Which do you prefer, Mr. Caxton? asked Mr. Squills, breaking the sugar in his tumbler. In this I always deem it my duty to consult the wishes of the gentleman.
A nurse by all means, then, said my father. And let her carry him upo kolpo, next to her bosom. I know all that has been said about mothers nursing their own infants, Mr. Squills; but poor Kitty is so sensitive that I think a stout, healthy peasant woman will be the best for the boys future nerves, and his mothers nerves, present and future too. Heigh-ho! I shall miss the dear woman very much. When will she be up, Mr. Squills?
Oh, in less than a fortnight!
And then the Neogilos shall go to school,upo kolpo,the nurse with him, and all will be right again, said my father, with a look of sly, mysterious humor which was peculiar to him.
School! when hes just born?
Cant begin too soon, said my father, positively; thats Helvetius opinion, and it is mine too!
CHAPTER III
That I was a very wonderful child, I take for granted; but nevertheless it was not of my own knowledge that I came into possession of the circumstances set down in my former chapters. But my fathers conduct on the occasion of my birth made a notable impression upon all who witnessed it; and Mr. Squills and Mrs. Primmins have related the facts to me sufficiently often to make me as well acquainted with them as those worthy witnesses themselves. I fancy I see my father before me, in his dark-gray dressing-gown, and with his odd, half-sly, half-innocent twitch of the mouth, and peculiar puzzling look, from two quiet, abstracted, indolently handsome eyes, at the moment he agreed with Helvetius on the propriety of sending me to school as soon as I was born. Nobody knew exactly what to make of my father,his wife excepted. The people of Abdera sent for Hippocrates to cure the supposed insanity of Democritus, who at that time, saith Hippocrates, dryly, was seriously engaged in philosophy. That same people of Abdera would certainly have found very alarming symptoms of madness in my poor father; for, like Democritus, he esteemed as nothing the things, great or small, in which the rest of the world were employed. Accordingly, some set him down as a sage, some as a fool. The neighboring clergy respected him as a scholar, breathing libraries; the ladies despised him as an absent pedant who had no more gallantry than a stock or a stone. The poor loved him for his charities, but laughed at him as a weak sort of man, easily taken in. Yet the squires and farmers found that, in their own matters of rural business, he had always a fund of curious information to impart; and whoever, young or old, gentle or simple, learned or ignorant, asked his advice, it was given with not more humility than wisdom. In the common affairs of life he seemed incapable of acting for himself; he left all to my mother; or, if taken unawares, was pretty sure to be the dupe. But in those very affairs, if another consulted him, his eye brightened, his brow cleared, the desire of serving made him a new being,cautious, profound, practical. Too lazy or too languid where only his own interests were at stake, touch his benevolence, and all the wheels of the clock-work felt the impetus of the master-spring. No wonder that, to others, the nut of such a character was hard to crack! But in the eyes of my poor mother, Augustine (familiarly Austin) Caxton was the best and the greatest of human beings; and she ought to have known him well, for she studied him with her whole heart, knew every trick of his face, and, nine times out of ten, divined what he was going to say before he opened his lips. Yet certainly there were deeps in his nature which the plummet of her tender womans wit had never sounded; and certainly it sometimes happened that, even in his most domestic colloquialisms, my mother was in doubt whether he was the simple, straightforward person he was mostly taken for. There was, indeed, a kind of suppressed, subtle irony about him, too unsubstantial to be popularly called humor, but dimly implying some sort of jest, which he kept all to himself; and this was only noticeable when he said something that sounded very grave, or appeared to the grave very silly and irrational.
That I did not go to schoolat least to what Mr. Squills understood by the word schoolquite so soon as intended, I need scarcely observe. In fact, my mother managed so wellmy nursery, by means of double doors, was so placed out of hearingthat my father, for the most part, was privileged, if he pleased, to forget my existence. He was once vaguely recalled to it on the occasion of my christening. Now, my father was a shy man, and he particularly hated all ceremonies and public spectacles. He became uneasily aware that a great ceremony, in which he might be called upon to play a prominent part, was at hand. Abstracted as he was, and conveniently deaf at times, he had heard such significant whispers about taking advantage of the bishops being in the neighborhood, and twelve new jelly-glasses being absolutely wanted, as to assure him that some deadly festivity was in the wind. And when the question of godmother and godfather was fairly put to hire, coupled with the remark that this was a fine opportunity to return the civilities of the neighborhood, he felt that a strong effort at escape was the only thing left. Accordingly, having, seemingly without listening, heard the day fixed and seen, as they thought, without observing, the chintz chairs in the best drawing-room uncovered (my dear mother was the tidiest woman in the world), my father suddenly discovered that there was to be a great book-sale, twenty miles off, which would last four days, and attend it he must. My mother sighed; but she never contradicted my father, even when he was wrong, as he certainly was in this case. She only dropped a timid intimation that she feared it would look odd, and the world might misconstrue my fathers absence,had not she better put off the christening?
My dear, answered my father, it will be my duty, by and by, to christen the boy,a duty not done in a day. At present, I have no doubt that the bishop will do very well without me. Let the day stand, or if you put it off, upon my word and honor I believe that the wicked auctioneer will put off the book-sale also. Of one thing I am quite sure, that the sale and the christening will take place at the same time. There was no getting over this; but I am certain my dear mother had much less heart than before in uncovering the chintz chairs in the best drawing-room. Five years later this would not have happened. My mother would have kissed my father and said, Stay, and he would have stayed. But she was then very young and timid; and he, wild man, not of the woods, but the cloisters, not yet civilized into the tractabilities of home. In short, the post-chaise was ordered and the carpetbag packed.
My love, said my mother, the night before this Hegira, looking up from her work, my love, there is one thing you have quite forgot to settle,I beg pardon for disturbing you, but it is important!babys name: sha nt we call him Augustine?
Augustine, said my father, dreamily,why that names mine.
And you would like your boys to be the same?
No, said my father, rousing himself. Nobody would know which was which. I should catch myself learning the Latin accidence, or playing at marbles. I should never know my own identity, and Mrs. Primmins would be giving me pap.
My mother smiled; and putting her hand, which was a very pretty one, on my fathers shoulder, and looking at him tenderly, she said: Theres no fear of mistaking you for any other, even your son, dearest. Still, if you prefer another name, what shall it be?
My mother smiled; and putting her hand, which was a very pretty one, on my fathers shoulder, and looking at him tenderly, she said: Theres no fear of mistaking you for any other, even your son, dearest. Still, if you prefer another name, what shall it be?
Samuel, said my father. Dr. Parrs name is Samuel.
La, my love! Samuel is the ugliest name
My father did not hear the exclamation; he was again deep in his books. Presently he started up: Barnes says Homer is Solomon. Read Omeros backward, in the Hebrew manner
Yes, my love, interrupted my mother. But babys Christian name?
OmerosSoremoSolemoSolomo!
Solomo,shocking! said my mother.
Shocking indeed, echoed my father; an outrage to common-sense. Then, after glancing again over his books, he broke out musingly: But, after all, it is nonsense to suppose that Homer was not settled till his time.
Whose? asked my mother, mechanically. My father lifted up his finger.
My mother continued, after a short pause., Arthur is a pretty name. Then there s WilliamHenryCharlesRobert. What shall it be, love?
Pisistratus! said my father (who had hung fire till then), in a tone of contempt,Pisistratus, indeed!
Pisistratus! a very fine name, said my mother, joyfully,Pisistratus Caxton. Thank you, my love: Pisistratus it shall be.
Do you contradict me? Do you side with Wolfe and Heyne and that pragmatical fellow Vico? Do you mean to say that the Rhapsodists
No, indeed, interrupted my mother. My dear, you frighten me.
My father sighed, and threw himself back in his chair. My mother took courage and resumed.
Pisistratus is a long name too! Still, one could call him Sisty.
Siste, Viator, muttered my father; thats trite!
No, Sisty by itselfshort. Thank you, my dear.
Four days afterwards, on his return from the book-sale, to my fathers inexpressible bewilderment, he was informed that Pisistratus was growing the very image of him.
When at length the good man was made thoroughly aware of the fact that his son and heir boasted a name so memorable in history as that borne by the enslaver of Athens and the disputed arranger of Homer,and it was asserted to be a name that he himself had suggested,he was as angry as so mild a man could be. But it is infamous! he exclaimed. Pisistratus christened! Pisistratus, who lived six hundred years before Christ was born! Good heavens, madam! you have made me the father of an Anachronism.
