listen to such heavenly music as none then present could ever forget.
Hardly touching the notes at first, she played a sort of introduction in a minor key—like an embodied twilight; one felt as though the lights were growing dim, and a mist were creeping through the room. Then there flashed throughthe gathering gloom the first few notes of a melody so lovely, so delicate, that one held one’s breath, fearful to lose a single note of it. Ever and again the music dropped into the pathetic minor key with which it had begun, and, each time that the melody forced its way, so to speak, through the enshrouding gloom into the light of day, it was more entrancing, more magically sweet. Under the airy touch of the child, the instrument actually seemed towarble, like a bird. “Rise up, my love, my fair one,” it seemed to sing, “and come away! For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come!” One could fancy one heard the tinkle of the last few drops, shaken from the trees by a passing gust—that one saw the first glittering rays of the sun, breaking through the clouds.
The Count hurried across the room in great excitement. “Icannotremember myself,” he exclaimed, “of the name of this so charming an air! It is of an opera, most surely. Yet not even will theoperaremind his name to me! What you call him, dear child?”
‘HOW CALL YOU THE OPERA?’‘HOW CALL YOU THE OPERA?’
‘HOW CALL YOU THE OPERA?’
Sylvie looked round at him with a rapt expression of face. She had ceased playing, but her fingers still wandered fitfully over the keys. All fear and shyness had quite passed away now, and nothing remained but the pure joy of the music that had thrilled our hearts.
“The title of it!” the Count repeated impatiently. “How call you the opera?”
“I don’t know what an operais,” Sylvie half-whispered.
“How, then, call you theair?”
“I don’t know any name for it,” Sylvie replied, as she rose from the instrument.
“But this is marvellous!” exclaimed the Count, following the child, and addressing himself to me, as if I were the proprietor of this musical prodigy, and somustknow the origin of her music. “You have heard her play this, sooner—I would say ‘before this occasion’? How call you the air?”
I shook my head; but was saved from more questions by Lady Muriel, who came up to petition the Count for a song.
The Count spread out his hands apologetically, and ducked his head. “But, Milady, I have already respected—I would say prospected—all your songs; and there shall be none fitted to my voice! They are not for basso voices!”
“Wo’n’t you look at them again?” Lady Muriel implored.
“Let’s help him!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie. “Let’s get him—youknow!”
Sylvie nodded. “Shallwelook for a song for you?” she said sweetly to the Count.
“Maisoui!” the little man exclaimed.
“Of course we may!” said Bruno, while, each taking a hand of the delighted Count, they led him to the music-stand.
“There is still hope!” said Lady Muriel over her shoulder, as she followed them.
I turned to ‘Mein Herr,’ hoping to resume our interrupted conversation. “You were remarking——” I began: but at this moment Sylvie came to call Bruno, who had returned to my side, looking unusually serious. “Docome, Bruno!” she entreated. “You know we’ve nearly found it!” Then, in a whisper, “The locket’s in myhand, now. I couldn’t get it out while they were looking!”
But Bruno drew back. “The man called me names,” he said with dignity.
“What names?” I enquired with some curiosity.
“I asked him,” said Bruno, “which sort of song he liked. And he said ‘Asong ofaman, not ofalady.’ And I said ‘Shall Sylvie and me find you the song of Mister Tottles?’ And he said ‘Wait, eel!’ And I’mnotan eel, oo know!”
“I’msurehe didn’t mean it!” Sylvie said earnestly. “It’s something French—you know he ca’n’t talk English so well as——”
Bruno relented visibly. “Course he knows no better, if he’s Flench! Flenchmennevercan speak English so goodly asus!” And Sylvie led him away, a willing captive.
“Nice children!” said the old man, taking off his spectacles and rubbing them carefully. Then he put them on again, and watched with an approving smile, while the children tossed over the heap of music, and we just caught Sylvie’s reproving words, “We’renotmaking hay, Bruno!”
“This has been a long interruption to our conversation,” I said. “Pray let us go on!”
