Read Ebook: The Frontier in American History by Turner Frederick Jackson

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1705 lines and 122891 words, and 35 pages

She.--I usually try to treat all my friends as carefully as if each one bore a tag marked, "THIS IS MY BUSY DAY; MAKE IT SHORT."

He.--Yes; or, "IF YOU HAVE ANY TIME TO KILL, KILL YOUR OWN." At what a rapid pace we live, anyway. People in the country--the peasant class--are never in a hurry. They talk slowly, eat slowly, and work at the same laggard pace.

She.--In other words, they exist, but do not live. They do not enjoy what we enjoy. A daily feast is spread before them, but they do not partake of it. What do they know of glowing sunsets and of moonlit waves; of shaded walks through pathless woods; of narrow streams in-walled with trees? The sunset tells the peasant only of what the weather will bring to his crops; the stretch of velvet through which the streamlet winds, of green pastures for his flocks. But I have gotten away from my subject. In other words, like the bore, I have "side-tracked."

He.--Only what you say does not bore.

She.--You mean, not you.

He.--Nor any one else.

She.--Thank you.

She.--That will be charming, and you may begin at once.

He.--So we agree that the greatest fault that a person can have is to ask questions, and then, without waiting for the answers, to plunge at once into a detailed account of his own doings. I have discovered another fault, and one, I fear, that I, too, possess; that is, to ask questions concerning the welfare of my friend and of his family, and then after he has gotten fairly under way in the recital of his woes, to interrupt him with irrelevant remarks.

She.--I am sure that you haven't this fault, although it is very common. It is based upon the principle that people, as a rule, are vitally concerned only in what concerns themselves. I have a friend who maintains that no one really enjoys listening to what another has to say. He says that the interested listener is interested only in having the other person finish in order that he may have the opportunity to tell his story.

He.--I note, however, that, as a rule, people recite their woes, and not their "weals." But, of course, that depends upon the individual. Some persons always have a "hard luck story;" others, dwell upon the bright happenings in their lives.

She.--I think we each can recall some friend whose greatest pleasure is to pose as a martyr; another, who, no matter what are his ills, has always something of interest to impart pertaining to some good fortune, fancied or otherwise, which has befallen him.

He.--Speaking of our faults, I think that the best way to correct them is to notice them in our friends, and then to try to avoid them. But, of course, you haven't any.

She.--Any friends?

He.--Any faults, of course.

She.--I fear that you are not a good critic.

He.--I may not be; but you certainly have none of the bad habits that we have enumerated.

She.--Oh! you couldn't see them if I had.

He.--From sheer stupidity?

She.--Hardly; only as far as I am concerned, you have become accustomed to think of me as did Dick of Maisie, in "The Light that Failed" that "The Queen can do no wrong."

He.--That reminds me--I have just finished reading "The Light that Failed," and I am sure that I shall never get away from the awfulness of it--the awfulness of having the light go out forever.

She.--Kipling makes one see it all so vividly, where he says:

"'I shan't.' The voice rose in a wail, 'My God! I'm blind, and the darkness will never go away.' He made as if to leap from the bed, but Torpenhow's arms were around him, and Torpenhow's chin was on his shoulder, and his breath was squeezed out of him. He could only gasp, 'Blind!'"

He.--And again, the picture that Kipling draws of the blind man who suddenly finds himself unable to do that which he has been accustomed to do. I have the book with me:

"A wise man will keep his eyes on the floor and sit still. For amusement he may pick coal, lump by lump, out of a light scuttle, with the tongs, and pile it in a little heap by the fender, keeping count of the lumps, which must all be put back again, one by one, and very carefully. He may set himself sums if he cares to work them out; he may talk to himself, or to the cat if she chooses to visit him; and if his trade has been that of an artist he may sketch in the air with his forefinger: but that is too much like drawing a pig with his eyes shut. He may go to his bookshelves and count his books, ranging them in order of their size; or to his wardrobe and count out his shirts, laying them in piles of two or three on the bed, as they suffer from frayed cuffs or lost buttons. Even this entertainment wearies after a time; and all the times are very, very long."

I suppose that this portrayal is true to life.

