Literary Lapses - Stephen Leacock
From his earliest childhood John Smith was marked out
from his comrades by nothing. The marvellous precocity
of the boy did not astonish his preceptors. Books were
not a passion for him from his youth, neither did any
old man put his hand on Smith's head and say, mark his
words, this boy would some day become a man. Nor yet was
it his father's wont to gaze on him with a feeling
amounting almost to awe. By no means! All his father did
was to wonder whether Smith was a darn fool because he
couldn't help it, or because he thought it smart. In
other words, he was just like you and me and the rest of
us.
In those athletic sports which were the ornament of the
youth of his day, Smith did not, as great men do, excel
his fellows. He couldn't ride worth a darn. He couldn't
skate worth a darn. He couldn't swim worth a darn. He
couldn't shoot worth a darn. He couldn't do anything
worth a darn. He was just like us.
Nor did the bold cast of the boy's mind offset his physical
defects, as it invariably does in the biographies. On
the contrary. He was afraid of his father. He was afraid
of his school-teacher. He was afraid of dogs. He was
afraid of guns. He was afraid of lightning. He was afraid
of hell. He was afraid of girls.
In the boy's choice of a profession there was not seen
that keen longing for a life-work that we find in the
celebrities. He didn't want to be a lawyer, because you
have to know law. He didn't want to be a doctor, because
you have to know medicine. He didn't want to be a
business-man, because you have to know business; and he
didn't want to be a school-teacher, because he had seen
too many of them. As far as he had any choice, it lay
between being Robinson Crusoe and being the Prince of
Wales. His father refused him both and put him into a
dry goods establishment.
Such was the childhood of Smith. At its close there was
nothing in his outward appearance to mark the man of
genius. The casual observer could have seen no genius
concealed behind the wide face, the massive mouth, the
long slanting forehead, and the tall ear that swept up
to the close-cropped head. Certainly he couldn't. There
wasn't any concealed there.
It was shortly after his start in business life that
Smith was stricken with the first of those distressing
attacks, to which he afterwards became subject. It seized
him late one night as he was returning home from a
delightful evening of song and praise with a few old
school chums. Its symptoms were a peculiar heaving of
the sidewalk, a dancing of the street lights, and a crafty
shifting to and fro of the houses, requiring a very nice
discrimination in selecting his own. There was a strong
desire not to drink water throughout the entire attack,
which showed that the thing was evidently a form of
hydrophobia. From this time on, these painful attacks
became chronic with Smith. They were liable to come on
at any time, but especially on Saturday nights, on the
first of the month, and on Thanksgiving Day. He always
had a very severe attack of hydrophobia on Christmas Eve,
and after elections it was fearful.
There was one incident in Smith's career which he did,
perhaps, share with regret. He had scarcely reached
manhood when he met the most beautiful girl in the world.
She was different from all other women. She had a deeper
nature than other people. Smith realized it at once. She
could feel and understand things that ordinary people
couldn't. She could understand him. She had a great sense
of humour and an exquisite appreciation of a joke. He
told her the six that he knew one night and she thought
them great. Her mere presence made Smith feel as if he
had swallowed a sunset: the first time that his finger
brushed against hers, he felt a thrill all through him.
He presently found that if he took a firm hold of her
hand with his, he could get a fine thrill, and if he sat
beside her on a sofa, with his head against her ear and
his arm about once and a half round her, he could get
what you might call a first-class, A-1 thrill. Smith
became filled with the idea that he would like to have
her always near him. He suggested an arrangement to her,
by which she should come and live in the same house with
him and take personal charge of his clothes and his meals.
She was to receive in return her board and washing, about
seventy-five cents a week in ready money, and Smith was
to be her slave.
After Smith had been this woman's slave for some time,
baby fingers stole across his life, then another set of
them, and then more and more till the house was full of
them. The woman's mother began to steal across his life
too, and every time she came Smith had hydrophobia
frightfully. Strangely enough there was no little prattler
that was taken from his life and became a saddened,
hallowed memory to him. Oh, no! The little Smiths were
not that kind of prattler. The whole nine grew up into
tall, lank boys with massive mouths and great sweeping
ears like their father's, and no talent for anything.
The life of Smith never seemed to bring him to any of
those great turning-points that occurred in the lives of
the great. True, the passing years brought some change
of fortune. He was moved up in his dry-goods establishment
from the ribbon counter to the collar counter, from the
collar counter to the gents' panting counter, and from
the gents' panting to the gents' fancy shirting. Then,
as he grew aged and inefficient, they moved him down
again from the gents' fancy shirting to the gents' panting,
and so on to the ribbon counter. And when he grew quite
old they dismissed him and got a boy with a four-inch
mouth and sandy-coloured hair, who did all Smith could
do for half the money. That was John Smith's mercantile
career: it won't stand comparison with Mr. Gladstone's,
but it's not unlike your own.