“Willingly!” replied the gentle old man.
“I was much interested in what you——” He paused a moment, and passed his hand uneasily across his brow. “One forgets,” he murmured. “What was I saying? Oh! Something you were to tell me. Yes. Which of your teachers do you value the most highly, those whose words are easily understood, or those who puzzle you at every turn?”
I felt obliged to admit that we generally admired most the teachers we couldn’t quite understand.
“Just so,” said Mein Herr. “That’s the way it begins. Well,wewere at that stage some eighty years ago—or was it ninety? Our favourite teacher got more obscure every year; and every year we admired him more—just asyourArt-fanciers callmistthe fairest feature in a landscape, and admire a view with frantic delight when they can see nothing! Now I’ll tell you how it ended. It was Moral Philosophy that our idol lectured on. Well, his pupils couldn’t make head or tail of it, but they got it all by heart; and, when Examination-time came, they wrote it down; and the Examiners said ‘Beautiful! What depth!’”
“But what good was it to the young menafterwards?”
“Why, don’t you see?” replied Mein Herr. “Theybecame teachers in their turn, andtheysaid all these things over again; andtheirpupils wrote it all down; and the Examiners accepted it; and nobody had the ghost of an idea what it all meant!”
“And how did it end?”
“It ended this way. We woke up one fine day, and found there was no one in the place that knewanythingabout Moral Philosophy. So we abolished it, teachers, classes, examiners, and all. And if any one wanted to learn anything about it, he had to make it out for himself; and after another twenty years or so there were several men that really knew something about it! Now tell me another thing. How long do you teach a youth before you examine him, in your Universities?”
I told him, three or four years.
“Just so, just whatwedid!” he exclaimed. “We taught ’em a bit, and, just as they were beginning to take it in, we took it all out again! We pumped our wells dry before they were a quarter full—we stripped our orchards while the apples were still in blossom—we applied the severe logic of arithmetic to our chickens, while peacefully slumbering in their shells! Doubtless it’s the early bird that picks up the worm—but if the bird gets up so outrageously early that the worm is still deep underground, whatthenis its chance of a breakfast?”
Not much, I admitted.
“Now see how that works!” he went on eagerly. “If you want to pump your wells so soon—and I suppose you tell me that is what youmustdo?”
“We must,” I said. “In an over-crowded country like this, nothing but Competitive Examinations——”
Mein Herr threw up his hands wildly. “What,again?” he cried. “I thought it was dead, fifty years ago! Oh this Upas tree of Competitive Examinations! Beneath whose deadly shade all the original genius, all the exhaustive research, all the untiring life-long diligence by which our fore-fathers have so advanced human knowledge, must slowly but surely wither away, and give place to a system of Cookery, in which the human mind is a sausage, and all we ask is, how much indigestible stuff can be crammed into it!”
Always, after these bursts of eloquence, he seemed to forget himself for a moment, and only to hold on to the thread of thought by some single word. “Yes,crammed,” he repeated. “We went through all that stage ofthe disease—had it bad, I warrant you! Of course, as the Examination was all in all, we tried to put in just what was wanted—and thegreatthing to aim at was, that the Candidate should know absolutelynothingbeyond the needs of the Examination! I don’t say it was everquiteachieved: but one of my own pupils (pardon an old man’s egotism) came very near it. After the Examination, he mentioned to me the few facts which he knew but hadnotbeen able to bring in, and I can assure you they were trivial, Sir, absolutely trivial!”
I feebly expressed my surprise and delight.
The old man bowed, with a gratified smile, and proceeded. “At that time, no one had hit on the much more rational plan of watching for the individual scintillations of genius, and rewarding them as they occurred. As it was, we made our unfortunate pupil into a Leyden-jar, charged him up to the eyelids—then applied the knob of a Competitive Examination, and drew off one magnificent spark, which very often cracked the jar! What matteredthat? We labeled it ‘First Class Spark,’ and put it away on the shelf.”
“But the more rational system——?” I suggested.
