The Idiot | Page 7

way. Suppose, too, you were
writing a novel, and, in a desire to give your reader a fair idea of the
personal appearance of a homely but good creature, you should say, 'It
cannot be denied that Rosamond Follansbee was pretty plain?' It
wouldn't take a very grave error of the types to change your entire
meaning. To save a line on a page, for instance, it might become
necessary to eliminate a single word; and if that word should chance to
be the word 'plain' in the sentence I have given, your homely but good
person would be set down as being undeniably pretty. Which shows, it
seems to me, that too great care cannot be exercised in the making of
selections from our vocabu--"
"You are the worst I ever knew!" snapped Mr. Pedagog.
"Which only proves," observed the Idiot, "that you have not heeded the
Scriptural injunction that you should know thyself. Are those

buckwheat cakes or doilies?"
Whether the question was heard or not is not known. It certainly was
not answered, and silence reigned for a few minutes. Finally Mrs.
Pedagog spoke, and in the manner of one who was somewhat
embarrassed. "I am in an embarrassing position," said she.
"Good!" said the Idiot, sotto-voce, to the genial gentleman who
occasionally imbibed. "There is hope for the landlady yet. If she can be
embarrassed she is still human--a condition I was beginning to think
she wotted not of."
"She whatted what?" queried the genial gentleman, not quite catching
the Idiot's words.
"Never mind," returned the Idiot. "Let's hear how she ever came to be
embarrassed."
"I have had an application for my first-floor suite, and I don't know
whether I ought to accept it or not," said the landlady.
"She has a conscience, too," whispered the Idiot; and then he added,
aloud, "And wherein lies the difficulty, Mrs. Pedagog?"
"The applicant is an actor; Junius Brutus Davenport is his name."
"A tragedian or a comedian?" asked the Bibliomaniac.
"Or first walking gentleman, who knows every railroad tie in the
country?" put in the Idiot.
"That I do not know," returned the landlady. "His name sounds familiar
enough, though. I thought perhaps some of you gentlemen might know
of him."
"I have heard of Junius Brutus," observed the Doctor, chuckling
slightly at his own humor, "and I've heard of Davenport, but Junius
Brutus Davenport is a combination with which I am not familiar."

"Well, I can't see why it should make any difference whether the man is
a tragedian, or a comedian, or a familiar figure to railroad men," said
Mr. Whitechoker, firmly. "In any event, he would be an extremely
objec--"
"It makes a great deal of difference," said the Idiot. "I've met tragedians,
and I've met comedians, and I've met New York Central stars, and I can
assure you they each represent a distinct type. The tragedians, as a rule,
are quiet meek individuals, with soft low voices, in private life. They
are more timid than otherwise, though essentially amiable. I knew a
tragedian once who, after killing seventeen Indians, a road-agent, and a
gross of cowboys between eight and ten P.M. every night for sixteen
weeks, working six nights a week, was afraid of a mild little soft-shell
crab that lay defenceless on a plate before him on the evening of the
seventh night of the last week. Tragedians make agreeable companions,
I can tell you; and if J. Brutus Davenport is a tragedian, I think Mrs.
Pedagog would do well to let him have the suite, provided, of course,
that he pays for it in advance."
"I was about to observe, when our friend interrupted me," said Mr.
Whitechoker, with dignity, "that in any event an actor at this board
would be to me an extremely objec--"
"Now the comedians," resumed the Idiot, ignoring Mr. Whitechoker's
remark--"the comedians are very different. They are twice as
bloodthirsty as the murderers of the drama, and, worse than that, they
are given to rehearsing at all hours of the day and night. A tragedian is
a hard character only on the stage, but the comedian is the comedian
always. If we had one of those fellows in our midst, it would not be
very long before we became part of the drama ourselves. Mrs. Pedagog
would find herself embarrassed once an hour, instead of, as at present,
once a century. Mr. Whitechoker would hear of himself as having
appeared by proxy in a roaring farce before our comedian had been
with us two months. The wise sayings of our friend the School-Master
would be spoken nightly from the stage, to the immense delight of the
gallery gods, and to the edification of the orchestra circle, who would
wonder how so much information could have got into the