Charles Reade was born at Ipsden, England, June 8, 1814, and died in London, April 11, 1884. After leaving Oxford in 1835 he studied law and was called to the bar in 1843. Soon afterward he resolved to devote himself to literature. He published his first novel in 1852. This was "Peg Woffington," and its success was so unqualified that if the author had any doubts concerning his wisdom in changing his profession they were soon dispelled. Among his subsequent novels were "It Is Never Too Late to Mend," "The Cloister and the Hearth," "Hard Cash," "Foul Play," "Put Yourself in His Place," and "A Terrible Temptation."Most of the novels of Charles Reade had to do with certain social and legal abuses then existing in England, and they did much to effect a pronounced improvement in the conditions attacked."The Box Tunnel," which appears herewith, is a short story written in 1857. It is an excellent specimen of that peculiar quality of humor for which its gifted author was famous.
Charles Reade was born at Ipsden, England, June 8, 1814, and died in London, April 11, 1884. After leaving Oxford in 1835 he studied law and was called to the bar in 1843. Soon afterward he resolved to devote himself to literature. He published his first novel in 1852. This was "Peg Woffington," and its success was so unqualified that if the author had any doubts concerning his wisdom in changing his profession they were soon dispelled. Among his subsequent novels were "It Is Never Too Late to Mend," "The Cloister and the Hearth," "Hard Cash," "Foul Play," "Put Yourself in His Place," and "A Terrible Temptation."Most of the novels of Charles Reade had to do with certain social and legal abuses then existing in England, and they did much to effect a pronounced improvement in the conditions attacked."The Box Tunnel," which appears herewith, is a short story written in 1857. It is an excellent specimen of that peculiar quality of humor for which its gifted author was famous.
Charles Reade was born at Ipsden, England, June 8, 1814, and died in London, April 11, 1884. After leaving Oxford in 1835 he studied law and was called to the bar in 1843. Soon afterward he resolved to devote himself to literature. He published his first novel in 1852. This was "Peg Woffington," and its success was so unqualified that if the author had any doubts concerning his wisdom in changing his profession they were soon dispelled. Among his subsequent novels were "It Is Never Too Late to Mend," "The Cloister and the Hearth," "Hard Cash," "Foul Play," "Put Yourself in His Place," and "A Terrible Temptation."Most of the novels of Charles Reade had to do with certain social and legal abuses then existing in England, and they did much to effect a pronounced improvement in the conditions attacked."The Box Tunnel," which appears herewith, is a short story written in 1857. It is an excellent specimen of that peculiar quality of humor for which its gifted author was famous.
Charles Reade was born at Ipsden, England, June 8, 1814, and died in London, April 11, 1884. After leaving Oxford in 1835 he studied law and was called to the bar in 1843. Soon afterward he resolved to devote himself to literature. He published his first novel in 1852. This was "Peg Woffington," and its success was so unqualified that if the author had any doubts concerning his wisdom in changing his profession they were soon dispelled. Among his subsequent novels were "It Is Never Too Late to Mend," "The Cloister and the Hearth," "Hard Cash," "Foul Play," "Put Yourself in His Place," and "A Terrible Temptation."Most of the novels of Charles Reade had to do with certain social and legal abuses then existing in England, and they did much to effect a pronounced improvement in the conditions attacked."The Box Tunnel," which appears herewith, is a short story written in 1857. It is an excellent specimen of that peculiar quality of humor for which its gifted author was famous.
Charles Reade was born at Ipsden, England, June 8, 1814, and died in London, April 11, 1884. After leaving Oxford in 1835 he studied law and was called to the bar in 1843. Soon afterward he resolved to devote himself to literature. He published his first novel in 1852. This was "Peg Woffington," and its success was so unqualified that if the author had any doubts concerning his wisdom in changing his profession they were soon dispelled. Among his subsequent novels were "It Is Never Too Late to Mend," "The Cloister and the Hearth," "Hard Cash," "Foul Play," "Put Yourself in His Place," and "A Terrible Temptation."
Most of the novels of Charles Reade had to do with certain social and legal abuses then existing in England, and they did much to effect a pronounced improvement in the conditions attacked.
"The Box Tunnel," which appears herewith, is a short story written in 1857. It is an excellent specimen of that peculiar quality of humor for which its gifted author was famous.
