F.-That I, unworthy, should have lived to see this day!
II.
FOOL.-If I were a doctor-
DOCTOR.-I should endeavour to be a fool.
F.-You would fail; folly is not easily achieved.
D.-True; man is overworked.
F.-Let him take a pill.
D.-If he like. I would not.
F.-You are too frank: take a fool's advice.
D.-Thank thee for the nastier prescription.
***
FOOL.-I have a friend who-
DOCTOR.-Stands in great need of my assistance. Absence of excitement, gentle restraint, a hard bed, simple diet-that will straighten him out.
F.-I'll give thee sixpence to let me touch the hem of thy garment!
D.-What of your friend?
F.-He is a gentleman.
D.-Then he is dead!
F.-Just so: he is "straightened out"-he took your prescription.
D.-All but the "simple diet."
F.-He is himself the diet.
D.-How simple!
***
FOOL.-Believe you a man retains his intellect after decapitation?
DOCTOR.-It is possible that he acquires it?
F.-Much good it does him.
D.-Why not-as compensation? He is at some disadvantage in other respects.
F.-For example?
D.-He is in a false position.
***
FOOL.-What is the most satisfactory disease?
DOCTOR.-Paralysis of the thoracic duct.
F.-I am not familiar with it.
D.-It does not encourage familiarity. Paralysis of the thoracic duct enables the patient to accept as many invitations to dinner as he can secure, without danger of spoiling his appetite.
F.-But how long does his appetite last?
D.-That depends. Always a trifle longer than he does.
F.-The portion that survives him-?
D.-Goes to swell the Mighty Gastric Passion which lurks darkly Outside, yawning to swallow up material creation!
F.-Pitch it a biscuit.
***
FOOL.-You attend a patient. He gets well. Good! How do you tell whether his recovery is because of your treatment or in spite of it?
DOCTOR.-I never do tell.
F.-I mean how do you know?
D.-I take the opinion of a person interested in the question: I ask a fool.
F.-How does the patient know?
D.-The fool asks me.
F.-Amiable instructor! How shall I reward thee?
D.-Eat a cucumber cut up in shilling claret.
***
DOCTOR.-The relation between a patient and his disease is the same as that which obtains between the two wooden weather-prophets of a Dutch clock. When the disease goes off, the patient goes on; when the disease goes on, the patient goes off.
FOOL.-A pauper conceit. Their relations, then, are not of the most cordial character.
D.-One's relations-except the poorer sort-seldom are.
F.-My tympanum is smitten with pleasant peltings of wisdom! I 'll lay you ten to one you cannot tell me the present condition of your last patient.
D.-Done!
F.-You have won the wager.
***
FOOL.-I once read the report of an actual conversation upon a scientific subject between a fool and a physician.
DOCTOR.-Indeed! That sort of conversation commonly takes place between fools only.
F.-The reporter had chosen to confound orthography: he spelt fool "phool," and physician "fysician." What the fool said was, therefore, preceded by "PH;" the remarks of the physician were indicated by the letter "F."
D.-This must have been very confusing.
F.-It was. But no one discovered that any liberties had been taken with orthography.
D.-You tumour!
***
FOOL.-Suppose you had amongst your menials an ailing oyster?
DOCTOR.-Oysters do not ail.
F.-I have heard that the pearl is the result of a disease.
D.-Whether a functional derangement producing a valuable gem can be properly termed, or treated as, a disease, is open to honest doubt.
F.-Then in the case supposed you would not favour excision of the abnormal part?
D.-Yes; I would remove the oyster.
F.-But if the pearl were growing very rapidly this operation would not be immediately advisable.
D.-That would depend upon the symptomatic diagnosis.
F.-Beast! Give me air!
***
DOCTOR.-I have been thinking-
FOOL.-(Liar!)
D.-That you "come out" rather well for a fool. Can it be that I have been entertaining an angel unawares?
F.-Dismiss the apprehension: I am as great a fool as yourself. But there is a way by which in future you may resolve a similar doubt.
D.-Explain.
F.-Speak to your guest of symptomatic diagnosis. If he is an angel, he will not resent it.
III.
SOLDIER (reading from "Napier").-"Who would not rather be buried by an army upon the field of battle than by a sexton in a church-yard!"
FOOL.-I give it up.
S.-I am not aware that any one has asked you for an opinion.
F.-I am not aware that I have given one: there is a happiness yet in store for you.
S.-I will revel in anticipation.
F.-You must revel somehow; without revelry there would be no soldiering.
S.-Idiot.
F.-I beg your pardon: I had thought your profession had at least taught you to call people by their proper titles. In the service of mankind I hold the rank of Fool.
S.-What, ho! without there! Let the trumpets sound!
F.-I beg you will not.
S.-True; you beg: I will not.
F.-But why rob when stealing is more honourable?
S.-Consider the competition.
***
FOOL.-Sir Cut-throat, how many orphans have you made to-day?
SOLDIER.-The devil an orphan! Have you a family?
