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X It was
Story-tellers’ Night at the house-boat, and the best talkers of Hades were
impressed into the service. Doctor Johnson was made chairman of the
evening. “Put him in the chair,” said Raleigh. “That’s the only way to keep him from telling a story himself. If he starts in on a tale he’ll make it a serial sure as fate, but if you make him the medium through which other story-tellers are introduced to the club he’ll be finely epigrammatic. He can be very short and sharp when he’s talking about somebody else. Personality is his forte.” “Great
scheme,” said Diogenes, who was chairman of the entertainment committee.
“The nights over here are long, but if Johnson started on a story they’d have
to reach twice around eternity and halfway back to give him time to finish all
he had to say.” “He’s not
very witty, in my judgment,” said Carlyle, who since his arrival in the other
world has manifested some jealousy of Solomon and Doctor Johnson. “That’s
true enough,” said Raleigh; “but he’s strong, and he’s bound to say something
that will put the audience in sympathy with the man that he introduces, and
that’s half the success of a Story-tellers’ Night. I’ve told stories
myself. If your audience doesn’t sympathize with you you’d be better off
at home putting the baby to bed.” And so it
happened. Doctor Johnson was made chairman, and the evening came.
The Doctor was in great form. A list of the story-tellers had been sent
him in advance, and he was prepared. The audience was about as select a
one as can be found in Hades. The doors were thrown open to the friends
of the members, and the smoke-furnace had been filled with a very superior
quality of Arcadian mixture which Scott had brought back from a haunting-trip
to the home of “The Little Minister,” at Thrums. “Friends
and fellow-spooks,” the Doctor began, when all were seated on the visionary
camp-stools — which, by the way, are far superior to those in use in a world of
realities, because they do not creak in the midst of a fine point demanding
absolute silence for appreciation — “I do not know why I have been chosen to
preside over this gathering of phantoms; it is the province of the presiding
officer on occasions of this sort to say pleasant things, which he does not
necessarily endorse, about the sundry persons who are to do the
story-telling. Now, I suppose you all know me pretty well by this
time. If there is anybody who doesn’t, I’ll be glad to have him presented
after the formal work of the evening is over, and if I don’t like him I’ll tell
him so. You know that if I can be counted upon for any one thing it is
candor, and if I hurt the feelings of any of these individuals whom I introduce
to-night, I want them distinctly to understand that it is not because I love
them less, but that I love truth more. With this — ah — blanket apology,
as it were, to cover all possible emergencies that may arise during the
evening, I will begin. The first speaker on the programme, I regret to
observe, is my friend Goldsmith. Affairs of this kind ought to begin with
a snap, and while Oliver is a most excellent writer, as a speaker he is a
pebbleless Demosthenes. If I had had the arrangement of the programme I
should have had Goldsmith tell his story while the rest of us were down-stairs
at supper. However, we must abide by our programme, which is
unconscionably long, for otherwise we will never get through it. Those of
you who agree with me as to the pleasure of listening to my friend Goldsmith
will do well to join me in the grill-room while he is speaking, where, I
understand, there is a very fine line of punches ready to be served.