“Ah, yes!thatcame next. Instead of giving the whole reward of learning in one lump, we used to pay for every good answer as it occurred. How well I remember lecturing in those days, with a heap of small coins at my elbow! It was ‘Averygood answer, Mr. Jones!’ (that meant a shilling, mostly). ‘Bravo, Mr. Robinson!’ (that meant half-a-crown). Now I’ll tell you howthatworked. Not one single fact would any of them take in, without a fee! And when a clever boy came up from school, he got paid more for learning than we got paid for teaching him! Then came the wildest craze of all.”
“What,anothercraze?” I said.
“It’s the last one,” said the old man. “I must have tired you out with my long story. Each College wanted to get the clever boys: so we adopted a system which we had heard was very popular in England: the Colleges competed against each other, and the boys let themselves out to the highest bidder! What geese we were! Why, they were boundto come to the Universitysomehow. We needn’t have paid ’em! And all our money went in getting clever boys to come to one College rather than another! The competition was so keen, that at last mere money-payments were not enough. Any College, that wished to secure some specially clever young man, had to waylay him at the Station, and hunt him through the streets. The first who touched him was allowed to have him.”
“That hunting-down of the scholars, as they arrived, must have been a curious business,” I said. “Could you give me some idea of what it was like?”
“Willingly!” said the old man. “I will describe to you the very last Hunt that took place, before that form of Sport (for it was actually reckoned among theSportsof the day: we called it ‘Cub-Hunting’) was finally abandoned. I witnessed it myself, as I happened to be passing by at the moment, and was what we called ‘in at the death.’ I can see it now!” he went on in an excited tone, gazing into vacancy with those large dreamy eyes of his. “It seems like yesterday; andyet it happened——” He checked himself hastily, and the remaining words died away into a whisper.
SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUEDSCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUED
SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUED
“Howmany years ago did you say?” I asked, much interested in the prospect of at last learningsomedefinite fact in his history.
SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUERSSCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUERS
SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUERS
“Manyyears ago,” he replied. “The scene at the Railway-Station had been (so they told me) one of wild excitement. Eight or nine Heads of Colleges had assembled at the gates (no one was allowed inside), and the Station-Master had drawn a line on the pavement, and insisted on their all standing behind it. The gates were flung open! The young man darted through them, and fled like lightning down the street, while the Heads of Colleges actuallyyelledwith excitement on catching sight of him! The Proctor gave the word, in the old statutory form, ‘Semel!Bis!Ter!Currite!’, and the Hunt began! Oh, it was a fine sight, believe me! At the first corner he dropped his Greek Lexicon: further on, his railway-rug: then various small articles:then his umbrella: lastly, what I suppose he prized most, his hand-bag: but the game was up: the spherical Principal of—of——”
“OfwhichCollege?” I said.
“—ofoneof the Colleges,” he resumed, “had put into operation the Theory—his own discovery—of Accelerated Velocity, and captured him just opposite to where I stood. I shall never forget that wild breathless struggle! But it was soon over. Once in those great bony hands, escape was impossible!”
“May I ask why you speak of him as the ‘spherical’ Principal?” I said.
“The epithet referred to hisshape, which was a perfectsphere. You are aware that a bullet, another instance of a perfect sphere, when falling in a perfectly straight line, moves with Accelerated Velocity?”
I bowed assent.
“Well, my spherical friend (as I am proud to call him) set himself to investigate thecausesof this. He found them to bethree. One; that it is a perfectsphere. Two; that it moves in astraight line. Three; that its direction isnot upwards. When these threeconditions are fulfilled, you get Accelerated Velocity.”
“Hardly,” I said: “if you will excuse my differing from you. Suppose we apply the theory tohorizontalmotion. If a bullet is firedhorizontally, it——”
“—it doesnotmove in astraight line,” he quietly finished my sentence for me.
“I yield the point,” I said. “What did your friend do next?”
