Literary Lapses - Stephen Leacock
"A fortnight before, I remembered having heard the street
boys crying the news of an appalling suicide, and I know
now that it must have been he. After the first shock of
my grief had passed, I sought to keep him in my memory
by drawing the portrait which hangs beside you. I have
some skill in the art, and I feel assured that I have
caught the expression of his face. The picture is, of
course, an ideal one, for, as you know, I never saw
Fifty-Six."
The bell on the door of the outer shop tinkled at the
entrance of a customer. Ah-Yen rose with that air of
quiet resignation that habitually marked his demeanour,
and remained for some time in the shop. When he returned
he seemed in no mood to continue speaking of his lost
friend. I left him soon after and walked sorrowfully home
to my lodgings. On my way I mused much upon my little
Eastern friend and the sympathetic grasp of his imagination.
But a burden lay heavy on my heart--something I would
fain have told him but which I could not bear to mention.
I could not find it in my heart to shatter the airy castle
of his fancy. For my life has been secluded and lonely
and I have known no love like that of my ideal friend.
Yet I have a haunting recollection of a certain huge
bundle of washing that I sent to him about a year ago.
I had been absent from town for three weeks and my laundry
was much larger than usual in consequence. And if I
mistake not there was in the bundle a tattered shirt that
had been grievously stained by the breaking of a bottle
of red ink in my portmanteau, and burnt in one place
where an ash fell from my cigar as I made up the bundle.
Of all this I cannot feel absolutely certain, yet I know
at least that until a year ago, when I transferred my
custom to a more modern establishment, my laundry number
with Ah-Yen was Fifty-Six.
Aristocratic Education
House of Lords, Jan. 25, 1920.--The House of Lords
commenced to-day in Committee the consideration of Clause
No. 52,000 of the Education Bill, dealing with the teaching
of Geometry in the schools.
The Leader of the Government in presenting the clause
urged upon their Lordships the need of conciliation. The
Bill, he said, had now been before their Lordships for
sixteen years. The Government had made every concession.
They had accepted all the amendments of their Lordships
on the opposite side in regard to the original provisions
of the Bill. They had consented also to insert in the
Bill a detailed programme of studies of which the present
clause, enunciating the fifth proposition of Euclid, was
a part. He would therefore ask their Lordships to accept
the clause drafted as follows:
"The angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are
equal, and if the equal sides of the triangle are produced,
the exterior angles will also be equal."
He would hasten to add that the Government had no intention
of producing the sides. Contingencies might arise to
render such a course necessary, but in that case their
Lordships would receive an early intimation of the fact.
The Archbishop of Canterbury spoke against the clause.
He considered it, in its present form, too secular. He
should wish to amend the clause so as to make it read:
"The angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are, in
every Christian community, equal, and if the sides be
produced by a member of a Christian congregation, the
exterior angles will be equal."
He was aware, he continued, that the angles at the base
of an isosceles triangle are extremely equal, but he must
remind the Government that the Church had been aware of
this for several years past. He was willing also to admit
that the opposite sides and ends of a parallelogram are
equal, but he thought that such admission should be
coupled with a distinct recognition of the existence of
a Supreme Being.
The Leader of the Government accepted His Grace's amendment
with pleasure. He considered it the brightest amendment
His Grace had made that week. The Government, he said,
was aware of the intimate relation in which His Grace
stood to the bottom end of a parallelogram and was prepared
to respect it.
Lord Halifax rose to offer a further amendment. He thought
the present case was one in which the "four-fifths"
clause ought to apply: he should wish it stated that the
angles are equal for two days every week, except in the
case of schools where four-fifths of the parents are
conscientiously opposed to the use of the isosceles
triangle.
The Leader of the Government thought the amendment a
singularly pleasing one. He accepted it and would like
it understood that the words isosceles triangle were not
meant in any offensive sense.
Lord Rosebery spoke at some length. He considered the
clause unfair to Scotland, where the high state of morality
rendered education unnecessary. Unless an amendment in
this sense was accepted, it might be necessary to reconsider
the Act of Union of 1707.
The Leader of the Government said that Lord Rosebery's
amendment was the best he had heard yet. The Government
accepted it at once. They were willing to make every
concession. They would, if need be, reconsider the Norman
Conquest.
The Duke of Devonshire took exception to the part of the
clause relating to the production of the sides. He did
not think the country was prepared for it. It was unfair
to the producer. He would like the clause altered to
read, "if the sides be produced in the home market."