The 10.15 train glided from Paddington, May 7, 1847. In the left compartment of a certain first-class carriage were four passengers; of these, two were worth description. The lady had a smooth, white, delicate brow, strongly marked eyebrows, long lashes, eyes that seemed to change color, and a good-sized, delicious mouth, with teeth as white as milk. A man could not see her nose for her eyes and mouth; her own sex could and would have told us some nonsense about it. She wore an unpretending grayish dress buttoned to the throat with lozenge-shaped buttons, and a Scottish shawl that agreeably evaded color. She was like a duck, so tight her plain feathers fitted her, and there she sat, smooth, snug, and delicious, with a book in her hand, and the soupçon of her wrist just visible as she held it. Her opposite neighbor was what I call a good style of man—the more to his credit, since he belonged to a corporation that frequently turns out the worst imaginable style of young men. He was a cavalry officer, aged twenty-five. He had a mustache, but not a very repulsive one; not one of those subnasal pigtails on which soup is suspended like dew on a shrub; it was short, thick, and black as a coal. His teeth had not yet been turned by tobacco-smoke to the color of juice, his clothes did not stick to nor hang to him, he had an engaging smile, and, what I liked the dog for, his vanity, which was inordinate, was in its proper place, his heart, not in his face, jostling mine and other people's who have none—in a word, he was what one oftener hears of than meets—a young gentleman.
He was conversing in an animated whisper with a companion, a fellow officer; they were talking about what it is far better not to—women. Our friend clearly did not wish to be overheard; for he cast ever and anon a furtive glance at his fairvis-à-visand lowered his voice. She seemed completely absorbed in her book, and that reassured him.
At last the two soldiers came down to a whisper (the truth must be told), the one who got down at Slough, and was lost to posterity, bet ten pounds to three, that he who was going down with us to Bath and immortality would not kiss either of the ladies opposite upon the road. "Done, done!"
Now I am sorry a man I have hitherto praised should have lent himself, even ina whisper, to such a speculation; "but nobody is wise at all hours," not even when the clock is striking five and twenty; and you are to consider his profession, his good looks, and the temptation—ten to three.
After Slough the party was reduced to three; at Twylford one lady dropped her handkerchief; Captain Dolignan fell on it like a lamb; two or three words were interchanged on this occasion.
At Reading the Marlborough of our tale made one of the safe investments of that day, he bought aTimesandPunch; the latter full of steel-pen thrusts and woodcuts. Valor and beauty deigned to laugh at some inflamed humbug or other punctured byPunch. Now laughing together thaws our human ice; long before Swindon it was a talking match—at Swindon who so devoted as Captain Dolignan?—he handed them out—he souped them—he tough-chickened them—he brandied and cochinealed one, and brandied and burnt-sugared the other; on their return to the carriage, one lady passed into the inner compartment to inspect a certain gentleman's seat on that side of the line.
Reader, had it been you or I, the beauty would have been the deserter, the average one would have stayed with us till all was blue, ourselves included; not more surely does our slice of bread and butter, when it escapes from our hand, revolve it ever so often, alight face downward on the carpet.
But this was a bit of a fop, Adonis, dragoon—so Venus remainedtête-à-têtewith him. You have seen a dog meet an unknown female of the species; how handsome, how impressé, how expressive he becomes; such was Dolignan after Swindon, and to do the dog justice, he got handsome and handsomer; and you have seen a cat conscious of approaching cream—such was Miss Haythorn; she became demurer and demurer; presently our captain looked out of the window and laughed; this elicited an inquiring look from Miss Haythorn.
"We are only a mile from the Box Tunnel."
"Do you always laugh a mile from the Box Tunnel?" said the lady.
"Invariably."
"What for?"
"Why, hem! It is a gentleman's joke."
Captain Dolignan then recounted to Miss Haythorn the following:
"A lady and her husband sat together going through the Box Tunnel—there was one gentleman opposite; it was pitch dark; after the tunnel the lady said, 'George, how absurd of you to salute me going through the tunnel.' 'I did no such thing.' 'You didn't?' 'No! Why?' 'Because somehow I thought you did!'"
Here Captain Dolignan laughed and endeavored to lead his companion to laugh, but it was not to be done. The train entered the tunnel.
Miss Haythorn. Ah!
Dolignan. What is the matter?
Miss Haythorn. I am frightened.
Dolignan (moving to her side). Pray do not be alarmed; I am near you.
Miss Haythorn. You are near me—very near me, indeed, Captain Dolignan.
Dolignan. You know my name?
Miss Haythorn. I heard you mention it. I wish we were out of this dark place.
Dolignan. I could be content to spend hours here, reassuring you, my dear lady.
Miss Haythorn. Nonsense!
Dolignan. Pweep! (Grave reader, do not put your lips to the next pretty creature you meet or you will understand what this means.)
Miss Haythorn. Eh! Eh!
Friend. What is the matter?
Miss Haythorn. Open the door! Open the door!
There was a sound of hurried whispers, the door was shut and the blind pulled down with hostile sharpness.
If any critic falls on me for putting inarticulate sounds in a dialogue as above, I answer with all the insolence I can command at present, "Hit boys as big as yourself"; bigger perhaps, such as Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes; they began it, and I learned it of them, sore against my will.
Miss Haythorn's scream lost most of its effect because the engine whistled forty thousand murders at the same moment; and fictitious grief makes itself heard when real cannot.
