Literary Lapses (8 page)

 

THE LIFE OF JOHN SMITH

T
he 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.

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 realised 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

L
ike 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, “Fünf 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 my 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 CHIT-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
déjeuner
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
refusé
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
garçons
. 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 à 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
pièce de résistance
was a
hunko de bœuf boilé,
flanked with some old clinging stuff. The
entrées
were
pâté 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 bœuf
; her own mind, she said, had hesitated between
hunko de bœuf boilé
and a pair of roast chickens (sensation). She had finally decided in favour of the
hunko de bœuf
(no sensation). She referred at some length to the late Mr. McFiggin, who had always shown a marked preference for
hunko de bœuf.
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 à 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 garçons.
Mr. Robinson, senior, however, having declared that he would be
damné
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.