The Dead Mens Song | Page 9

endorsement was
called up against him in a broadside affidavit, which he promptly
reviewed in the most deliciously sarcastic editorial concluding:
And we do not hesitate to declare anew that "we believe if he had been
continued as president, all the interests of the company would have
been secured." It was certainly not his fault that he did not secure more.
Everything cannot be done in eleven months. But in the language of the
far-Western tombstone it can be justly said, "He done what he could."
JUST BROWSING AROUND
One who has never read around the clock in a virtual debauch of novel

reading cannot appreciate Allison's "Delicious Vice;" no more can he
Field's "Dibdin's Ghost" who has not smuggled home under his coat
some cherished volume at the expense of his belly--and possibly
someone else's too! "The Delicious Vice!" What a tart morsel to roll on
one's tongue in anticipation and to speculate over before scanning the
pages to discover that the vice is not "hitting the pipe" or "snuffing
happy dust" but is as Allison paints it with whimsical but affectionate
words, "pipe dreams and fond adventures of an habitual novel-reader
among some great books and their people." These are the all too
skimpy pages through which its author rhapsodizes on the noble
profession, makes a keen distinction between novel readers and
"women, nibblers and amateurs," brings up reminiscences of "early
crimes and joys" and discourses learnedly, discerningly and
entertainingly upon "good honest scoundrelism and villains." Every
page is the best and when the last has passed under your eye, you again
begin square at the beginning and read it all over. You are here only to
have the appetite spiced by one single gem quoted from the first novel
for the boy to read which of course is "Robinson Crusoe:"
... There are other symptoms of the born novel-reader to be observed in
him. If he reads at night he is careful so to place his chair that the light
will fall on the page from a direction that will ultimately ruin the
eyes--but it does not interfere with the light. He humps himself over the
open volume and begins to display that unerring curvilinearity of the
spine that compels his mother to study braces and to fear that he will
develop consumption. Yet you can study the world's health records and
never find a line to prove that any man with "occupation or
profession--novel-reading" is recorded as dying of consumption. The
humped-over attitude promotes compression of the lungs, telescoping
of the diaphragm, atrophy of the abdominal abracadabra and other
things (see Physiological Slush, p. 179, et seq.);

but--it--never--hurts--the--boy!
To a novel-reading boy the position is one of instinct like that of a
bicycle racer. His eyes are strained, his nerves and muscles at
tension--everything ready for excitement--and the book, lying open,
leaves his hands perfectly free to drum on the sides of the chair, slap his

legs and knees, fumble in his pockets or even scratch his head, as
emotion and interest demand. Does anybody deny that the highest
proof of special genius is the possession of the instinct to adapt itself to
the matter in hand? Nothing more need be said.
Now, if you will observe carefully such a boy when he comes to a
certain point in "Robinson Crusoe" you may recognize the stroke of
fate in his destiny. If he's the right sort, he will read gayly along; he
drums, he slaps himself, he beats his breast, he scratches his head.
Suddenly there will come the shock. He is reading rapidly and
gloriously. He finds his knife in his pocket, as usual, and puts it back;
the top-string is there; he drums the devil's tattoo, he wets his finger
and smears the margin of the page as he whirls it over and then--he
finds--
"The--Print--of--a--Man's--Naked--Foot--on--the--Shore!!!"
Oh, Crackey! At this tremendous moment the novel-reader, who has
genius, drums no more. His hands have seized the upper edges of the
muslin lids, he presses the lower edges against his stomach, his back
takes an added intensity of hump, his eyes bulge, his heart thumps--he
is landed--landed!
Terror, surprise, sympathy, hope, skepticism, doubt--come all ye
trooping emotions to threaten and console; but an end has come to fairy
stories and wonder tales--Master Studious is in the awful presence of
Human Nature.
For many years I have believed that that

Print--of--a--Man's--Naked--Foot was set in Italic type in all editions of
"Robinson Crusoe." But a patient search of many editions has
convinced me that I must have been mistaken.
The passage comes sneaking along in the midst of a paragraph in
common Roman letters and by the living jingo, you discover it just as
Mr. Crusoe discovered the footprint itself!
I wish I might tell the reason why no scoundrel was ever