F.-Put up your iron; I am the last of my race.
S.-How? No more fools?
F.-Not one, so help me! They have all gone to the wars.
S.-And why, pray, have you not enlisted?
F.-I should be no fool if I knew.
***
FOOL.-You are somewhat indebted to me.
SOLDIER.-I do not acknowledge your claim. Let us submit the matter to arbitration.
F.-The only arbiter whose decision you respect is on your own side.
S.-You allude to my sword, the most impartial of weapons: it cuts both ways.
F.-And each way is peculiarly objectionable to your opponent.
S.-But for what am I indebted to you?
F.-For existence: the prevalence of me has made you possible.
S.-The benefit is not conspicuous; were it not for your quarrels, I should enjoy a quantity of elegant leisure.
F.-As a clodhopper.
S.-I should at least hop my clods in a humble and Christian spirit; and if some other fellow did did not so hop his-! I say no more.
F.-You have said enough; there would be war.
***
SOLDIER.-Why wear a cap and bells?
FOOL.-I hasten to crave pardon, and if spared will at once exchange them.
S.-For what?
F.-A helmet and feather.
S.-G "hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs."
F.-'T is only wisdom should be bound in calf.
S.-Why?
F.-Because wisdom is the veal of which folly is the matured beef.
S.-Then folly should be garbed in cow-skin?
F.-Aye, that it might the more speedily appear for what it is-the naked truth.
S.-How should it?
F.-You would soon strip off its hide to make harness and trappings withal. No one thinks how much conquerors owe to cows.
***
FOOL.-Tell me, hero, what is strategy?
F.-And what are tactics?
S.-The art of driving them home.
F.-Supermundane lexicographer!
S.-I'll bust thy crust! (Attempts to draw his sword, gets it between his legs, and falls along.)
F. (from a distance)-Shall I summon an army, or a sexton? And will you have it of bronze, or marble?
***
FOOL.-When you have gained a great victory, how much of the glory goes to the horse whose back you bestrode?
SOLDIER.-Nonsense! A horse cannot appreciate glory; he prefers corn.
F.-And this you call non-appreciation! But listen. (Reads) "During the Crusades, a part of the armament of a Turkish ship was two hundred serpents." In the pursuit of glory you are at least not above employing humble auxiliaries. These be curious allies.
S.-What stuff a fool may talk! No true soldier would pit a serpent against a brave enemy. These worms were sailors.
F.-A nice distinction, truly! Did you ever, my most acute professor of vivisection, employ your trenchant blade in the splitting of hairs?
S.-I have split masses of them.
FOOL.-Speaking of the Crusades: at the siege of Acre, when a part of the wall had been thrown down by the Christians, the Pisans rushed into the breach, but the greater part of their army being at dinner, they were bloodily repulsed.
SOLDIER.-You appear to have a minute acquaintance with military history.
F.-Yes-being a fool. But was it not a sin and a shame that those feeders should not stir from their porridge to succour their suffering comrades?
S.-Pray why should a man neglect his business to oblige a friend?
F.-But they might have taken and sacked the city.
S.-The selfish gluttons!
***
SOLDIER.-Your presumption grows intolerable; I'll hold no further parley with thee.
FOOL.-"Herculean gentleman, I dread thy drubs; pity the lifted whites of both my eyes!"
S.-Then speak no more of the things you do but imperfectly understand.
F.-Such censorship would doom all tongues to silence. But show me wherein my knowledge is deficient.
S.-What is an abattis?
F.-Rubbish placed in front of a fort, to keep the rubbish outside from getting at the rubbish inside.
S.-Egad! I'll part thy hair!
DIVERS TALES.
THE GRATEFUL BEAR.
I hope all my little readers have heard the story of Mr. Androcles and the lion; so I will relate it as nearly as I can remember it, with the caution that Androcles must not be confounded with the lion. If I had a picture representing Androcles with a silk hat, and the lion with a knot in his tail, the two might readily be distinguished; but the artist says he won't make any such picture, and we must try to get on without.
One day Androcles was gathering truffles in a forest, when he found a lion's den; and, walking into it, he lay down and slept. It was a custom, in his time, to sleep in lions' dens when practicable. The lion was absent, inspecting a zoological garden, and did not return until late; but he did return. He was surprised to find a stranger in his menagerie without a ticket; but, supposing him to be some contributor to a comic paper, did not eat him: he was very well satisfied not to be eaten by him. Presently Androcles awoke, wishing he had some seltzer water, or something. (Seltzer water is good after a night's debauch, and something-it is difficult to say what-is good to begin the new debauch with). Seeing the lion eyeing him, he began hastily to pencil his last will and testament upon the rocky floor of the den. What was his surprise to see the lion advance amicably and extend his right forefoot! Androcles, however, was equal to the occasion: he met the friendly overture with a cordial grasp of the hand, whereat the lion howled-for he had a carpet-tack in his foot. Perceiving that he had made a little mistake, Androcles made such reparation as was in his power by pulling out the tack and putting it in his own foot.
