The Diving Bell | Page 7

task of making a horse. When it was done, and ready for
exhibition, though it was a perfect scare-crow of a thing, he used to
hold it up, with ever so much pride expressed in the rough features of
his face, as if it were an effort worthy of being hung up in the Academy
of Design, or the Gallery of Fine Arts.
This state of things lasted for some years. But Ralph did not make
much progress in the art. His horses continued to be the same stiff,

awkward things that they were at first. So did his cows, and oxen, and
dogs, and cats, and men. It became pretty evident, at least to everybody
except the young artist himself, that he never would shine in his
favorite profession. He was not "cut out for it," apparently, though it
took a great while to beat the idea out of his head, that he was going to
make one of the greatest painters in the country. When he became a
young man, however, he had sense enough to choose the carpenter's
trade, instead of the painter's art. I think he showed a great deal more
judgment than many other people do, who imagine they are destined to
astonish two or three continents with their wonderful productions in
some department of the fine arts, but who, unfortunately, are not much
better fitted for either of them than a goose or a sheep.

V.
PUTTING ON AIRS:
OR, HOW I TRIED TO WIN RESPECT.
Reader--young reader, for I take it for granted you are young, though if
you should not happen to be, it does not matter--I have about three
quarters of a mind to let you know what I think of the practice of
putting on airs. The best way to do the thing perhaps, will be in the
form of a story, and a story it shall be--a story about a friend of mine
who is sometimes called Aunt Kate, and who has been known to call
herself by that name.
It is true that some of the incidents in this story are not much to my
friend's credit. But I am sure she cannot blame me for mentioning them
to you; for she gave me the whole story, and I shall tell it almost
exactly in her own words. Are you ready for it? Well, then, here it is:
Reader, have you ever been from home? Of course you have.
Everybody goes from home in these days; but in the days of my
childhood such an event was not a matter of course affair, as it now is.
Most people stayed at home then, more then they do now--the very

aged, and the very young, especially.
When I was a child, my parents sometimes took me with them, when
they went to visit their city friends. These journeys used to excite the
envy of all my young companions, none of whom, if I recollect right,
had ever been to a city. But times have changed even in my native
village; and the juvenile portion of its inhabitants begin their travels
much earlier in life now, than they did then.
But the first time I went from home alone--that was an event! Went
alone, did I say? I am too fast. My father saw me safely to the place
where I was to go, and left me to spend a few days and come home in
the stage.
When he left me, he gave me a bright half dollar, for spending money.
Now would you give anything, my little friend, to know how I spent it?
If you had known me in those days, you could have easily guessed,
even if not much of a Yankee. I bought a book with it, of course. I
thought I could not purchase anything to be compared with that in
value. Since then I have learned there are other things in the world
besides books, although I must own that I still cling to not a little of my
old friendship for them. How long seemed the few days I was absent
from my father's house. I had seen a great deal of the world, I thought,
during that time. There seemed to be an illusion about it--a feeling as if
I had been from home for weeks; and when I returned, and found some
of the good things upon the table which were baked before I left home,
I thought they must be very old--very old indeed.
"I should like to know how long you think you have been gone," said
some member of the family.
Sure enough! How long had I been away? Not quite a week. But you
need not smile, for that week was a long one. We do not