Civilization.As Discovered by Professor Peekwell, Samuel Searcher And Philip Deadlight.Professor.—Civilization is the science of discontent.Searcher.—How do you make that out?Professor.—Gentlemen, allow me to explain. In the first place, all that man requires on this terrestrial ball can be expressed in three words, namely: food, shelter and raiment.Searcher.—How about a wife?Deadlight.—And segars?Professor.—I use the term man as including the human race.Searcher.—Well, go on.Deadlight.—I’m ashamed of you, Professor; would you have us go back to savage life?Professor.—Yes, but only in fancy, for the purpose of illustration. Let us drop down on a remote island in the IndianOcean. It is night-fall. The last rosy tints of sunset are fading from the western sky. The murmur of the distant surf mingles with the soft lullaby of the Indian mother who soothes her babe to sleep.Searcher.—Why didn’t the goose use soothing syrup?Deadlight.—Or a cradle?Professor.—Beneath a tall palm, circled about the embers of a dying fire, sit the tawny natives. They are listening to the words that fall from the lips of an aged chief. With rapture they hang upon the oft-told legend of the isle. In their hearts they wonder at the old man’s wisdom. As he dilates upon their by-gone deeds, and their present might, their eyes involuntarily wander toward the rich foliage that gently sways on yonder high hill top; now they glance at the bright stars that peep forth from the upper blue, and now at the dim ocean that stretches away on either hand like a desert waste. Contentment almost perfect sits on every brow. Each savage has his spear, his hut of twigs: thus the Great Creator hath set them to fulfill their mission; and yet the spear and hut are the initial steps in the march of civilization; only luxury lies beyond them; comparative luxury is the acme of civilization.Searcher.—You’re a crank!Deadlight.—No, he’s a philosopher. Think of the blessings of savage life! No creditors to ring your door bell, and make you leap out of your chair with consternation.Searcher.—That is a point.Deadlight.—Then there’s no fashion to ruin a man every time the seasons change. Look at that bonnet yonder! I’ll wager it cost thirty dollars.Searcher.—And that dude’s coat, to say nothing of his monstrous collar.Professor.—Hold on——Deadlight.—And there’s no bank cashier to skip away with your limited balance.Professor.—Hold on, I say. Civilization is good; it elevates mankind; but the higher our civilization the greater our wants; therefore civilization is the science of discontent.Searcher.—Humph!Deadlight.—Ahem!Professor.—We will now adjourn.Geo.M. Vickers.
As Discovered by Professor Peekwell, Samuel Searcher And Philip Deadlight.
Professor.—Civilization is the science of discontent.
Searcher.—How do you make that out?
Professor.—Gentlemen, allow me to explain. In the first place, all that man requires on this terrestrial ball can be expressed in three words, namely: food, shelter and raiment.
Searcher.—How about a wife?
Deadlight.—And segars?
Professor.—I use the term man as including the human race.
Searcher.—Well, go on.
Deadlight.—I’m ashamed of you, Professor; would you have us go back to savage life?
Professor.—Yes, but only in fancy, for the purpose of illustration. Let us drop down on a remote island in the IndianOcean. It is night-fall. The last rosy tints of sunset are fading from the western sky. The murmur of the distant surf mingles with the soft lullaby of the Indian mother who soothes her babe to sleep.
Searcher.—Why didn’t the goose use soothing syrup?
Deadlight.—Or a cradle?
Professor.—Beneath a tall palm, circled about the embers of a dying fire, sit the tawny natives. They are listening to the words that fall from the lips of an aged chief. With rapture they hang upon the oft-told legend of the isle. In their hearts they wonder at the old man’s wisdom. As he dilates upon their by-gone deeds, and their present might, their eyes involuntarily wander toward the rich foliage that gently sways on yonder high hill top; now they glance at the bright stars that peep forth from the upper blue, and now at the dim ocean that stretches away on either hand like a desert waste. Contentment almost perfect sits on every brow. Each savage has his spear, his hut of twigs: thus the Great Creator hath set them to fulfill their mission; and yet the spear and hut are the initial steps in the march of civilization; only luxury lies beyond them; comparative luxury is the acme of civilization.
Searcher.—You’re a crank!
Deadlight.—No, he’s a philosopher. Think of the blessings of savage life! No creditors to ring your door bell, and make you leap out of your chair with consternation.
Searcher.—That is a point.
Deadlight.—Then there’s no fashion to ruin a man every time the seasons change. Look at that bonnet yonder! I’ll wager it cost thirty dollars.
Searcher.—And that dude’s coat, to say nothing of his monstrous collar.
Professor.—Hold on——
Deadlight.—And there’s no bank cashier to skip away with your limited balance.
Professor.—Hold on, I say. Civilization is good; it elevates mankind; but the higher our civilization the greater our wants; therefore civilization is the science of discontent.
Searcher.—Humph!
Deadlight.—Ahem!
Professor.—We will now adjourn.
Geo.M. Vickers.