The Leader of the Government accepted with pleasure His
Grace's amendment. He considered it quite sensible. He
would now, as it was near the hour of rising, present
the clause in its revised form. He hoped, however, that
their Lordships would find time to think out some further
amendments for the evening sitting.
The clause was then read.
His Grace of Canterbury then moved that the House, in
all humility, adjourn for dinner.
The Conjurer's Revenge
"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the conjurer, "having
shown you that the cloth is absolutely empty, I will
proceed to take from it a bowl of goldfish. Presto!"
All around the hall people were saying, "Oh, how wonderful!
How does he do it?"
But the Quick Man on the front seat said in a big whisper
to the people near him, "He-had-it-up-his-sleeve."
Then the people nodded brightly at the Quick Man and
said, "Oh, of course"; and everybody whispered round the
hall, "He-had-it-up-his-sleeve."
"My next trick," said the conjurer, "is the famous
Hindostanee rings. You will notice that the rings are
apparently separate; at a blow they all join (clang,
clang, clang)--Presto!"
There was a general buzz of stupefaction till the Quick
Man was heard to whisper, "He-must-have-had-another-lot-
up-his-sleeve."
Again everybody nodded and whispered, "The-rings-were-
up-his-sleeve."
The brow of the conjurer was clouded with a gathering
frown.
"I will now," he continued, "show you a most amusing
trick by which I am enabled to take any number of eggs
from a hat. Will some gentleman kindly lend me his hat?
Ah, thank you--Presto!"
He extracted seventeen eggs, and for thirty-five seconds
the audience began to think that he was wonderful. Then
the Quick Man whispered along the front bench, "He-has-a-
hen-up-his-sleeve," and all the people whispered it on.
"He-has-a-lot-of-hens-up-his-sleeve."
The egg trick was ruined.
It went on like that all through. It transpired from the
whispers of the Quick Man that the conjurer must have
concealed up his sleeve, in addition to the rings, hens,
and fish, several packs of cards, a loaf of bread, a
doll's cradle, a live guinea-pig, a fifty-cent piece,
and a rocking-chair.
The reputation of the conjurer was rapidly sinking below
zero. At the close of the evening he rallied for a final
effort.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I will present to you,
in conclusion, the famous Japanese trick recently invented
by the natives of Tipperary. Will you, sir," he continued
turning toward the Quick Man, "will you kindly hand me
your gold watch?"
It was passed to him.
"Have I your permission to put it into this mortar and
pound it to pieces?" he asked savagely.
The Quick Man nodded and smiled.
The conjurer threw the watch into the mortar and grasped
a sledge hammer from the table. There was a sound of
violent smashing, "He's-slipped-it-up-his-sleeve,"
whispered the Quick Man.
"Now, sir," continued the conjurer, "will you allow me
to take your handkerchief and punch holes in it? Thank
you. You see, ladies and gentlemen, there is no deception;
the holes are visible to the eye."
The face of the Quick Man beamed. This time the real
mystery of the thing fascinated him.
"And now, sir, will you kindly pass me your silk hat and
allow me to dance on it? Thank you."
The conjurer made a few rapid passes with his feet and
exhibited the hat crushed beyond recognition.
"And will you now, sir, take off your celluloid collar
and permit me to burn it in the candle? Thank you, sir.
And will you allow me to smash your spectacles for you
with my hammer? Thank you."
By this time the features of the Quick Man were assuming
a puzzled expression. "This thing beats me," he whispered,
"I don't see through it a bit."
There was a great hush upon the audience. Then the conjurer
drew himself up to his full height and, with a withering
look at the Quick Man, he concluded:
"Ladies and gentlemen, you will observe that I have, with
this gentleman's permission, broken his watch, burnt his
collar, smashed his spectacles, and danced on his hat.
If he will give me the further permission to paint green
stripes on his overcoat, or to tie his suspenders in a
knot, I shall be delighted to entertain you. If not, the
performance is at an end."
And amid a glorious burst of music from the orchestra
the curtain fell, and the audience dispersed, convinced
that there are some tricks, at any rate, that are not
done up the conjurer's sleeve.
Hints to Travellers
The following hints and observations have occurred to me
during a recent trip across the continent: they are
written in no spirit of complaint against existing railroad
methods, but merely in the hope that they may prove useful
to those who travel, like myself, in a spirit of meek,
observant ignorance.