Between the tunnel and Bath our young friend had time to ask himselfwhether his conduct had been marked by that delicate reserve which is supposed to distinguish the perfect gentleman.
With a long face, real or feigned, he held open the door; his late friends attempted to escape on the other side—impossible! they must pass him. She whom he had insulted (Latin for kissed) deposited somewhere at his feet a look of gentle, blushing reproach; the other, whom he had not insulted, darted red-hot daggers at him from her eyes; and so they parted.
It was perhaps fortunate for Dolignan that he had the grace to be a friend to Major Hoskyns of his regiment, a veteran laughed at by the youngsters, for the major was too apt to look coldly upon billiard-balls and cigars; he had seen cannon-balls and linstocks. He had also, to tell the truth, swallowed a good bit of the mess-room poker, which made it as impossible for Major Hoskyns to descend to an ungentlemanlike word or action as to brush his own trousers below the knee.
Captain Dolignan told this gentleman his story in gleeful accents; but Major Hoskyns heard him coldly, and as coldly answered that he had known a man to lose his life for the same thing.
"That is nothing," continued the major, "but unfortunately he deserved to lose it."
At this blood mounted to the younger man's temples; and his senior added, "I mean to say he was thirty-five; you, I presume, are twenty-one!"
"Twenty-five."
"That is much the same thing; will you be advised by me?"
"If you will advise me."
"Speak to no one of this, and send White the three pounds, that he may think you have lost the bet."
"That is hard, when I won it."
"Do it for all that, sir."
Let the disbelievers in human perfectibility know that this dragoon capable of a blush did this virtuous action, albeit with violent reluctance; and this was his first damper. A week after these events he was at a ball. He was in that state of factious discontent which belongs to us amiable English. He was looking in vain for a lady, equal in personal attraction to the idea he had formed of George Dolignan as a man, when suddenly there glided past him a most delightful vision! a lady whose beauty and symmetry took him by the eyes—another look: "It can't be! Yes, it is!" Miss Haythorn! (not that he knew her name) but what an apotheosis!
The duck had become a peahen—radiant, dazzling, she looked twice as beautiful and almost twice as large as before. He lost sight of her. He found her again. She was so lovely she made him ill—and he, alone, must not dance with her, speak to her. If he had been content to begin her acquaintance the usual way, it might have ended in kissing: it must end in nothing.
As she danced, sparks of beauty fell from her on all around, but him—she did not see him; it was clear she never would see him—one gentleman was particularly assiduous; she smiled on his assiduity; he was ugly, but she smiled on him. Dolignan was surprised at his success, his ill taste, his ugliness, his impertinence. Dolignan at last found himself injured; "who was this man? and what right had he to go on so? He never kissed her, I suppose," said Dolle. Dolignan could not prove it, but he felt that somehow the rights of property were invaded.
He went home and dreamed of Miss Haythorn, and hated all the ugly successful. He spent a fortnight trying to find out who his beauty was—he never could encounter her again. At last he heard of her in this way: A lawyer's clerk paid him a little visit and commenced a little action against him in the name of Miss Haythorn, for insulting her in a railway train.
The young gentleman was shocked; endeavored to soften the lawyer's clerk; that machine did not thoroughly comprehend the meaning of the term. The lady's name, however, was at last revealed by this untoward incident; from her name to her address was but a short step; and the same day our crestfallen hero lay in wait at her door, and many a succeeding day, without effect.
But one fine afternoon she issued forth quite naturally, as if she did it every day, and walked briskly on the parade. Dolignan did the same, met and passed her many times on the parade, andsearched for pity in her eyes, but found neither look nor recognition, nor any other sentiment; for all this she walked and walked, till all the other promenaders were tired and gone—then her culprit summoned resolution, and taking off his hat, with a voice for the first time tremulous, besought permission to address her.
She stopped, blushed, and neither acknowledged nor disowned his acquaintance. He blushed, stammered out how ashamed he was, how he deserved to be punished, how he was punished, how little she knew how unhappy he was, and concluded by begging her not to let all the world know the disgrace of a man who was already mortified enough by the loss of her acquaintance.
She asked an explanation; he told her of the action that had been commenced in her name; she gently shrugged her shoulders and said, "How stupid they are!" Emboldened by this, he begged to know whether or not a life of distant, unpretending devotion would, after a lapse of years, erase the memory of his madness—his crime!
"She did not know!"
"She must now bid him adieu, as she had preparations to make for a ball in the Crescent, where everybody was to be."
They parted, and Dolignan determined to be at the ball, where everybody was to be. He was there, and after some time he obtained an introduction to Miss Haythorn, and he danced with her. Her manner was gracious. With the wonderful tact of her sex, she seemed to have commenced the acquaintance that evening.