Modest Noll, will you kindly inflict yourself upon the gathering, and send me
word when you get through, if you ever do, so that I may return and present
number two to the assembly, whoever or whatever he may be?” With these
words the Doctor retired, and poor Goldsmith, pale with fear, rose up to
speak. It was evident that he was quite as doubtful of his ability as a
talker as was Johnson. “I’m not much of a talker, or, as some say, speaker,” he said. “Talking is not my forte, as Doctor Johnson has told you, and I am therefore not much at it. Speaking is not in my line. I cannot speak or talk, as it were, because I am not particularly ready at the making of a speech, due partly to the fact that I am not much of a talker anyhow, and seldom if ever speak. I will therefore not bore you by attempting to speak, since a speech by one who like myself is, as you are possibly aware, not a fluent nor indeed in any sense an eloquent speaker, is apt to be a bore to those who will be kind enough to listen to my remarks, but will read instead the first five chapters of the Vicar of Wakefield.”  “GOLDSMITH, PALE WITH FEAR, RISES TO SPEAK” “Who
suggested any such night as this, anyhow?” growled Carlyle. “Five
chapters of the Vicar of Wakefield for a starter! Lord save us,
we’ll need a Vicar of Sleepfield if he’s allowed to do this!” “I move we
adjourn,” said Darwin. “Can’t
something be done to keep these younger members quiet?” asked Solomon, frowning
upon Carlyle and Darwin. “Yes,”
said Douglas Jerrold. “Let Goldsmith go on. He’ll have them asleep
in ten minutes.” Meanwhile,
Goldsmith was plodding earnestly through his stint, utterly and happily
oblivious of the effect he was having upon his audience. “This is
awful,” whispered Wellington to Bonaparte. “Worse
than Waterloo,” replied the ex-Emperor, with a grin; “but we can stop it in a
minute. Artemas Ward told me once how a camp-meeting he attended in the
West broke up to go outside and see a dog-fight. Can’t you and I pretend
to quarrel? A personal assault by you on me will wake these people up and
discombobulate Goldsmith. Say the word — only don’t hit too hard.” “I’m with you,” said Wellington. Whereupon, with a great show of heat, he roared out, “You? Never! I’m more afraid of a boy with a bean-snapper that I ever was of you!” and followed up his remark by pulling Bonaparte’s camp-chair from under him, and letting the conqueror of Austerlitz fall to the floor with a thud which I have since heard described as dull and sickening.  WELLINGTON PULLS BONAPART’S CAMP-CHAIR FROM UNDER HIM The effect
was instantaneous. Compared to a personal encounter between the two great
figures of Waterloo, a reading from his own works by Goldsmith seemed lacking
in the elements essential to the holding of an audience. Consequently,
attention was centred in the belligerent warriors, and, by some odd mistake,
when a peace-loving member of the assemblage, realizing the indecorousness of
the incident, cried out, “Put him out! put him out!” the attendants rushed in,
and, taking poor Goldsmith by his collar, hustled him out through the door,
across the deck, and tossed him ashore without reference to the
gang-plank. This accomplished, a personal explanation of their course was
made by the quarrelling generals, and, peace having been restored, a committee
was sent in search of Goldsmith with suitable apologies. The good and
kindly soul returned, but having lost his book in the mêlée, much to his own
gratification, as well as to that of the audience, he was permitted to rest in
quiet the balance of the evening. “Is he
through?” said Johnson, poking his head in at the door when order was restored. “Yes,
sir,” said Boswell; “that is to say, he has retired permanently from the
field. He didn’t finish, though.” “Fellow-spooks,”
began Johnson once more, “now that you have been delighted with the honeyed
eloquence of the last speaker, it is my privilege to present to you that
eminent fabulist Baron Munchausen, the greatest unrealist of all time, who will
give you an exhibition of his paradoxical power of lying while standing.” The
applause which greeted the Baron was deafening. He was, beyond all doubt,
one of the most popular members of the club. “Speaking
of whales,” said he, leaning gracefully against the table. “Nobody
has mentioned ’em,” said Johnson. “True,”
retorted the Baron; “but you always suggest them by your apparently
unquenchable thirst for spouting — speaking of whales, my friend Jonah, as well
as the rest of you, may be interested to know that I once had an experience
similar to his own, and, strange to say, with the identical whale.” Jonah
arose from his seat in the back of the room. “I do not wish to be
unpleasant,” he said, with a strong effort to be calm, “but I wish to ask if
Judge Blackstone is in the room.” “I am,”
said the Judge, rising. “What can I do for you?” “I desire
to apply for an injunction restraining the Baron from using my whale in his
