Ponkapog Papers | Page 8

or evil, and the deception is
unveiled. The hitherto disregarded author is recognized, and the idol of

yesterday, which seemed so impor- tant, is taken down from his too
large pedestal and carted off to the dumping-ground of inade- quate
things. To be sure, if he chances to have been not entirely unworthy,
and on cool exam- ination is found to possess some appreciable degree
of merit, then he is set up on a new slab of appropriate dimensions. The
late colossal statue shrinks to a modest bas-relief. On the other hand,
some scarcely noticed bust may suddenly become a revered full-length
figure. Between the reputation of the author living and the reputation of
the same author dead there is ever a wide discrepancy.
A NOT too enchanting glimpse of Tennyson is incidentally given by
Charles Brookfield, the English actor, in his "Random Recollections."
Mr. Brookfield's father was, on one occasion, dining at the Oxford and
Cambridge Club with George Venables, Frank Lushington, Alfred
Tennyson, and others. "After dinner," relates the random recollector,
"the poet insisted upon putting his feet on the table, tilting back his
chair more Americano. There were strangers in the room, and
he was expostulated with for his uncouthness, but in vain. 'Do put down
your feet!' pleaded his host. 'Why should I?' retorted Tennyson. 'I 'm
very comfortable as I am.' 'Every one's staring at you,' said an- other.
'Let 'em stare,' replied the poet, pla- cidly. 'Alfred,' said my father,
'people will think you're Longfellow.' Down went the feet." That
more Americano of Brookfield the younger is delicious with its
fine insular flavor, but the holding up of Longfellow--the soul of
gentleness, the prince of courtesy--as a buga- boo of bad manners is
simply inimitable. It will take England years and years to detect the full
unconscious humor of it.
GREAT orators who are not also great writers become very indistinct
historical shadows to the generations immediately following them. The
spell vanishes with the voice. A man's voice is almost the only part of
him entirely obliterated by death. The violet of his native land may be
made of his ashes, but nature in her economy seems to have taken no
care of his intonations, unless she perpetuates them in restless waves of
air surging about the poles. The well-graced actor who leaves no
perceptible record of his genius has a decided advantage over the mere
orator. The tradition of the player's method and presence is associated

with works of endur- ing beauty. Turning to the pages of the drama- tist,
we can picture to ourselves the greatness of Garrick or Siddons in this
or that scene, in this or that character. It is not so easy to conjure up the
impassioned orator from the pages of a dry and possibly illogical
argument in favor of or against some long-ago-exploded measure of
gov- ernment. The laurels of an orator who is not a master of literary art
wither quickly.
ALL the best sands of my life are somehow get- ting into the wrong
end of the hour-glass. If I could only reverse it! Were it in my power to
do so, would I?
SHAKESPEARE is forever coming into our affairs --putting in his oar,
so to speak--with some pat word or sentence. The conversation, the
other evening, had turned on the subject of watches, when one of the
gentlemen present, the manager of a large watch-making establish-
ment, told us a rather interesting fact. The component parts of a watch
are produced by different workmen, who have no concern with the
complex piece of mechanism as a whole, and possibly, as a rule,
understand it imper- fectly. Each worker needs to be expert in only his
own special branch. When the watch has reached a certain advanced
state, the work requires a touch as delicate and firm as that of an oculist
performing an operation. Here the most skilled and trustworthy artisans
are em- ployed; they receive high wages, and have the benefit of a
singular indulgence. In case the workman, through too continuous
application, finds himself lacking the steadiness of nerve demanded by
his task, he is allowed without forfeiture of pay to remain idle
temporarily, in order that his hand may recover the requisite precision
of touch. As I listened, Hamlet's courtly criticism of the grave-digger's
want of sensibility came drifting into my memory. "The hand of little
employment hath the dain- tier sense," says Shakespeare, who has left
no- thing unsaid.
IT was a festival in honor of Dai Butsu or some one of the auxiliary
deities that preside over the destinies of Japland. For three days and
nights the streets of Tokio--where the squat little brown houses look for
all the world as if they were mimicking the favorite sitting posture of

the