“The next thing was to apply the theory, as you rightly suggest, tohorizontalmotion. But the moving body, ever tending tofall, needsconstant support, if it is to move in a true horizontal line. ‘What, then,’ he asked himself, ‘willgive constant support to a moving body?’ And his answer was ‘Human legs!’Thatwas the discovery that immortalised his name!”
“His name being——?” I suggested.
“I had not mentioned it,” was the gentle reply of my most unsatisfactory informant. “His next step was an obvious one. He took to a diet of suet-dumplings, until his body had become a perfect sphere.Thenhe went out for his first experimental run—which nearly cost him his life!”
“How wasthat?”
“Well, you see, he had no idea of thetremendousnew Force in Nature that he was calling into play. He began too fast. In a very few minutes he found himself moving at a hundred miles an hour! And, if he had not had the presence of mind to charge into the middle of a haystack (which he scattered to the four winds) there can be no doubt that he would have left the Planet he belonged to, and gone right away into Space!”
“And how came that to be thelastof the Cub-Hunts?” I enquired.
“Well, you see, it led to a rather scandalous dispute between two of the Colleges.AnotherPrincipal had laid his hand on the young man, so nearly at the same moment as thesphericalone, that there was no knowing which had touched him first. The dispute got into print, and did us no credit, and, in short, Cub-Hunts came to an end. Now I’ll tell you what cured us of that wild craze of ours, the bidding against each other, for theclever scholars, just as if they were articles to be sold by auction! Just when the craze had reached its highest point, and when one of the Colleges had actually advertised a Scholarship of one thousand poundsper annum, one of our tourists brought us the manuscript of an old African legend—I happen to have a copy of it in my pocket. Shall I translate it for you?”
“Pray go on,” I said, though I felt I was gettingverysleepy.
Mein Herr unrolled the manuscript, but, to my great surprise, instead ofreadingit, he began tosingit, in a rich mellow voice that seemed to ring through the room.
“One thousand pounds per annuumIs not so bad a figure, come!”Cried Tottles. “And I tell you, flat,A man may marry well on that!To say ‘the Husband needs the Wife’Is not the way to represent it.The crowning joy of Woman’s lifeIsMan!” said Tottles (and he meant it).
“One thousand pounds per annuum
Is not so bad a figure, come!”
Cried Tottles. “And I tell you, flat,
A man may marry well on that!
To say ‘the Husband needs the Wife’
Is not the way to represent it.
The crowning joy of Woman’s life
IsMan!” said Tottles (and he meant it).
The blissful Honey-moon is past:The Pair have settled down at last:Mamma-in-law their home will share,And make their happiness her care.“Your income is an ample one;Go it, my children!” (And they went it).“I rayther think this kind of funWon’t last!” said Tottles (and he meant it).
The blissful Honey-moon is past:
The Pair have settled down at last:
Mamma-in-law their home will share,
And make their happiness her care.
“Your income is an ample one;
Go it, my children!” (And they went it).
“I rayther think this kind of fun
Won’t last!” said Tottles (and he meant it).
They took a little country-box—A box at Covent Garden also:They lived a life of double-knocks,Acquaintances began to call so:Their London house was much the same(It took three hundred, clear, to rent it):“Life is a very jolly game!”Cried happy Tottles (and he meant it).
They took a little country-box—
A box at Covent Garden also:
They lived a life of double-knocks,
Acquaintances began to call so:
Their London house was much the same
(It took three hundred, clear, to rent it):
“Life is a very jolly game!”
Cried happy Tottles (and he meant it).
‘Contented with a frugal lot’(He always used that phrase at Gunter’s),He bought a handy little yacht—A dozen serviceable hunters—The fishing of a Highland Loch—A sailing-boat to circumvent it—“The sounding of that Gaelic ‘och’Beatsme!” said Tottles (and he meant it).
‘Contented with a frugal lot’
(He always used that phrase at Gunter’s),
He bought a handy little yacht—
A dozen serviceable hunters—
The fishing of a Highland Loch—
A sailing-boat to circumvent it—
“The sounding of that Gaelic ‘och’
Beatsme!” said Tottles (and he meant it).
Here, with one of those convulsive starts that wake one up in the very act of dropping off to sleep, I became conscious that the deep musical tones that thrilled me didnotbelong to Mein Herr, but to the French Count. The old man was still conning the manuscript.
“Ibegyour pardon for keeping you waiting!” he said. “I was just making sure that I knew the English for all the words. I am quite ready now.” And he read me the following Legend:—
“In a city that stands in the very centre of Africa, and is rarely visited by the casual tourist, the people had always bought eggs—a daily necessary in a climate where egg-flip was the usual diet—from a Merchant who came to their gates once a week. And the people always bid wildly against each other: so there was quite a lively auction every time the Merchant came, and the last egg in his basket used to fetch the value of two or three camels, or thereabouts. And eggs got dearer every week. And still they drank their egg-flip, and wondered where all their money went to.
THE EGG-MERCHANTTHE EGG-MERCHANT
THE EGG-MERCHANT
“And there came a day when they put their heads together. And they understood what donkeys they had been.
“And next day, when the Merchant came, onlyoneMan went forth. And he said ‘Oh, thou of the hook-nose and the goggle-eyes, thou of the measureless beard, how much for that lot of eggs?’
“And the Merchant answered him ‘Icouldlet thee have that lot at ten thousand piastres the dozen.’
“And the Man chuckled inwardly, and said ‘Tenpiastres the dozen I offer thee, and no more, oh descendant of a distinguished grandfather!’
“And the Merchant stroked his beard, and said ‘Hum! I will await the coming of thy friends,’ So he waited. And the Man waited with him. And they waited both together.”
“The manuscript breaks off here,” said Mein Herr, as he rolled it up again; “but it was enough to open our eyes. We saw what simpletons we had been—buying our Scholars much as those ignorant savages bought their eggs—and the ruinous system was abandoned. If only we could have abandoned, along with it, all theotherfashions we had borrowed from you, instead of carrying them to their logical results! But it was not to be. What ruined my country, and drove me from my home, was the introduction—into theArmy, of all places—of your theory of Political Dichotomy!”
“Shall I trouble you too much,” I said, “if I ask you to explain what you mean by ‘the Theory of Political Dichotomy’?”
“No trouble at all!” was Mein Herr’s most courteous reply. “I quite enjoy talking, when I get so good a listener. What started the thing, with us, was the report brought to us, by one of our most eminent statesmen, who had stayed some time in England, of the way affairs were managed there. It was a political necessity (so he assured us, and we believed him, though we had never discovered it till that moment) that there should betwoParties, in every affair and on every subject. InPolitics, the two Parties, which you had found it necessary to institute, were called, he told us, ‘Whigs’ and ‘Tories’.”
“That must have been some time ago?” I remarked.
“Itwassome time ago,” he admitted. “And this was the way the affairs of the British Nation were managed. (You will correct me if I misrepresent it. I do but repeat what our traveler told us.) These two Parties—which were in chronic hostilityto each other—took turns in conducting the Government; and the Party, that happenednotto be in power, was called the ‘Opposition’, I believe?”
“That is the right name,” I said. “There have always been, so long as we have had a Parliament at all,twoParties, one ‘in’, and one ‘out’.”
“Well, the function of the ‘Ins’ (if I may so call them) was to do the best they could for the national welfare—in such things as making war or peace, commercial treaties, and so forth?”
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
“And the function of the ‘Outs’ was (so our traveller assured us, though we were very incredulous at first) topreventthe ‘Ins’ from succeeding in any of these things?”
“Tocriticizeand toamendtheir proceedings,” I corrected him. “It would beunpatriotictohinderthe Government in doing what was for the good of the Nation! We have always held aPatriotto be the greatest of heroes, and anunpatrioticspirit to be one of the worst of human ills!”