story. That whale, your honor, is copyrighted,” said Jonah. “If I
had any other claim to the affection of mankind than the one which is based on
my experience with that leviathan, I would willingly permit the Baron to
introduce him into his story; but that whale, your honor, is my stock in trade
— he is my all.” “I think
Jonah’s point is well taken,” said Blackstone, turning to the Baron. “It
would be a distinct hardship, I think, if the plaintiff in this action were to
be deprived of the exclusive use of his sole accessory. The injunction
prayed for is therefore granted. The court would suggest, however, that
the Baron continue with his story, using another whale for the purpose.” “It is
impossible,” said Munchausen, gloomily. “The whole point of the story
depends upon its having been Jonah’s whale. Under the circumstances, the
only thing I can do is to sit down. I regret the narrowness of mind
exhibited by my friend Jonah, but I must respect the decision of the court.” “I must
take exception to the Baron’s allusion to my narrowness of mind,” said Jonah,
with some show of heat. “I am simply defending my rights, and I intend to
continue to do so if the whole world unites in considering my mind a mere slot
scarcely wide enough for the insertion of a nickel. That whale was my
discovery, and the personal discomfort I endured in perfecting my experience
was such that I resolved to rest my reputation upon his broad proportions only
— to sink or swim with him — and I cannot at this late day permit another to
crowd me out of his exclusive use.” Jonah sat
down and fanned himself, and the Baron, with a look of disgust on his face,
left the room. “Up to his
old tricks,” he growled as he went. “He queers everything he goes
into. If I’d known he was a member of this club I’d never have joined.” “We do not
appear to be progressing very rapidly,” said Doctor Johnson, rising. “So
far we have made two efforts to have stories told, and have met with disaster
each time. I don’t know but what you are to be congratulated, however, on
your escape. Very few of you, I observe, have as yet fallen asleep.
The next number on the programme, I see, is Boswell, who was to have entertained
you with a few reminiscences; I say was to have done so, because he is not to
do so.” “I’m
ready,” said Boswell, rising. “No
doubt,” retorted Johnson, severely, “but I am not. You are a man with one
subject — myself. I admit it’s a good subject, but you are not the man to
treat of it — here. You may suffice for mortals, but here it is
different. I can speak for myself. You can go out and sit on the
banks of the Vitriol Reservoir and lecture to the imps if you want to, but when
it comes to reminiscences of me I’m on deck myself, and I flatter myself I
remember what I said and did more accurately than you do. Therefore,
gentlemen, instead of listening to Boswell at this point, you will kindly
excuse him and listen to me. Ahem! When I was a boy —” “Excuse
me,” said Solomon, rising; “about how long is this — ah — this entertaining
discourse of yours to continue?” “Until I
get through,” returned Johnson, wrathfully. “Are you
aware, sir, that I am on the programme?” asked Solomon. “I am,”
said the Doctor. “With that in mind, for the sake of our fellow-spooks
who are present, I am very much inclined to keep on forever. When I was a
boy —” Carlyle
rose up at this point. “I should
like to ask,” he said, mildly, “if this is supposed to be an audience of
children? I, for one, have no wish to listen to the juvenile stories of
Doctor Johnson. Furthermore, I have come here particularly to-night to
hear Boswell. I want to compare him with Froude. I therefore
protest against —” “There is
a roof to this house-boat,” said Doctor Johnson. “If Mr. Carlyle will
retire to the roof with Boswell I have no doubt he can be accommodated.
As for Solomon’s interruption, I can afford to pass that over with the silent
contempt it deserves, though I may add with propriety that I consider his most
famous proverbs the most absurd bits of hack-work I ever encountered; and as
for that story about dividing a baby between two mothers by splitting it in
two, it was grossly inhuman unless the baby was twins. When I was a boy
—” As the
Doctor proceeded, Carlyle and Solomon, accompanied by the now angry Boswell,
left the room, and my account of the Story-tellers’ Night must perforce stop;
because, though I have never heretofore confessed it, all my information
concerning the house-boat on the Styx has been derived from the memoranda of
Boswell. It may be interesting to the reader to learn, however, that,
according to Boswell’s account, the Story-tellers’ Night was never finished;
but whether this means that it broke up immediately afterwards in a riot, or
that Doctor Johnson is still at work detailing his reminiscences, I am not
aware, and I cannot at the moment of writing ascertain, for Boswell, when I
have the pleasure of meeting him, invariably avoids the subject. |
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