1. Sleeping in a Pullman car presents some difficulties
to the novice. Care should be taken to allay all sense
of danger. The frequent whistling of the engine during
the night is apt to be a source of alarm. Find out,
therefore, before travelling, the meaning of the various
whistles. One means "station," two, "railroad crossing,"
and so on. Five whistles, short and rapid, mean sudden
danger. When you hear whistles in the night, sit up
smartly in your bunk and count them. Should they reach
five, draw on your trousers over your pyjamas and leave
the train instantly. As a further precaution against
accident, sleep with the feet towards the engine if you
prefer to have the feet crushed, or with the head towards
the engine, if you think it best to have the head crushed.
In making this decision try to be as unselfish as possible.
If indifferent, sleep crosswise with the head hanging
over into the aisle.
2. I have devoted some thought to the proper method of
changing trains. The system which I have observed to be
the most popular with travellers of my own class, is
something as follows: Suppose that you have been told on
leaving New York that you are to change at Kansas City.
The evening before approaching Kansas City, stop the
conductor in the aisle of the car (you can do this best
by putting out your foot and tripping him), and say
politely, "Do I change at Kansas City?" He says "Yes."
Very good. Don't believe him. On going into the dining-car
for supper, take a negro aside and put it to him as a
personal matter between a white man and a black, whether
he thinks you ought to change at Kansas City. Don't be
satisfied with this. In the course of the evening pass
through the entire train from time to time, and say to
people casually, "Oh, can you tell me if I change at
Kansas City?" Ask the conductor about it a few more times
in the evening: a repetition of the question will ensure
pleasant relations with him. Before falling asleep watch
for his passage and ask him through the curtains of your
berth, "Oh, by the way, did you say I changed at Kansas
City?" If he refuses to stop, hook him by the neck with
your walking-stick, and draw him gently to your bedside.
In the morning when the train stops and a man calls,
"Kansas City! All change!" approach the conductor again
and say, "Is this Kansas City?" Don't be discouraged at
his answer. Pick yourself up and go to the other end of
the car and say to the brakesman, "Do you know, sir, if
this is Kansas City?" Don't be too easily convinced.
Remember that both brakesman and conductor may be in
collusion to deceive you. Look around, therefore, for
the name of the station on the signboard. Having found
it, alight and ask the first man you see if this is Kansas
City. He will answer, "Why, where in blank are your blank
eyes? Can't you see it there, plain as blank?" When you
hear language of this sort, ask no more. You are now in
Kansas and this is Kansas City.
3. I have observed that it is now the practice of the
conductors to stick bits of paper in the hats of the
passengers. They do this, I believe, to mark which ones
they like best. The device is pretty, and adds much to
the scenic appearance of the car. But I notice with pain
that the system is fraught with much trouble for the
conductors. The task of crushing two or three passengers
together, in order to reach over them and stick a ticket
into the chinks of a silk skull cap is embarrassing for
a conductor of refined feelings. It would be simpler if
the conductor should carry a small hammer and a packet
of shingle nails and nail the paid-up passenger to the
back of the seat. Or better still, let the conductor
carry a small pot of paint and a brush, and mark the
passengers in such a way that he cannot easily mistake
them. In the case of bald-headed passengers, the hats
might be politely removed and red crosses painted on the
craniums. This will indicate that they are bald. Through
passengers might be distinguished by a complete coat of
paint. In the hands of a man of taste, much might be
effected by a little grouping of painted passengers and
the leisure time of the conductor agreeably occupied.
4. I have observed in travelling in the West that the
irregularity of railroad accidents is a fruitful cause
of complaint. The frequent disappointment of the holders
of accident policy tickets on western roads is leading
to widespread protest. Certainly the conditions of travel
in the West are altering rapidly and accidents can no
longer be relied upon. This is deeply to be regretted,
in so much as, apart from accidents, the tickets may be
said to be practically valueless.
A Manual of Education
The few selections below are offered as a specimen page
of a little book which I have in course of preparation.
Every man has somewhere in the back of his head the wreck
of a thing which he calls his education. My book is
intended to embody in concise form these remnants of
early instruction.
Educations are divided into splendid educations, thorough
classical educations, and average educations. All very
old men have splendid educations; all men who apparently
know nothing else have thorough classical educations;
nobody has an average education.