That night, for the first time, Dolignan was in love. I will spare the reader all a lover's arts, by which he succeeded in dining where she dined, in dancing where she danced, in overtaking her by accident when she rode. His devotion followed her to church, where the dragoon was rewarded by learning there is a world where they neither polk nor smoke—the two capital abominations of this one.
He made an acquaintance with her uncle, who liked him, and he saw at last with joy that her eye loved to dwell upon him, when she thought he did not observe her. It was three months after the Box Tunnel that Captain Dolignan called one day upon Captain Haythorn, R.N., whom he had met twice in his life, and slightly propitiated by violently listening to a cutting-out expedition; he called, and in the usual way asked permission to pay his addresses to his daughter.
The worthy captain straightway began doing quarter-deck, when suddenly he was summoned from the apartment by a mysterious message. On his return he announced, with a total change of voice, that "It was all right, and his visitor might run alongside as soon as he chose." My reader has divined the truth; this nautical commander was in complete and happy subjugation to his daughter, our heroine.
As he was taking leave, Dolignan saw his divinity glide into the drawing-room. He followed her, observed a sweet consciousness deepen into confusion—she tried to laugh and cried instead, and then she smiled again; when he kissed her hand at the door it was "George" and "Marian" instead of "Captain" this and "Miss" the other.
A reasonable time after this (for my tale is merciful and skips formalities and torturing delays), these two were very happy; they were once more upon the railroad, going to enjoy their honeymoon all by themselves. Marian Dolignan was dressed just as before—duck-like and delicious; all bright except her clothes; but George sat beside her this time instead of opposite; and she drank him in gently from her long eyelashes.
"Marian," said George, "married people should tell each other all. Will you ever forgive me if I own to you; no——"
"Yes! Yes!"
"Well, then, you remember the Box Tunnel." (This was the first allusion he had ventured to it.) "I am ashamed to say I had three pounds to ten with White I would kiss one of you two ladies," and George, pathetic externally, chuckled within.
"I know that, George; I overheard you," was the demure reply.
"Oh! You overheard me! Impossible."
"And did you not hear me whisper tomy companion? I made a bet with her."
"You made a bet! how singular! What was it?"
"Only a pair of gloves, George."
"Yes, I know; but what about it?"
"That if you did you should be my husband, dearest."
"Oh! but stay; then you could not have been so very angry with me, love. Why, dearest, then you brought that action against me."
Mrs. Dolignan looked down.
"I was afraid you were forgetting me! George, you will never forgive me?"
"Angel! Why, here is the Box Tunnel!"
Now, reader—fie! No! No such thing! You can't expect to be indulged in this way every time we come to a dark place. Besides, it is not the thing. Consider, two sensible married people. No such phenomenon, I assure you, took place. No scream in hopeless rivalry of the engine—this time!
Where They Come From, Who Said Them First, and How in Course of TimeThey Have Become Changed.
Many of our common sayings, so trite and pithy, are used without the least idea from whose mouth or pen they first originated. Probably the works of Shakespeare furnish us with more of these familiar maxims than any other writer, for to him we owe: "All is not gold that glitters"; "Make a virtue of necessity"; "Screw your courage to a sticking place" (not point); "They laugh that win"; "This is the long and short of it"; "Make assurance double sure" (not doubly); "As merry as the day is long"; "A Daniel come to judgment"; "Frailty, thy name is woman"; and a host of others.
Washington Irving gives us "The almighty dollar"; Thomas Norton queried long ago, "What will Mrs. Grundy say?" while Goldsmith answers, "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no fibs." Charles C. Pinckney: "Millions for defense, but not one cent for tribute." "First in war, first in peace, and first in the heart of his fellow citizens" (not countrymen) appeared in the resolutions presented to the House of Representatives in December, 1790, prepared by General Henry Lee.
Thomas Tusser, a writer of the sixteenth century, gives us: "It's an ill wind turns none to good," "Better late than never," "Look ere thou leap," and "The stone that is rolling can gather no moss." "All cry and no wool" is found in Butler's "Hudibras."
Dryden says: "None but the brave deserve the fair," "Men are but children of a larger growth," and "Through thick and thin." "No pent-up Utica contracts your powers," declared Jonathan Sewall.
"When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war."—Nathaniel Lee (1655-1692).
"The end must justify the means" is from Matthew Prior. We are indebted to Colley Cibber for the agreeable intelligence that "Richard is himself again." Johnson tells us of "A good hater"; and Sir James Mackintosh, in 1791, used the phrase often attributed to John Randolph, "Wise and masterly inactivity."
"Variety's the very spice of life," and "Not much the worse for wear," Cowper; "Man proposes, but God disposes," Thomas à Kempis.
Christopher Marlowe gave forth the invitation so often repeated by his brothers in a less public way, "Love me little, love me long." Sir Edward Coke was of the opinion that "A man's house is his castle." To Milton we owe "The paradise of fools," "Fresh woods and pastures new," and "Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war."