After this the beast could not do too much for him. He went out every morning-carefully locking the door behind him-and returned every evening, bringing in a nice fat baby from an adjacent village, and laying it gratefully at his benefactor's feet. For the first few days something seemed to have gone wrong with the benefactor's appetite, but presently he took very kindly to the new diet; and, as he could not get away, he lodged there, rent-free, all the days of his life-which terminated very abruptly one evening when the lion had not met with his usual success in hunting.
All this has very little to do with my story: I throw it in as a classical allusion, to meet the demands of a literary fashion which has its origin in the generous eagerness of writers to give the public more than it pays for. But the story of Androcles was a favourite with the bear whose adventures I am about to relate.
One day this crafty brute carefully inserted a thorn between two of his toes, and limped awkwardly to the farm-house of Dame Pinworthy, a widow, who with two beautiful whelps infested the forest where he resided. He knocked at the open door, sent in his card, and was duly admitted to the presence of the lady, who inquired his purpose. By way of "defining his position" he held up his foot, and snuffled very dolorously. The lady adjusted her spectacles, took the paw in her lap (she, too, had heard the tale of Androcles), and, after a close scrutiny, discovered the thorn, which, as delicately as possible, she extracted, the patient making wry faces and howling dismally the while.
When it was all over, and she had assured him there was no charge, his gratitude was a passion to observe! He desired to embrace her at once; but this, although a widow of seven years' standing, she would by no means permit; she said she was not personally averse to hugging, "but what would her dear departed-boo-hoo!-say of it?" This was very absurd, for Mr. Boo-hoo had seven feet of solid earth above him, and it couldn't make much difference what he said, even supposing he had enough tongue left to say anything, which he had not. However, the polite beast respected her scruples; so the only way in which he could testify his gratitude was by remaining to dinner. They had the housedog for dinner that day, though, from some false notion of hospitable etiquette, the woman and children did not take any.
On the next day, punctually at the same hour, the bear came again with another thorn, and stayed to dinner as before. It was not much of a dinner this time-only the cat, and a roll of stair-carpet, with one or two pieces of sheet music; but true gratitude does not despise even the humblest means of expression. The succeeding day he came as before; but after being relieved of his torment, he found nothing prepared for him. But when he took to thoughtfully licking one of the little girl's hands, "that answered not with a caress," the mother thought better of it, and drove in a small heifer.
He now came every day; he was so old a friend that the formality of extracting the thorn was no longer observed; it would have contributed nothing to the good understanding that existed between him and the widow. He thought that three or four instances of Good Samaritanism afforded ample matter for perpetual gratitude. His constant visits were bad for the live stock of the farm; for some kind of beast had to be in readiness each day to furnish forth the usual feast, and this prevented multiplication. Most of the textile fabrics, too, had disappeared; for the appetite of this animal was at the same time cosmopolitan and exacting: it would accept almost anything in the way of entremets, but something it would have. A hearthrug, a hall-mat, a cushion, mattress, blanket, shawl, or other article of wearing apparel-anything, in short, that was easy of ingestion was graciously approved. The widow tried him once with a box of coals as dessert to some barn-yard fowls; but this he seemed to regard as a doubtful comestible, seductive to the palate, but obstinate in the stomach. A look at one of the children always brought him something else, no matter what he was then engaged on.
It was suggested to Mrs. Pinworthy that she should poison the bear; but, after trying about a hundredweight of strychnia, arsenic, and Prussic acid, without any effect other than what might be expected from mild tonics, she thought it would not
be right to go into toxicology. So the poor Widow Pinworthy went on, patiently enduring the consumption of her cattle, sheep, and hogs, the evaporation of her poultry, and the taking off of her bed linen, until there were left only the clothing of herself and children, some curtains, a sickly lamb, and a pet pigeon. When the bear came for these she ventured to expostulate. In this she was perfectly successful: the animal permitted her to expostulate as long as she liked. Then he ate the lamb and pigeon, took in a dish-cloth or two, and went away just as contentedly as if she had not uttered a word.
Nothing edible now stood between her little daughters and the grave. Her mental agony was painful to her mind; she could scarcely have suffered more without an increase of unhappiness. She was roused to desperation; and next day, when she saw the bear leaping across the fields toward the house, she staggered from her seat and shut the door. It was singular what a difference it made; she always remembered it after that, and wished she had thought of it before.
THE SETTING SACHEM.
'Twas an Injin chieftain, in feathers all fine,
Who stood on the ocean's rim;
There were numberless leagues of excellent brine-
But there wasn't enough for him.
So he knuckled a thumb in his painted eye,
And added a tear to the scant supply.
The surges were breaking with thund'rous voice,
The winds were a-shrieking shrill;
This warrior thought that a trifle of noise
Was needed to fill the bill.
So he lifted the top of his head off and scowled-
Exalted his voice, did this chieftain, and howled!
Cobwebs from an Empty Skull Page 8