“Excuse me for a moment,” the old gentleman courteously replied, taking out his pocket-book. “I have a few memoranda here, of a correspondence I had with our tourist, and, if you will allow me, I’ll just refresh my memory—although I quite agree with you—it is, as you say, one of the worst of human ills—” And, here Mein Herr began singing again:—
But oh, the worst of human ills(Poor Tottles found) are ‘little bills’!And, with no balance in the Bank,What wonder that his spirits sank?Still, as the money flowed away,He wondered how on earth she spent it.“You cost me twenty pounds a day,At least!” cried Tottles (and he meant it).
But oh, the worst of human ills
(Poor Tottles found) are ‘little bills’!
And, with no balance in the Bank,
What wonder that his spirits sank?
Still, as the money flowed away,
He wondered how on earth she spent it.
“You cost me twenty pounds a day,
At least!” cried Tottles (and he meant it).
She sighed. “Those Drawing Rooms, you know!I really never thought about it:Mamma declared we ought to go—We should be Nobodies without it.That diamond-circlet for my brow—I quite believed thatshehad sent it,Until the Bill came in just now——”“Viper!” cried Tottles (and he meant it).
She sighed. “Those Drawing Rooms, you know!
I really never thought about it:
Mamma declared we ought to go—
We should be Nobodies without it.
That diamond-circlet for my brow—
I quite believed thatshehad sent it,
Until the Bill came in just now——”
“Viper!” cried Tottles (and he meant it).
Poor Mrs. T. could bear no more,But fainted flat upon the floor.Mamma-in-law, with anguish wild,Seeks, all in vain, to rouse her child.“Quick! Take this box of smelling-salts!Don’t scold her, James, or you’ll repent it,She’s adeargirl, with all her faults——”“Sheis!” groaned Tottles (and he meant it).
Poor Mrs. T. could bear no more,
But fainted flat upon the floor.
Mamma-in-law, with anguish wild,
Seeks, all in vain, to rouse her child.
“Quick! Take this box of smelling-salts!
Don’t scold her, James, or you’ll repent it,
She’s adeargirl, with all her faults——”
“Sheis!” groaned Tottles (and he meant it).
“I was a donkey,” Tottles cried,“To choose your daughter for my bride!’Twasyouthat bid us cut a dash!’Tisyouhave brought us to this smash!You don’t suggest one single thingThat can in any way prevent it——Then what’s the use of arguing?Shut up!” cried Tottles (and he meant it).
“I was a donkey,” Tottles cried,
“To choose your daughter for my bride!
’Twasyouthat bid us cut a dash!
’Tisyouhave brought us to this smash!
You don’t suggest one single thing
That can in any way prevent it——
Then what’s the use of arguing?
Shut up!” cried Tottles (and he meant it).
Once more I started into wakefulness, and realised that Mein Herr was not the singer. He was still consulting his memoranda.
“It is exactly what my friend told me,” he resumed, after conning over various papers. “‘Unpatriotic’ is the very word I had used, in writing to him, and ‘hinder’ is the very word he used in his reply! Allow me to read you a portion of his letter:——
“‘I can assure you,’ he writes, ‘that, unpatriotic as you may think it, the recognised function of the ‘Opposition’ is to hinder, in every manner not forbidden by the Law, the action of the Government. This process is called ‘Legitimate Obstruction’: and the greatest triumph the ‘Opposition’ can ever enjoy, is when they are able to point out that, owing to their ‘Obstruction’, the Government have failed in everything they have tried to do for the good of the Nation!’”
“‘I can assure you,’ he writes, ‘that, unpatriotic as you may think it, the recognised function of the ‘Opposition’ is to hinder, in every manner not forbidden by the Law, the action of the Government. This process is called ‘Legitimate Obstruction’: and the greatest triumph the ‘Opposition’ can ever enjoy, is when they are able to point out that, owing to their ‘Obstruction’, the Government have failed in everything they have tried to do for the good of the Nation!’”
“Your friend has not put itquitecorrectly,” I said. “The Opposition would no doubt be glad to point out that the Government had failedthrough their own fault; butnotthat they had failed on account ofObstruction!”
“You think so?” he gently replied. “Allow me now to read to you this newspaper-cutting, which my friend enclosed in his letter. It is part of the report of a public speech, made by a Statesman who was at the time a member of the ‘Opposition’:—
“‘At the close of the Session, he thought they had no reason to be discontented with thefortunes of the campaign. They had routed the enemy at every point. But the pursuit must be continued. They had only to follow up a disordered and dispirited foe.’”
“‘At the close of the Session, he thought they had no reason to be discontented with thefortunes of the campaign. They had routed the enemy at every point. But the pursuit must be continued. They had only to follow up a disordered and dispirited foe.’”
“Now to what portion of your national history would you guess that the speaker was referring?”
“Really, the number ofsuccessfulwars we have waged during the last century,” I replied, with a glow of British pride, “isfartoo great for me to guess, with any chance of success,whichit was we were then engaged in. However, I will name ‘India’ as the most probable. The Mutiny was no doubt, all but crushed, at the time that speech was made. What a fine, manly,patrioticspeech it must have been!” I exclaimed in an outburst of enthusiasm.
“You think so?” he replied, in a tone of gentle pity. “Yet my friend tells me that the ‘disordered and dispirited foe’ simply meant the Statesmen who happened to be in power at the moment; that the ‘pursuit’ simply meant ‘Obstruction’; and that thewords ‘they had routed the enemy’ simply meant that the ‘Opposition’ had succeeded in hindering the Government from doing any of the work which the Nation had empowered them to do!”
I thought it best to say nothing.
“It seemed queer tous, just at first,” he resumed, after courteously waiting a minute for me to speak: “but, when once we had mastered the idea, our respect for your Nation was so great that we carried it into every department of life! It was ‘the beginning of the end’ with us. My country never held up its head again!” And the poor old gentleman sighed deeply.
“Let us change the subject,” I said. “Do not distress yourself, I beg!”
“No, no!” he said, with an effort to recover himself. “I had rather finish my story! The next step (after reducing our Government to impotence, and putting a stop to all useful legislation, which did not take us long to do) was to introduce what we called ‘the glorious British Principle of Dichotomy’ intoAgriculture. We persuaded many of the well-to-dofarmers to divide their staff of labourers into two Parties, and to set them one against the other. They were called, like our political Parties, the ‘Ins’ and the ‘Outs’: the business of the ‘Ins’ was to do as much of ploughing, sowing, or whatever might be needed, as they could manage in a day, and at night they were paid according to the amount they haddone: the business of the ‘Outs’ was to hinder them, andtheywere paid for the amount they hadhindered. The farmers found they had to pay onlyhalfas much wages as they did before, and they didn’t observe that the amount of work done was only aquarteras much as was done before: so they took it up quite enthusiastically,at first.”
“Andafterwards——?” I enquired.
“Well,afterwardsthey didn’t like it quite so well. In a very short time, things settled down into a regular routine. No workat allwas done. So the ‘Ins’ got no wages, and the ‘Outs’ got full pay. And the farmers never discovered, till most of them were ruined, that the rascals had agreed to manage it so, and had shared the pay between them!While the thing lasted, there were funny sights to be seen! Why, I’ve often watched a ploughman, with two horses harnessed to the plough, doing his best to get itforwards; while the opposition-ploughman, with three donkeys harnessed at theotherend, was doinghisbest to get itbackwards! And the plough never moving an inch,eitherway!”
“Butwenever did anything likethat!” I exclaimed.
“Simply because you were lesslogicalthan we were,” replied Mein Herr. “There issometimesan advantage in being a donk—Excuse me! Nopersonalallusion intended. All this happenedlong ago, you know!”
“Did the Dichotomy-Principle succeed inanydirection?” I enquired.
“Innone,” Mein Herr candidly confessed. “It had averyshort trial inCommerce. The shop-keeperswouldn’ttake it up, after once trying the plan of having half the attendants busy in folding up and carrying away the goods which the other half were trying to spread out upon the counters. They said the Public didn’t like it!”