Edward Young tells us "Death loves a shining mark," "A fool at forty is indeed a fool," but alas for his knowledge of human nature when he adds that "Man wants but little, nor that little long"!
From Bacon comes "Knowledge is power."
A good deal of so-called slang is classic. "Escape with the skin of my teeth" is from Job. "He is a brick" is from Plutarch. That historian tells of a king of Sparta who boasted that his army was the only wall of the city, "and every man is a brick." We call a fair and honest man "a square man," but the Greeks describe the same person astetragonos—"a four-cornered man."
"Every dog has its day" is commonly attributed to Shakespeare, inHamlet'sspeech, "The cat will mew and dog will have his day." But forty years before "Hamlet" Heywood wrote, "But, as every man saith, a dog hath his daie."
A friend of the inventor says that Thomas A. Edison is very fond of smoking, but that sometimes he becomes so absorbed in work that he even forgets that he has a cigar in his mouth.
Mr. Edison once complained to a man in the tobacco business that he, the inventor, could not account for the rapidity with which the cigars disappeared from a box that he always kept in his office. The "Wizard" was not inclined to think that he smoked them all himself. Finally, he asked the tobacco man what might be done to remedy the situation.
The latter suggested that he make up some cigars—"fake" them, in other words—with a well-known label on the outside. "I'll fill 'em with horsehair and hard rubber," said he. "Then you'll find that there will not be so many missing."
"All right," said Mr. Edison, and he forgot all about the matter.
Several weeks later, when the tobacco man was again calling on the inventor, the latter suddenly said:
"Look here! I thought you were going to fix me up some fake cigars!"
"Why, I did!" exclaimed the other, in hurt surprise.
"When?"
"Don't you remember the flat box with a green label—cigars in bundle form, tied with yellow ribbon?"
Edison smiled reflectively. "Do you know," he finally said, in abashed tones, "I smoked every one of those cigars myself!"—Saturday Evening Post.
Among after-dinner speakers, Joseph Jefferson ranked as one who could tell a good story in a dry, delightful way. His stories dealt principally with theatrical subjects.
"While starring through Indiana several years ago," he said at a dinner one night, "my manager was approached by a man who had the local reputation of being a pass 'worker,' or dead-beat. He told the usual yarn about being a former actor, and ended by asking for professional courtesies.
"'I would be glad to oblige you,' said the manager, 'but, unfortunately, I haven't a card with me.' Just then a happy thought struck him, and he added: 'I'll tell you what I'll do. I will write the pass where it will be easy for you to show it.'
"Leaning over, with a pencil he wrote 'Pass the bearer' on the fellow's white shirt-front, and signed his name. The beat thanked him and hastened to the gate. The ticket-taker gravely examined the writing and let him take a few steps inside, then called him back, saying, in a loud voice:
"'Hold on, my friend; I forgot. It will be necessary for you to leave that pass with me.'"—Harper's Weekly.
"Edward Everett Hale," said a lawyer, "was one of the guests at a millionaire's dinner.
"The millionaire was a free spender, but he wanted full credit for every dollar put out.
"And, as the dinner progressed, he told his guests what the more expensive dishes had cost. He dwelt especially on the expense of the large and beautiful grapes, each bunch a foot long, each grape bigger than a plum. He told, down to a penny, what he had figured it out that the grapes had cost him apiece.
"The guests looked annoyed. They ate the expensive grapes charily. But Dr. Hale, smiling, extended his plate and said:
"'Would you mind cutting me off about $1.87 worth more, please?'"—New York Tribune.
Many people have heard the "Marche Funèbre" of Chopin, but few are aware that it had its origin in a rather ghastly after-dinner frolic.
The painter Ziem, still living in hale old age, relates how, about fifty-six years ago, he had given a little Bohemian dinner in his studio, which was divided by hangings into three sections. In one section was a skeleton sometimes used by Ziem for "draping" and an old piano covered with a sheet.
During the after-dinner fun Ziem and the painter Ricard crept into this section, and, wrapping the old sheet like a pall around the skeleton, carried it among their comrades, where Polignac seized it, and, wrapping himself with the skeleton in the sheet, sat down to play a queer dance of death at the wheezy old piano.
In the midst of it all, Chopin, who was of the party, was seized with an inspiration, and, seating himself at the piano with an exclamation that brought the roisterers to their senses, extemporized then and there the famous "Marche Funèbre," while his Bohemian auditory applauded in frantic delight.—London Globe.
The late Eugene Field, while on one of his lecturing tours, entered Philadelphia.
There was some delay at the bridge over the Schuylkill River, and the humorist's attention was attracted by the turbid, coffee-colored stream flowing underneath. He asked the colored porter:
"Don't you people get your drinking-water from this stream?"
