McGuffey's Sixth Eclectic Reader

Examples — Sitting 32

A venerable, gray-headed man, who had laid down the colic, and who, I found, wanted an heir to his estate, snatched up an undutiful son that had been thrown into the heap by an angry father. The graceless youth, in less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gentleman by the beard, and had liked to have knocked his brains out; so that meeting the true father, who came toward him with a fit of the gripes, he begged him to take his son again, and give him back his colic; but they were incapable, either of them, to recede from the choice they had made. A poor galley slave, who had thrown down his chains, took up the gout in their stead, but made such wry faces that one might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain.

The female world were very busy among themselves in bartering for features; one was trucking a lock of gray hairs for a carbuncle; and another was making over a short waist for a pair of round shoulders; but on all these occasions there was not one of them who did not think the new blemish, as soon as she had got it into her possession, much more disagreeable than the old one.

I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend with the long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, but he made such a grotesque figure in it, that as I looked upon him, I could not forbear laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my own face out of countenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done. On the other side, I found that I myself had no great reason to triumph, for as I went to touch my forehead, I missed the place, and clapped my finger upon my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was exceedingly prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky knocks as I was playing my hand about my face, and aiming at some other part of it.

I saw two other gentlemen by me who were in the same ridiculous circumstances. These had made a foolish swap between a couple of thick bandy legs and two long trapsticks that had no calves to them. One of these looked like a man walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up into the air, above his ordinary height, that his head turned round with it, while the other made such awkward circles, as he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew how to move forward upon his new supporters. Observing him to be a pleasant kind of a fellow, I stuck my cane in the ground, and told him I would lay him a bottle of wine that he did not march up to it on a line that I drew for him, in a quarter of an hour.

The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who made a most piteous sight, as they wandered up and down under the pressure of their several burthens. The whole plain was filled with murmurs and complaints, groans and lamentations. Jupiter, at length taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give everyone his own again. They discharged themselves with a great deal of pleasure; after which, the phantom who had led them into such gross delusions, was commanded to disappear. There was sent in her stead a goddess of a quite different figure: her motions were steady and composed, and her aspect serious but cheerful. She every now and then cast her eyes toward heaven, and fixed them upon Jupiter. Her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the Mount of Sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable, the whole heap sunk to such a degree that it did not appear a third part so big as it was before. She afterward returned every man his own proper calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most commodious manner, he marched off with it contentedly, being very well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice as to the kind of evil which fell to his lot.

Beside the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of this vision, I learnt from it never to repine at my own misfortunes, or to envy the happiness of another, since it is impossible for any man to form a right judgment of his neighbor's sufferings; for which reason, also, I have determined never to think too lightly of another's complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creatures with sentiments of humanity and compassion.

NOTES.--Horace (b. 65, d. 8 B. C.) was a celebrated Roman poet.

Jupiter, according to mythology, was the greatest of the Greek and Roman gods; he was thought to be the supreme ruler of both mortals and immortals.

LXXXII. JUPITER AND TEN. (301)

James T. Fields, 1817-1881, was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. For many years he was partner in the well-known firm of Ticknor & Fields (Later Fields, Osgood & Co.), the leading publishers of standard American literature. For eight years, he was chief editor of the "Atlantic Monthly;" and, after he left that position, he often enriched its pages by the productions of his pen. During his latter years Mr. Fields gained some reputation as a lecturer. His literary abilities were of no mean order: but he did not do so much in producing literature himself, as in aiding others in its production. ###

Mrs. Chub was rich and portly, Mrs. Chub was very grand, Mrs. Chub was always reckoned A lady in the land.

You shall see her marble mansion In a very stately square,-- Mr. C. knows what it cost him, But that's neither here nor there.

Mrs. Chub was so sagacious, Such a patron of the arts, And she gave such foreign orders That she won all foreign hearts.

Mrs. Chub was always talking, When she went away from home, Of a most prodigious painting Which had just arrived from Rome.

"Such a treasure," she insisted, "One might never see again!" "What's the subject?" we inquired. "It is Jupiter and Ten!"

"Ten what?" we blandly asked her For the knowledge we did lack, "Ah! that I can not tell you, But the name is on the back.

"There it stands in printed letters,-- Come to-morrow, gentlemen,-- Come and see our splendid painting, Our fine Jupiter and Ten!"

When Mrs. Chub departed, Our brains began to rack,-- She could not be mistaken For the name was on the back.

So we begged a great Professor To lay aside his pen, And give some information Touching "Jupiter and Ten."

And we pondered well the subject, And our Lempriere we turned, To find out who the Ten were; But we could not, though we burned.

But when we saw the picture,-- O Mrs. Chub! Oh, fie! O! We perused the printed label, And 't was JUPITER AND IO!

NOTES.--John Lempriere, an Englishman, was the author of a "Classical Dictionary" which until the middle of the present century was the chief book of reference on ancient mythology.

Io is a mythical heroine of Greece, with whom Jupiter was enamored.

LXXXIII. SCENE FROM "THE POOR GENTLEMAN."

George Colman, 1762-1836, was the son of George Colman, a writer of dramas, who in 1777 purchased the "Haymarket Theater," in London. Owing to the illness of the father, Colman the younger assumed the management of the theater in 1785, which post he held for a long time. He was highly distinguished as a dramatic author and wit. "The Poor Gentleman," from which the following selection is adapted, is perhaps the best known of his works. ###

SIR ROBERT BRAMBLE and HUMPHREY DOBBINS.