Smith lived for five years after this. His sons kept him.
They didn't want to, but they had to. In his old age the
brightness of his mind and his fund of anecdote were not
the delight of all who dropped in to see him. He told
seven stories and he knew six jokes. The stories were
long things all about himself, and the jokes were about
a commercial traveller and a Methodist minister. But
nobody dropped in to see him, anyway, so it didn't matter.
At sixty-five Smith was taken ill, and, receiving proper
treatment, he died. There was a tombstone put up over
him, with a hand pointing north-north-east.
But I doubt if he ever got there. He was too like us.
On Collecting Things
Like most other men I have from time to time been stricken
with a desire to make collections of things.
It began with postage stamps. I had a letter from a friend
of mine who had gone out to South Africa. The letter had
a three-cornered stamp on it, and I thought as soon as
I looked at it, "That's the thing! Stamp collecting! I'll
devote my life to it."
I bought an album with accommodation for the stamps of
all nations, and began collecting right off. For three
days the collection made wonderful progress. It contained:
One Cape of Good Hope stamp.
One one-cent stamp, United States of America.
One two-cent stamp, United States of America.
One five-cent stamp, United States of America.
One ten-cent stamp, United States of America.
After that the collection came to a dead stop. For a
while I used to talk about it rather airily and say I
had one or two rather valuable South African stamps. But
I presently grew tired even of lying about it.
Collecting coins is a thing that I attempt at intervals.
Every time I am given an old half-penny or a Mexican
quarter, I get an idea that if a fellow made a point of
holding on to rarities of that sort, he'd soon have quite
a valuable collection. The first time that I tried it I
was full of enthusiasm, and before long my collection
numbered quite a few articles of vertu. The items were
as follows:
No. 1. Ancient Roman coin. Time of Caligula. This one of
course was the gem of the whole lot; it was given me by
a friend, and that was what started me collecting.
No. 2. Small copper coin. Value one cent. United States
of America. Apparently modern.
No. 3. Small nickel coin. Circular. United States of
America. Value five cents.
No. 4. Small silver coin. Value ten cents. United States
of America.
No. 5. Silver coin. Circular. Value twenty-five cents.
United States of America. Very beautiful.
No. 6. Large silver coin. Circular. Inscription, "One
Dollar." United States of America. Very valuable.
No. 7. Ancient British copper coin. Probably time of
Caractacus. Very dim. Inscription, "Victoria Dei gratia
regina." Very valuable.
No. 8. Silver coin. Evidently French. Inscription, "Funf
Mark. Kaiser Wilhelm."
No. 9. Circular silver coin. Very much defaced. Part of
inscription, "E Pluribus Unum." Probably a Russian rouble,
but quite as likely to be a Japanese yen or a Shanghai
rooster.
That's as far as that collection got. It lasted through
most of the winter and I was getting quite proud of it,
but I took the coins down town one evening to show to a
friend and we spent No. 3, No. 4, No. 5, No. 6, and No.
7 in buying a little dinner for two. After dinner I bought
a yen's worth of cigars and traded the relic of Caligula
for as many hot Scotches as they cared to advance on it.
After that I felt reckless and put No. 2 and No. 8 into
a Children's Hospital poor box.
I tried fossils next. I got two in ten years. Then I
quit.
A friend of mine once showed me a very fine collection
of ancient and curious weapons, and for a time I was full
of that idea. I gathered several interesting specimens,
such as:
No. 1. Old flint-lock musket, used by my grandfather.
(He used it on the farm for years as a crowbar.)
No. 2. Old raw-hide strap, used by my father.
No. 3. Ancient Indian arrowhead, found by myself the very
day after I began collecting. It resembles a three-cornered
stone.
No. 4. Ancient Indian bow, found by myself behind a
sawmill on the second day of collecting. It resembles a
straight stick of elm or oak. It is interesting to think
that this very weapon may have figured in some fierce
scene of savage warfare.
No. 5. Cannibal poniard or straight-handled dagger of
the South Sea Islands. It will give the reader almost a
thrill of horror to learn that this atrocious weapon,
which I bought myself on the third day of collecting,
was actually exposed in a second-hand store as a family
carving-knife. In gazing at it one cannot refrain from
conjuring up the awful scenes it must have witnessed.