"Yassir! Ain't got no yuther place to git it frum, 'cept th' Delaweah. Yassir!"
"I should think," said the humorist, "that you would be afraid to drink such water; especially as the seepage from that cemetery I see on the hill must drain directly into the river and pollute it."
"I reckon yo' all doan' know Philadelphy ve'y well, sah, aw yo'd know dat's Lau'el Hill Cemete'y!" said the son of Ham.
"Well, what of that?" asked Field.
"Dat wattah doan' hu't us Philaydelphians none, sah," replied the native son. "W'y, mos' all of de folkses bu'ied theah aw f'om ouah ve'y best fam'lies!"—Success.
"W.B. Yeats, the English poet, got off a good thing when he was at the Franklin Inn for lunch the other day," said the Literary Man. "Of course he's all for art for art's sake, but he told of a woman who once said to Marion Crawford, the novelist:
"'Have you ever written anything that will live after you have gone?'
"'Madam,' Crawford replied, 'what I am trying to do is to write something that will enable me to live while I am here.'"—Philadelphia Press.
Dr. William Osler is always exceedingly precise in his directions to patients. He relates an experience which a brother practitioner once had which illustrates the dangers of lack of precision.
A young man one day visited this doctor and described a common malady that had befallen him.
"The thing for you to do," the physician said, "is to drink hot water an hour before breakfast every morning."
The patient took his leave, and in a week returned.
"Well, how are you feeling?" the physician asked.
"Worse, doctor; worse, if anything," was the reply.
"Ah! Did you follow my advice and drink hot water an hour before breakfast?"
"I did my best, sir," said the young man, "but I couldn't keep it up more'n ten minutes at a stretch."—Woman's Home Companion.
It is not unusual in life to see an awkward fellow making a false step. He attempts to recover himself and makes another; the second is followed by a third, and down he comes. Here is an illustration of what we mean:
A gentleman once said to Lord North, "Pray, my lord, who is that extremely ugly woman sitting over there?"
"That's my youngest sister," said his lordship.
"Good gracious!" said the gentleman, "I don't mean her, I mean the next."
"That is my eldest sister," replied the nobleman.
"I protest," cried the unhappy gentleman, "I don't mean her, but the third."
"That is my wife," said Lord North.
"The devil!" ejaculated the poor fellow.
"You may well say that," said Lord North, "for she is as ugly as one. But console yourself, my dear sir, we are the ugliest family in England."—Golden Penny.
The Earl of Wemyss, who, though an octogenarian, is one of the most fiery members of the Upper House, may boast of being the only man who has ever struck the King in public. It occurred when his majesty was Prince of Wales, and in the House of Lords during a debate.
The prince, as Duke of Cornwall, attended, and sat immediately before Lord Wemyss. The noble lord made a speech, during which he, as usual, became heated, and, in the course of a gesture, brought his fist down bang on His Royal Highness's hat.
The prince, appreciating the force of the earl's argument, retired to a place farther from him. Lord Wemyss was well known, before succeeding to the earldom, as Lord Elcho, an enthusiast of volunteering and rifle-shooting.—Pearson's Weekly.
Bicentenary of the Famous Man Whom Joseph H. Choate Has Styled "The Greatest of American Diplomats"—Contrasts of a Successful Career—Franklin's Own Practical Rules of Conduct, and the Epitaph He Wrote for Himself.
Bicentenary of the Famous Man Whom Joseph H. Choate Has Styled "The Greatest of American Diplomats"—Contrasts of a Successful Career—Franklin's Own Practical Rules of Conduct, and the Epitaph He Wrote for Himself.
An original article written forThe Scrap Book.
It is two hundred years since Benjamin Franklin was born. The anniversary, important though it is, has led to reflections concerning the man rather than enthusiasm over him. We are struck by the great variety of his activities and accomplishments, and by the sanity of his conduct.
Benjamin Franklin is not named as the greatest American. Washington and Lincoln always will be ranked before him, because in certain achievements they stand altogether alone. The deeds which made Washington and Lincoln great required special gifts in mind and character—endowments found in such full measure only in few men and at rare intervals.
Joseph H. Choate, recently ambassador to Great Britain, in his inaugural address as president of the Birmingham and Midland Institute, in 1903, paid eloquent tribute to Franklin:
His whole career has been summed up by a great French statesman, who was one of his personal friends and correspondents, in six words, Latin words of course: "Eripuit caelo fulmen sceptrumque tyrannis," which, unfortunately for our language, cannot be translated into English in less than twelve: "He snatched the lightning from the skies, and the scepter from tyrants."Surely the briefest and most brilliant biography ever written. He enlarged the boundaries of human knowledge by discovering laws and facts of Nature unknown before, and applying them to the use and service of man; and that entitles him to lasting fame.But his other service to mankind differed from this only in kind, and was quite equal in degree. For he stands second only to Washington in the list of heroic patriots who on both sides of the Atlantic stood for those fundamental principles of English liberty which culminated in the independence of the United States, and have ever since been shared by the English-speaking race the world over.In view of his fifteen years' service in England and ten in France, of the immense obstacles and difficulties which he had to overcome, of the art and wisdom which he displayed, and the incalculable value to the country of the treaties which he negotiated, he still stands as by far the greatest of American diplomats.