An education, when it is all written out on foolscap,
covers nearly ten sheets. It takes about six years of
severe college training to acquire it. Even then a man
often finds that he somehow hasn't got his education just
where he can put his thumb on it. When my little book of
eight or ten pages has appeared, everybody may carry his
education in his hip pocket.
Those who have not had the advantage of an early training
will be enabled, by a few hours of conscientious
application, to put themselves on an equal footing with
the most scholarly.
The selections are chosen entirely at random.
I.--REMAINS OF ASTRONOMY
Astronomy teaches the correct use of the sun and the
planets. These may be put on a frame of little sticks
and turned round. This causes the tides. Those at the
ends of the sticks are enormously far away. From time to
time a diligent searching of the sticks reveals new
planets. The orbit of a planet is the distance the stick
goes round in going round. Astronomy is intensely
interesting; it should be done at night, in a high tower
in Spitzbergen. This is to avoid the astronomy being
interrupted. A really good astronomer can tell when a
comet is coming too near him by the warning buzz of the
revolving sticks.
II.--REMAINS OF HISTORY
Aztecs: A fabulous race, half man, half horse, half
mound-builder. They flourished at about the same time as
the early Calithumpians. They have left some awfully
stupendous monuments of themselves somewhere.
Life of Caesar: A famous Roman general, the last who ever
landed in Britain without being stopped at the custom
house. On returning to his Sabine farm (to fetch something),
he was stabbed by Brutus, and died with the words "Veni,
vidi, tekel, upharsim" in his throat. The jury returned
a verdict of strangulation.
Life of Voltaire: A Frenchman; very bitter.
Life of Schopenhauer: A German; very deep; but it was
not really noticeable when he sat down.
Life of Dante: An Italian; the first to introduce the
banana and the class of street organ known as "Dante's
Inferno."
Peter the Great,
Alfred the Great,
Frederick the Great,
John the Great,
Tom the Great,
Jim the Great,
Jo the Great, etc., etc.
It is impossible for a busy man to keep these apart. They
sought a living as kings and apostles and pugilists and
so on.
III.--REMAINS OF BOTANY.
Botany is the art of plants. Plants are divided into
trees, flowers, and vegetables. The true botanist knows
a tree as soon as he sees it. He learns to distinguish
it from a vegetable by merely putting his ear to it.
IV.--REMAINS OF NATURAL SCIENCE.
Natural Science treats of motion and force. Many of its
teachings remain as part of an educated man's permanent
equipment in life. Such are:
(a) The harder you shove a bicycle the faster it will
go. This is because of natural science.
(b) If you fall from a high tower, you fall quicker and
quicker and quicker; a judicious selection of a tower
will ensure any rate of speed.
(c) If you put your thumb in between two cogs it will go
on and on, until the wheels are arrested, by your
suspenders. This is machinery.
(d) Electricity is of two kinds, positive and negative.
The difference is, I presume, that one kind comes a little
more expensive, but is more durable; the other is a
cheaper thing, but the moths get into it.
Hoodoo McFiggin's Christmas
This Santa Claus business is played out. It's a sneaking,
underhand method, and the sooner it's exposed the better.
For a parent to get up under cover of the darkness of
night and palm off a ten-cent necktie on a boy who had
been expecting a ten-dollar watch, and then say that an
angel sent it to him, is low, undeniably low.
I had a good opportunity of observing how the thing worked
this Christmas, in the case of young Hoodoo McFiggin,
the son and heir of the McFiggins, at whose house I board.
Hoodoo McFiggin is a good boy--a religious boy. He had
been given to understand that Santa Claus would bring
nothing to his father and mother because grown-up people
don't get presents from the angels. So he saved up all
his pocket-money and bought a box of cigars for his father
and a seventy-five-cent diamond brooch for his mother.
His own fortunes he left in the hands of the angels. But
he prayed. He prayed every night for weeks that Santa
Claus would bring him a pair of skates and a puppy-dog
and an air-gun and a bicycle and a Noah's ark and a sleigh
and a drum--altogether about a hundred and fifty dollars'
worth of stuff.
I went into Hoodoo's room quite early Christmas morning.
I had an idea that the scene would be interesting. I woke
him up and he sat up in bed, his eyes glistening with
radiant expectation, and began hauling things out of his
stocking.
The first parcel was bulky; it was done up quite loosely
and had an odd look generally.