I kept this collection for quite a long while until, in
a moment of infatuation, I presented it to a young lady
as a betrothal present. The gift proved too ostentatious
and our relations subsequently ceased to be cordial.
On the whole I am inclined to recommend the beginner to
confine himself to collecting coins. At present I am
myself making a collection of American bills (time of
Taft preferred), a pursuit I find most absorbing.
Society Chat-Chat
AS IT SHOULD BE WRITTEN
I notice that it is customary for the daily papers to
publish a column or so of society gossip. They generally
head it "Chit-Chat," or "On Dit," or "Le Boudoir," or
something of the sort, and they keep it pretty full of
French terms to give it the proper sort of swing. These
columns may be very interesting in their way, but it
always seems to me that they don't get hold of quite the
right things to tell us about. They are very fond, for
instance, of giving an account of the delightful dance
at Mrs. De Smythe's--at which Mrs. De Smythe looked
charming in a gown of old tulle with a stomacher of
passementerie--or of the dinner-party at Mr. Alonzo
Robinson's residence, or the smart pink tea given by Miss
Carlotta Jones. No, that's all right, but it's not the
kind of thing we want to get at; those are not the events
which happen in our neighbours' houses that we really
want to hear about. It is the quiet little family scenes,
the little traits of home-life that--well, for example,
take the case of that delightful party at the De Smythes.
I am certain that all those who were present would much
prefer a little paragraph like the following, which would
give them some idea of the home-life of the De Smythes
on the morning after the party.
DEJEUNER DE LUXE AT THE DE SMYTHE RESIDENCE
On Wednesday morning last at 7.15 a.m. a charming little
breakfast was served at the home of Mr. De Smythe. The
dejeuner was given in honour of Mr. De Smythe and his
two sons, Master Adolphus and Master Blinks De Smythe,
who were about to leave for their daily travail at their
wholesale Bureau de Flour et de Feed. All the gentlemen
were very quietly dressed in their habits de work. Miss
Melinda De Smythe poured out tea, the domestique having
refuse to get up so early after the partie of the night
before. The menu was very handsome, consisting of eggs
and bacon, demi-froid, and ice-cream. The conversation
was sustained and lively. Mr. De Smythe sustained it and
made it lively for his daughter and his garcons. In the
course of the talk Mr. De Smythe stated that the next
time he allowed the young people to turn his maison
topsy-turvy he would see them in enfer. He wished to know
if they were aware that some ass of the evening before
had broken a pane of coloured glass in the hall that
would cost him four dollars. Did they think he was made
of argent. If so, they never made a bigger mistake in
their vie. The meal closed with general expressions of
good-feeling. A little bird has whispered to us that
there will be no more parties at the De Smythes' pour
long-temps.
Here is another little paragraph that would be of general
interest in society.
DINER DE FAMEEL AT THE BOARDING-HOUSE DE MCFIGGIN
Yesterday evening at half after six a pleasant little
diner was given by Madame McFiggin of Rock Street, to
her boarders. The salle a manger was very prettily
decorated with texts, and the furniture upholstered with
cheveux de horse, Louis Quinze. The boarders were all
very quietly dressed: Mrs. McFiggin was daintily attired
in some old clinging stuff with a corsage de Whalebone
underneath. The ample board groaned under the bill of
fare. The boarders groaned also. Their groaning was very
noticeable. The piece de resistance was a hunko de boeuf
boile, flanked with some old clinging stuff. The entrees
were pate de pumpkin, followed by fromage McFiggin, served
under glass. Towards the end of the first course, speeches
became the order of the day. Mrs. McFiggin was the first
speaker. In commencing, she expressed her surprise that
so few of the gentlemen seemed to care for the hunko de
boeuf; her own mind, she said, had hesitated between
hunko de boeuf boile and a pair of roast chickens
(sensation). She had finally decided in favour of the
hunko de boeuf (no sensation). She referred at some length
to the late Mr. McFiggin, who had always shown a marked
preference for hunko de boeuf. Several other speakers
followed. All spoke forcibly and to the point. The last
to speak was the Reverend Mr. Whiner. The reverend
gentleman, in rising, said that he confided himself and
his fellow-boarders to the special interference of
providence. For what they had eaten, he said, he hoped
that Providence would make them truly thankful. At the
close of the Repas several of the boarders expressed
their intention of going down the street to a restourong
to get quelque chose a manger.
Here is another example. How interesting it would be to
get a detailed account of that little affair at the
Robinsons', of which the neighbours only heard indirectly!