His whole career has been summed up by a great French statesman, who was one of his personal friends and correspondents, in six words, Latin words of course: "Eripuit caelo fulmen sceptrumque tyrannis," which, unfortunately for our language, cannot be translated into English in less than twelve: "He snatched the lightning from the skies, and the scepter from tyrants."
Surely the briefest and most brilliant biography ever written. He enlarged the boundaries of human knowledge by discovering laws and facts of Nature unknown before, and applying them to the use and service of man; and that entitles him to lasting fame.
But his other service to mankind differed from this only in kind, and was quite equal in degree. For he stands second only to Washington in the list of heroic patriots who on both sides of the Atlantic stood for those fundamental principles of English liberty which culminated in the independence of the United States, and have ever since been shared by the English-speaking race the world over.
In view of his fifteen years' service in England and ten in France, of the immense obstacles and difficulties which he had to overcome, of the art and wisdom which he displayed, and the incalculable value to the country of the treaties which he negotiated, he still stands as by far the greatest of American diplomats.
Though greatest in no one thing, Franklin was great in many things. He was, in his time and place, a great statesman, a great diplomat. He was a great scientist, a great philosopher, a great inventor, a great man of letters, a great business man.
All his qualities were made valuable by his practical sense. He was interested in nothing unless he saw in it some use. The result was that he found use in almost everything. It is no wonder that he is called "the many-sided Franklin."
This practical nature makes Franklin a typical American. Most of the larger figures of the eighteenth century, when we look back to them now, seem a little remote in their way of thinking and acting. They carry the peculiar flavor of their period. But Franklin, as we know him, might be a man of the present day—of any day in American history.
In the course of his life he worked hisway up through every social stratum. A self-made man, he was virtually unassisted in his efforts to advance himself. He was the fifteenth child of a poor tallow-chandler and soap-maker. All his public-school education was received before his eleventh year.
Yet we see him in his later life the idol of the French court, pitted against the shrewdest diplomats of the Old World to plead for the struggling American colonies, and gaining his ends almost as much through social tact and charm as by the power of a well-trained mind. He did not lead men—he managed them.
The contrasts in his career can be seen in this condensed biography:
1706—Born in Boston, January 17.1716—Taken from school and put to workin his father's tallow-chandler's shop.1718—Apprenticed to his brother in theprinting trade.1723—Ran away to Philadelphia, where heworked as a printer.1725—Stranded in London and forced towork at his trade.1729—Began publication of thePennsylvaniaGazette.1732—First appearance of "Poor Richard'sAlmanac." Founded a Philadelphialibrary, first circulating library inAmerica.1737—Appointed postmaster of Philadelphia.Organized first fire company in America.1742—Invented the first stove used in thiscountry.1743—Founded the American Philosophical Societyand the University of Pennsylvania.1748—Retired from active business with anestimated fortune of $75,000.1752—The kite demonstration to prove thatlightning is electricity.1755—Led in the defense of Pennsylvaniaagainst the Indians.1757—Sent to London as agent of theColonial Assembly of Pennsylvania.1763—Traveled sixteen hundred miles, extendingand improving postal system.1766—Gave testimony on the Stamp Act and spokefor the colonies before the House of Commons.1775—After eleven years in England returned toAmerica to take part in the contest forindependence, and was elected to the secondContinental Congress.1776—On Committee of Five to frame theDeclaration of Independence. Appointedcommissioner to solicit aid from France.1778—Secured a treaty of alliance withFrance.1781—Member of the commission to negotiatea treaty of peace with Great Britain.1785—President of the Commonwealth ofPennsylvania.1787—Assisted in framing the Constitutionof the United States.1790—Died at his home in Philadelphia,eighty-four years of age.
"Stranded in London in 1725;" in 1748 retiring from business "with an estimated fortune of seventy-five thousand dollars"—a real fortune in those days—besides an assured income of five thousand dollars a year from his publishing business. Here is advancement!
If Franklin had remained in retirement he would be remembered as a successful colonial gentleman who contributed many maxims and proverbs to the literature of common sense.
But about this time men who had the leisure were everywhere playing with electricity. Experiments in natural science happened to be a fad, much as in recent years have been experiments in table-lifting, automatic writing, and other phenomena of what is called the "subliminal self."
Franklin studied electricity with the rest, but with the difference that he made his electrical work amount to something. The results of his experiments were published, arousing a great deal of interest in Europe.