"Ha! ha!" Hoodoo cried gleefully, as he began undoing
it. "I'll bet it's the puppy-dog, all wrapped up in
paper!"
And was it the puppy-dog? No, by no means. It was a pair
of nice, strong, number-four boots, laces and all,
labelled, "Hoodoo, from Santa Claus," and underneath
Santa Claus had written, "95 net."
The boy's jaw fell with delight. "It's boots," he said,
and plunged in his hand again.
He began hauling away at another parcel with renewed hope
on his face.
This time the thing seemed like a little round box. Hoodoo
tore the paper off it with a feverish hand. He shook it;
something rattled inside.
"It's a watch and chain! It's a watch and chain!" he
shouted. Then he pulled the lid off.
And was it a watch and chain? No. It was a box of nice,
brand-new celluloid collars, a dozen of them all alike
and all his own size.
The boy was so pleased that you could see his face crack
up with pleasure.
He waited a few minutes until his intense joy subsided.
Then he tried again.
This time the packet was long and hard. It resisted the
touch and had a sort of funnel shape.
"It's a toy pistol!" said the boy, trembling with
excitement. "Gee! I hope there are lots of caps with it!
I'll fire some off now and wake up father."
No, my poor child, you will not wake your father with
that. It is a useful thing, but it needs not caps and it
fires no bullets, and you cannot wake a sleeping man with
a tooth-brush. Yes, it was a tooth-brush--a regular
beauty, pure bone all through, and ticketed with a little
paper, "Hoodoo, from Santa Claus."
Again the expression of intense joy passed over the boy's
face, and the tears of gratitude started from his eyes.
He wiped them away with his tooth-brush and passed on.
The next packet was much larger and evidently contained
something soft and bulky. It had been too long to go into
the stocking and was tied outside.
"I wonder what this is," Hoodoo mused, half afraid to
open it. Then his heart gave a great leap, and he forgot
all his other presents in the anticipation of this one.
"It's the drum!" he gasped. "It's the drum, all wrapped
up!"
Drum nothing! It was pants--a pair of the nicest little
short pants--yellowish-brown short pants--with dear little
stripes of colour running across both ways, and here
again Santa Claus had written, "Hoodoo, from Santa Claus,
one fort net."
But there was something wrapped up in it. Oh, yes! There
was a pair of braces wrapped up in it, braces with a
little steel sliding thing so that you could slide your
pants up to your neck, if you wanted to.
The boy gave a dry sob of satisfaction. Then he took out
his last present. "It's a book," he said, as he unwrapped
it. "I wonder if it is fairy stories or adventures. Oh,
I hope it's adventures! I'll read it all morning."
No, Hoodoo, it was not precisely adventures. It was a
small family Bible. Hoodoo had now seen all his presents,
and he arose and dressed. But he still had the fun of
playing with his toys. That is always the chief delight
of Christmas morning.
First he played with his tooth-brush. He got a whole lot
of water and brushed all his teeth with it. This was
huge.
Then he played with his collars. He had no end of fun
with them, taking them all out one by one and swearing
at them, and then putting them back and swearing at the
whole lot together.
The next toy was his pants. He had immense fun there,
putting them on and taking them off again, and then trying
to guess which side was which by merely looking at them.
After that he took his book and read some adventures
called "Genesis" till breakfast-time.
Then he went downstairs and kissed his father and mother.
His father was smoking a cigar, and his mother had her
new brooch on. Hoodoo's face was thoughtful, and a light
seemed to have broken in upon his mind. Indeed, I think
it altogether likely that next Christmas he will hang on
to his own money and take chances on what the angels
bring.
The Life of John Smith
The lives of great men occupy a large section of our
literature. The great man is certainly a wonderful thing.
He walks across his century and leaves the marks of his
feet all over it, ripping out the dates on his goloshes
as he passes. It is impossible to get up a revolution or
a new religion, or a national awakening of any sort,
without his turning up, putting himself at the head of
it and collaring all the gate-receipts for himself. Even
after his death he leaves a long trail of second-rate
relations spattered over the front seats of fifty years
of history.
Now the lives of great men are doubtless infinitely
interesting. But at times I must confess to a sense of
reaction and an idea that the ordinary common man is
entitled to have his biography written too. It is to
illustrate this view that I write the life of John Smith,
a man neither good nor great, but just the usual, everyday
homo like you and me and the rest of us.