Sir R. I'll tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there is not a syllable of sense in all you have been saying. But I suppose you will maintain there is.

Hum. Yes.

Sir R. Yes! Is that the way you talk to me, you old boor? What's my name?

Hum. Robert Bramble.

Sir R. An't I a baronet? Sir Robert Bramble, of Blackberry Hall, in the county of Kent? 'T is time you should know it, for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted valet these thirty years: can you deny that?

Hum. Hem!

Sir R. Hem? What do you mean by hem? Open that rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk out of it. Why don't you answer my question?

Hum. Because, if I contradict you, I shall tell you a lie, and whenever I agree with you, you are sure to fall out.

Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins. I have been so long endeavoring to beat a few brains into your pate that all your hair has tumbled off before my point is carried.

Hum. What then? Our parson says my head is an emblem of both our honors.

Sir R. Ay; because honors, like your head, are apt to be empty.

Hum. No; but if a servant has grown bald under his master's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and regard for it on the other.

Sir R. Why, to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as honest as a--pshaw! the parson means to palaver us; but, to return to my position, I tell you I do n't like your flat contradiction.

Hum. Yes, you do.

Sir R. I tell you I don't. I only love to hear men's arguments. I hate their flummery.

Hum. What do you call flummery?

Sir R. Flattery, blockhead! a dish too often served up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones.

Hum. I never serve it up to you.

Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a different description.

Hum. Hem! what is it?

Sir R. Sauerkraut, you old crab

Hum. I have held you a stout tug at argument this many a year.

Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. Now mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him: now I am rich, and hate flattery. Ergo--when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I hate him.

Hum. That's wrong.

Sir R. Very well; negatur; now prove it.

Hum. Put the case then, I am a poor man.

Sir R. You an't, you scoundrel. You know you shall never want while I have a shilling.

Hum. Bless you!

Sir R. Pshaw! Proceed.

Hum. Well, then, I am a poor--I must be a poor man now, or I never shall get on.

Sir R. Well, get on, be a poor man.

Hum. I am a poor man, and I argue with you, and convince you, you are wrong; then you call yourself a blockhead, and I am of your opinion: now, that's no flattery.

Sir R. Why, no; but when a man's of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an end to the conversation, and so I hate him for that. But where's my nephew Frederic?

Hum. Been out these two hours.

Sir R. An undutiful cub! Only arrived from Russia last night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he's scampering over the fields like a Calmuck Tartar.

Hum. He's a fine fellow.

Sir R. He has a touch of our family. Don't you think he is a little like me, Humphrey?

Hum. No, not a bit; you are as ugly an old man as ever I clapped my eyes on.

Sir R. Now that's plaguy impudent, but there's no flattery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argument. His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit--Humphrey, you remember my brother Job?

Hum. Yes, you drove him to Russia five and twenty years ago.

Sir R. I did not drive him.

Hum. Yes, you did. You would never let him be at peace in the way of argument.

Sir R. At peace! Zounds, he would never go to war.

Hum. He had the merit to be calm.

Sir R. So has a duck pond. He was a bit of still life; a chip; weak water gruel; a tame rabbit, boiled to rags, without sauce or salt. He received my arguments with his mouth open, like a poorbox gaping for half-pence, and, good or bad, he swallowed them all without any resistance. We could n't disagree, and so we parted.

Hum. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for a quiet life.

Sir R. A quiet life! Why, he married the moment he got there, tacked himself to the shrew relict of a Russian merchant, and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, potashes, tallow, linen, and leather; what's the consequence? Thirteen months ago he broke.

Hum. Poor soul, his wife should have followed the business for him. Sir R. I fancy she did follow it, for she died just as he broke, and now this madcap, Frederic, is sent over to me for protection. Poor Job, now he is in distress, I must not neglect his son.

Hum. Here comes his son; that's Mr. Frederic.

Enter FREDERIC.

Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, good morning! Your park is nothing but beauty.

Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty? I told you to stay in doors till I got up.

Fred. So you did, but I entirely forgot it.

Sir R. And pray, what made you forget it?

Fred. The sun.

Sir R. The sun! he's mad; you mean the moon, 1 believe.

Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, you don't know the effect of a fine spring morning upon a fellow just arrived from Russia. The day looked bright, trees budding, birds singing, the park was so gay that I took a leap out of your old balcony, made your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased them all around the park to get an appetite for breakfast, while you were snoring in bed, uncle.

Sir R. Oh, oh! So the effect of English sunshine upon a Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony, and worry my deer.

Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me.

Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle, unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy.

Fred. I hate legacies.

Sir R. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid tokens, at least.

Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle; they are the posthumous dispatches Affection sends to Gratitude, to inform us we have lost a gracious friend.

Sir R. How charmingly the dog argues!

Fred. But I own my spirits ran away with me this morning. I will obey you better in future; for they tell me you are a very worthy, good sort of old gentleman.

Sir R. Now who had the familiar impudence to tell you that? Fred. Old rusty, there.

Sir R. Why Humphrey, you didn't?

Hum. Yes, but I did though.

Fred, Yes, he did, and on that score I shall be anxious to show you obedience, for 't is as meritorious to attempt sharing a good man's heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon a rich man's money. A noble nature aims its attentions full breast high, uncle; a mean mind levels its dirty assiduities at the pocket.