The suggestion that thunder and lightning are electrical phenomena similar to those produced artificially was made by Franklin in 1749. The idea was not altogether new. He, however, emphasized it, and proposed an experiment by which the identity of the two manifestations of the electric fluid might be proved.
His scheme involved the erection of an iron rod on a church steeple or high tower to draw electricity from passing clouds. The experiment was first actually carried out by a Frenchman, D'Alibard.
When Franklin made his famous experiment with the kite in 1752 the theory he was seeking to prove had already been established. Yet the credit of the discovery belongs to him by right of prior suggestion.
Franklin offered, instead of the two-fluid theory of electricity, the then revolutionary one-fluid theory; discovered the poisonous nature of air breathed out from the lungs; made important meteorological discoveries, including the fact that the Gulf Stream is warmer than the surrounding ocean; proved, by experiment with colored cloths on snow, that different colors absorb the heat of the sun in different quantities.
These are among his scientific achievements. From each he drew some practical inference. He invented the lightning-rod; devised systems of ventilation for buildings, and suggested that white, since it absorbs the least heat, is the best color to wear in summer.
His reputation as a man of letters rests upon his journalistic work, essays, and correspondence, and his unique autobiography. He founded the first literary newspaper in America, thus becoming the first editor as distinguished from the mere news-gatherer. He founded the first literary club in America—the famous Junto. He was the first to illustrate a newspaper, and to point out the advantages of illustrated advertisements.
Though his claim to eminence as a man of letters is not to be gainsaid, he was not, in the finer distinction, a literary man. He represented no literary tradition, nor did he establish one. His practical genius confined the elements of his literary manner to lucidity, simplicity, and directness. There was no really idealistic touch in his writing. But his frankness and his genial humor kept him from ever becoming dull. His autobiography is one of the most interesting personal narratives ever written.
But Franklin's greatest work was his work as a statesman and diplomat. Between 1757 and 1775 he represented in England first his own colony of Pennsylvania and later the group of colonies. His zeal got him into trouble, for he made public, though by permission, some letters written by Governor Hutchison, of Massachusetts, in which the English government was advised to use harsh measures with the colony.
Attacked in the Privy Council for his "bad faith," Franklin stood silent until the vituperation ended, and then quietly withdrew. His demeanor inspired Horace Walpole's famous epigram:
The calm philosopher, without reply,Withdrew, and gave his country liberty.
The calm philosopher, without reply,Withdrew, and gave his country liberty.
On that fateful day Franklin was dressed in "a new suit of spotted Manchester velvet." The man's sense of humor appears in the fact that he deliberately laid that suit aside and did not put it on again until the day when he signed the treaty of alliance between France and the American colonies.
His labors in France during the period of the American Revolution are part of the history of the time. As the French historian Lacretelle says:
His virtues and renown negotiated for him; and before the second year of his mission had expired no one conceived it possible to refuse fleets and armies to the countrymen of Franklin.
His virtues and renown negotiated for him; and before the second year of his mission had expired no one conceived it possible to refuse fleets and armies to the countrymen of Franklin.
How did Franklin make himself so effective a man? How did he succeed where others failed? The secret lies in his practical philosophy of life. Fortunately he bequeathed that secret to us in the maxims which he composed for his own guidance during his voyage back to America from England when he was twenty-two years of age. The pithy phrases are full of vitality to-day.
Eat not to dulness; drink not to elevation.Speak naught but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.Lose no time; be always employed in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and if you speak, speak accordingly.Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, clothes, or habitation.Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.Drive thy business; let not thy business drive thee.Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.One to-day is worth two to-morrows.Buy what thou hast no need of and ere long thou shalt sell thy necessaries.Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half-shut afterward.They that won't be counseled can't be helped.A man may, if he knows not how to save as he gets, keep his nose all his life to the grindstone, and die not worth a groat at last.
Eat not to dulness; drink not to elevation.
Speak naught but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.
Lose no time; be always employed in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.
Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and if you speak, speak accordingly.
Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, clothes, or habitation.
Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.
Drive thy business; let not thy business drive thee.
Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.
One to-day is worth two to-morrows.
Buy what thou hast no need of and ere long thou shalt sell thy necessaries.
Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half-shut afterward.
They that won't be counseled can't be helped.
A man may, if he knows not how to save as he gets, keep his nose all his life to the grindstone, and die not worth a groat at last.
Worldly wise, these maxims; but sound rules of conduct. Franklin was no dodderingPolonius, looking for advantage where others could have none. He was worldly wise, but he employed his worldly wisdom to serve not only himself but his friends, his neighbors, and finally his country.
The venerable Edward Everett Hale, whose span of years reaches far back to almost touching distance with the great and good ones of the nation's infancy, sheds new light upon Benjamin Franklin's religious life in a recent article in theIndependent: