Part 11 (2/2)
”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 a.s.sembly, 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_.”
”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 a.s.sault by you on me will wake these people up and dis...o...b..bulate 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.
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 a.s.semblage, 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 ash.o.r.e 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 melee, 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.
”n.o.body 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 hards.h.i.+p, 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.”
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