My mother burst into tears. But the evil was irremediable. An anachronism I was, and an anachronism I must continue to the end of the chapter.
CHAPTER IV
Of course, sir, you will begin soon to educate your son yourself? said Mr. Squills.
Of course, sir, said my father, you have read Martinus Scriblerus?
I dont understand you, Mr. Caxton.
Then you have not read Martinus Scriblerus, Mr. Squills!
Consider that I have read it; and what then?
Why, then, Squills, said my father, familiarly, you would know that though a scholar is often a fool, he is never a fool so supreme, so superlative, as when he is defacing the first unsullied page of the human history by entering into it the commonplaces of his own pedantry. A scholar, sir,at least one like me,is of all persons the most unfit to teach young children. A mother, sir,a simple, natural, loving mother,is the infants true guide to knowledge.
Egad! Mr. Caxton,in spite of Helvetius, whom you quoted the night the boy was born,egad! I believe you are right.
I am sure of it, said my father,at least as sure as a poor mortal can be of anything. I agree with Helvetius, the child should be educated from its birth; but how? There is the rub: send him to school forthwith! Certainly, he is at school already with the two great teachers,Nature and Love. Observe, that childhood and genius have the same master-organ in common,inquisitiveness. Let childhood have its way, and as it began where genius begins, it may find what genius finds. A certain Greek writer tells us of some man who, in order to save his bees a troublesome flight to Hymettus, cut their wings, and placed before them the finest flowers he could select. The poor bees made no honey. Now, sir, if I were to teach my boy, I should be cutting his wings and giving him the flowers he should find himself. Let us leave Nature alone for the present, and Natures loving proxy, the watchful mother.
Therewith my father pointed to his heir sprawling on the grass and plucking daisies on the lawn, while the young mothers voice rose merrily, laughing at the childs glee.
I shall make but a poor bill out of your nursery, I see, said Mr. Squills.
Agreeably to these doctrines, strange in so learned a father, I thrived and flourished, and learned to spell, and make pot-hooks, under the joint care of my mother and Dame Primmins. This last was one of an old race fast dying away,the race of old, faithful servants; the race of old, tale-telling nurses. She had reared my mother before me; but her affection put out new flowers for the new generation. She was a Devonshire woman; and Devonshire women, especially those who have passed their youth near the sea-coast, are generally superstitious. She had a wonderful budget of fables. Before I was six years old, I was erudite in that primitive literature in which the legends of all nations are traced to a common fountain,Puss in Boots, Tom Thumb, Fortunio, Fortunatus, Jack the Giant-Killer; tales, like proverbs, equally familiar, under different versions, to the infant worshippers of Budh and the hardier children of Thor. I may say, without vanity, that in an examination in those venerable classics I could have taken honors!
My dear mother had some little misgivings as to the solid benefit to be derived from such fantastic erudition, and timidly consulted my father thereon.
My love, answered my father, in that tone of voice which always puzzled even my mother to be sure whether he was in jest or earnest, in all these fables certain philosophers could easily discover symbolic significations of the highest morality. I have myself written a treatise to prove that Puss in Boots is an allegory upon the progress of the human understanding, having its origin in the mystical schools of the Egyptian priests, and evidently an illustration of the worship rendered at Thebes and Memphis to those feline quadrupeds of which they make both religious symbols and elaborate mummies.
My dear Austin, said my mother, opening her blue eyes, you dont think that Sisty will discover all those fine things in Puss in Boots!
My dear Kitty, answered my father, you dont think, when you were good enough to take up with me, that you found in me all the fine things I have learned from books. You knew me only as a harmless creature who was happy enough to please your fancy. By and by you discovered that I was no worse for all the quartos that have transmigrated into ideas within me,ideas that are mysteries even to myself. If Sisty, as you call the child (plague on that unlucky anachronism! which you do well to abbreviate into a dissyllable),if Sisty cant discover all the wisdom of Egypt in Puss in Boots, what then? Puss in Boots is harmless, and it pleases his fancy. All that wakes curiosity is wisdom, if innocent; all that pleases the fancy now, turns hereafter to love or to knowledge. And so, my dear, go back to the nursery.