Thus:
DELIGHTFUL EVENING AT THE RESIDENCE OF MR. ALONZO ROBINSON
Yesterday the family of Mr. Alonzo Robinson spent a very
lively evening at their home on ---th Avenue. The occasion
was the seventeenth birthday of Master Alonzo Robinson,
junior. It was the original intention of Master Alonzo
Robinson to celebrate the day at home and invite a few
of les garcons. Mr. Robinson, senior, however, having
declared that he would be damne first, Master Alonzo
spent the evening in visiting the salons of the town,
which he painted rouge. Mr. Robinson, senior, spent the
evening at home in quiet expectation of his son's return.
He was very becomingly dressed in a pantalon quatre vingt
treize, and had his whippe de chien laid across his knee.
Madame Robinson and the Mademoiselles Robinson wore black.
The guest of the evening arrived at a late hour. He wore
his habits de spri, and had about six pouces of eau de
vie in him. He was evidently full up to his cou. For some
time after his arrival a very lively time was spent. Mr.
Robinson having at length broken the whippe de chien,
the family parted for the night with expressions of
cordial goodwill.
Insurance up to Date
A man called on me the other day with the idea of insuring
my life. Now, I detest life-insurance agents; they always
argue that I shall some day die, which is not so. I have
been insured a great many times, for about a month at a
time, but have had no luck with it at all.
So I made up my mind that I would outwit this man at his
own game. I let him talk straight ahead and encouraged
him all I could, until he finally left me with a sheet
of questions which I was to answer as an applicant. Now
this was what I was waiting for; I had decided that, if
that company wanted information about me, they should
have it, and have the very best quality I could supply.
So I spread the sheet of questions before me, and drew
up a set of answers for them, which, I hoped, would settle
for ever all doubts as to my eligibility for insurance.
Question.--What is your age?
Answer.--I can't think.
Q.--What is your chest measurement?
A.--Nineteen inches.
Q.--What is your chest expansion?
A.--Half an inch.
Q.--What is your height?
A.--Six feet five, if erect, but less when
I walk on all fours.
Q.--Is your grandfather dead?
A.--Practically.
Q.--Cause of death, if dead?
A.--Dipsomania, if dead.
Q.--Is your father dead?
A.--To the world.
Q.--Cause of death?
A.--Hydrophobia.
Q.--Place of father's residence?
A.--Kentucky.
Q.--What illness have you had?
A.--As a child, consumption, leprosy, and water on
the knee. As a man, whooping-cough, stomach-ache,
and water on the brain.
Q.--Have you any brothers?
A.--Thirteen; all nearly dead.
Q.--Are you aware of any habits or tendencies which
might be expected to shorten your life?
A.--I am aware. I drink, I smoke, I take morphine and
vaseline. I swallow grape seeds and I hate exercise.
I thought when I had come to the end of that list that
I had made a dead sure thing of it, and I posted the
paper with a cheque for three months' payment, feeling
pretty confident of having the cheque sent back to me.
I was a good deal surprised a few days later to receive
the following letter from the company:
"DEAR SIR,--We beg to acknowledge your letter of application
and cheque for fifteen dollars. After a careful comparison
of your case with the average modern standard, we are
pleased to accept you as a first-class risk."
Borrowing a Match
You might think that borrowing a match upon the street
is a simple thing. But any man who has ever tried it will
assure you that it is not, and will be prepared to swear
to the truth of my experience of the other evening.
I was standing on the corner of the street with a cigar
that I wanted to light. I had no match. I waited till a
decent, ordinary-looking man came along. Then I said:
"Excuse me, sir, but could you oblige me with the loan
of a match?"
"A match?" he said, "why certainly." Then he unbuttoned
his overcoat and put his hand in the pocket of his
waistcoat. "I know I have one," he went on, "and I'd
almost swear it's in the bottom pocket--or, hold on,
though, I guess it may be in the top--just wait till I
put these parcels down on the sidewalk."
"Oh, don't trouble," I said, "it's really of no
consequence."
"Oh, it's no trouble, I'll have it in a minute; I know
there must be one in here somewhere"--he was digging
his fingers into his pockets as he spoke--"but you see
this isn't the waistcoat I generally..."
I saw that the man was getting excited about it. "Well,
never mind," I protested; "if that isn't the waistcoat
that you generally--why, it doesn't matter."
"Hold on, now, hold on!" the man said, "I've got one of
the cursed things in here somewhere. I guess it must be
in with my watch. No, it's not there either. Wait till
I try my coat. If that confounded tailor only knew enough
to make a pocket so that a man could get at it!"
He was getting pretty well worked up now. He had thrown
down his walking-stick and was plunging at his pockets
with his teeth set. "It's that cursed young boy of mine,"
he hissed; "this comes of his fooling in my pockets. By
Gad! perhaps I won't warm him up when I get home. Say,
I'll bet that it's in my hip-pocket. You just hold up
the tail of my overcoat a second till I..."
"No, no," I protested again, "please don't take all this
trouble, it really doesn't matter. I'm sure you needn't
take off your overcoat, and oh, pray don't throw away
your letters and things in the snow like that, and tear
out your pockets by the roots! Please, please don't
trample over your overcoat and put your feet through the
parcels. I do hate to hear you swearing at your little
boy, with that peculiar whine in your voice. Don't--please
don't tear your clothes so savagely."
Suddenly the man gave a grunt of exultation, and drew
his hand up from inside the lining of his coat.
"I've got it," he cried. "Here you are!" Then he brought
it out under the light.
It was a toothpick.
Yielding to the impulse of the moment I pushed him under
the wheels of a trolley-car, and ran.
A Lesson in Fiction
Suppose that in the opening pages of the modern melodramatic
novel you find some such situation as the following, in
which is depicted the terrific combat between Gaspard de
Vaux, the boy lieutenant, and Hairy Hank, the chief of
the Italian banditti:
"The inequality of the contest was apparent. With a
mingled yell of rage and contempt, his sword brandished
above his head and his dirk between his teeth, the enormous
bandit rushed upon his intrepid opponent. De Vaux seemed
scarce more than a stripling, but he stood his ground
and faced his hitherto invincible assailant. 'Mong Dieu,'
cried De Smythe, 'he is lost!'"
Question. On which of the parties to the above contest
do you honestly feel inclined to put your money?
Answer. On De Vaux. He'll win. Hairy Hank will force him
down to one knee and with a brutal cry of "Har! har!"
will be about to dirk him, when De Vaux will make a sudden
lunge (one he had learnt at home out of a book of lunges)
and--
Very good. You have answered correctly. Now, suppose you
find, a little later in the book, that the killing of
Hairy Hank has compelled De Vaux to flee from his native
land to the East. Are you not fearful for his safety in
the desert?
Answer. Frankly, I am not. De Vaux is all right. His name
is on the title page, and you can't kill him.
Question. Listen to this, then: "The sun of Ethiopia beat
fiercely upon the desert as De Vaux, mounted upon his
faithful elephant, pursued his lonely way. Seated in his
lofty hoo-doo, his eye scoured the waste. Suddenly a
solitary horseman appeared on the horizon, then another,
and another, and then six. In a few moments a whole crowd
of solitary horsemen swooped down upon him. There was a
fierce shout of 'Allah!' a rattle of firearms. De Vaux
sank from his hoo-doo on to the sands, while the affrighted
elephant dashed off in all directions. The bullet had
struck him in the heart."
There now, what do you think of that? Isn't De Vaux killed
now?
Answer. I am sorry. De Vaux is not dead. True, the ball
had hit him, oh yes, it had hit him, but it had glanced
off against a family Bible, which he carried in his
waistcoat in case of illness, struck some hymns that he
had in his hip-pocket, and, glancing off again, had
flattened itself against De Vaux's diary of his life in
the desert, which was in his knapsack.
Question. But even if this doesn't kill him, you must
admit that he is near death when he is bitten in the
jungle by the deadly dongola?
Answer. That's all right. A kindly Arab will take De Vaux
to the Sheik's tent.
Question. What will De Vaux remind the Sheik of?
Answer. Too easy. Of his long-lost son, who disappeared
years ago.
Question. Was this son Hairy Hank?
Answer. Of course he was. Anyone could see that, but the Sheik
never suspects it, and heals De Vaux. He heals him with an
herb, a thing called a simple, an amazingly simple, known only
to the Sheik. Since using this herb, the Sheik has used no other.
Question. The Sheik will recognize an overcoat that De
Vaux is wearing, and complications will arise in the
matter of Hairy Hank deceased. Will this result in the
death of the boy lieutenant?
Answer. No. By this time De Vaux has realized that the
reader knows he won't die and resolves to quit the desert.
The thought of his mother keeps recurring to him, and of
his father, too, the grey, stooping old man--does he
stoop still or has he stopped stooping? At times, too,
there comes the thought of another, a fairer than his
father; she whose--but enough, De Vaux returns to the
old homestead in Piccadilly.