She.--Undoubtedly, in a way; but I had a novel experience when traveling East this summer. While on the train, I saw a gentleman, who was trying to interest a little boy, who did not respond to his advances. I heard him ask the child whether he was a little boy, and how old he was. I saw then that the gentleman was blind, and thinking that he might prefer to talk with me, I introduced myself to him and found him a most delightful conversationalist. He told me that he had become blind very suddenly five years ago, but that his work had not been interrupted for a day since. His position as manager of a large corporation necessitated his frequent journeying in railroad trains, but he had continued to travel as before, sometimes with his secretary, and sometimes alone. He was alone when I met him. He was certainly delightfully cheerful and entertaining; and withal, he was fully informed on current topics of interest. It seemed almost impossible to realize that he was blind.

He.--His case is extraordinary; but, of course, he was not an artist, as was poor Dick, before the "light went out."

I have just discovered another reason why you are so very interesting. It is because you always have some novel experience to recount.

She.--Yes; but you know, we decided that people did not care, as a rule, to hear others talk.

He.--Well, I shall retract my decision. I have concluded that we usually like to hear others talk, if they have something interesting to tell.

She.--Yes; we are all children, in a sense. Tell us a story, and we will listen, provided the story-teller knows how to tell it.

He.--Do you know what I have been thinking of while you were telling me this incident?

She.--That we had gotten a long way from our original subject?

She.--And you have conformed to both the rules that we have learned.

GOLDEN RULE NUMBER IV

He.--We always seem to drift back to our favorite topic, "How not to bore." At least, we discuss it so frequently, that I assume we are mutually interested.

She.--I assure you that I am very much interested in everything that assists me in making myself more pleasing to my friends.

He.--If you would not regard my compliments so dubiously, I should say that that would be impossible.

She.--Another case of the infallibility of the queen? But to go back to our subject, I often wonder whether this pleasure that we take in receiving the approval of others, is not virtually the root of all good. It is certainly most fortunate that we do care for the good opinion of our fellow-beings, and especially where we strive to merit it.

Somehow, we never seem to outgrow our childish love for rewards. I suppose that if the truth were told, much that we think we do for the sake of culture, is really done for the sake of Dame Grundy. Of course, I do not mean as applied to vain self-glorification, but rather to our higher aims and purposes. Most of us, for example, think that we make great efforts along the lines of self-improvement for the soul-satisfaction that our efforts may give us; but I wonder how steadfastly one would work--each at his chosen calling--if one were on a desert island, remote from "all the haunts of men." But to return to our subject, you say that your latest discovery is that even grown persons contradict one another. I thought that only children had this fault.

He.--So did I; but my attention was called to this a few days since when visiting my sister. While she was telling me something of great interest to us both, her little daughter contradicted her several times in the course of our conversation. Partly because I was annoyed, and partly because I wished to teach the child a lesson, I said to my sister, "Have you ever noticed how frequently children contradict their elders? It is certainly one of the greatest faults that a child can have." "Yes," she answered, "but many grown persons have the same fault." And when I expressed surprise, she added, "If you are inclined to doubt the truth of this assertion, just try to tell something in the hearing of others who are familiar with the story, and you will soon discern that the fault is not confined to children." And then I discovered this fault not only in others, but also in myself.

She.--Oh, dear! maybe I, too, am guilty of the same offence.

He.--I am sure that you never contradict any one in the way that I mean. It is certainly very embarrassing to make a statement, and then to have it contradicted, even though the matter is of little consequence.

She.--How many rules have we learned so far?

He.--So, if Mrs. Van Stretcher tells us that Mrs. De Waters has crossed the ocean a dozen times in as many years, we are not to say, "Pardon us, only six, as she goes abroad only once in two years, which makes just--Oh, yes! just twelve times."

She.--Yes, the person who contradicts, frequently restates the matter merely in another way.

GOLDEN RULE NUMBER V

He.--You haven't asked me about my golden discovery.

She.--Oh, dear! is there still another rule to learn? You know, we have already had four.

He.--I suppose it is innate--one's soul, which to me stands for one's love of the beautiful--for the ideal. You see, whatever you speak about, you lift out of the commonplace. Life seems quite "worth the while," when I am with you. All the inspiring things--books, music, painting--take on a new meaning when we talk about them. Last evening my newly-made acquaintance and I discussed these subjects, but they did not interest me. Julia Marlowe, whom she had just seen, was merely a pretty woman who dressed perfectly; the latest book was something that bored, but that had to be read because everybody else was reading it. Music was an unknown quantity. What shall we do with Philistines like this?

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet