The Art of Speaking and Writing an English Language

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if he could only find it. In the branch he seats himself at a table covered with waxcloth, and a pampered
menial, of high Dutch extraction and, indeed, as yet only partially extracted, lays before him a cup of coffee, a
roll, and a pat of butter, all, to quote the deity, very good. Awhile ago, and H. L. S. used to find the supply of
butter insufficient; but he has now learned the art to exactitude, and butter and roll expire at the same moment.
For this refection he pays ten cents, or five pence sterling (�0 0s 5d).
Half an hour later, the inhabitants of Bush Street observe the same slender gentleman armed, like George
Washington, with his little hatchet, splitting kindling, and breaking coal for his fire. He does this
quasi-publicly upon the window-sill; but this is not to be attributed to any love of notoriety, though he is
indeed vain of his prowess with the hatchet (which he persists in calling an axe), and daily surprised at the
perpetuation of his fingers. The reason is this: that the sill is a strong, supporting beam, and that blows of the
same emphasis in other parts, of his room might knock the entire shanty into hell. Thenceforth, for from three
to four hours, he is engaged darkly with an ink-bottle. Yet he is not blacking his boots, for the only pair that
he possesses are innocent of lustre and wear the natural hue of the material turned up with caked and
venerable slush. The youngest child of his landlady remarks several times a day, as this strange occupant
enters or quits the house, "Dere's de author." Can it be that this bright-haired innocent has found the true clue
to the mystery? The being in question is, at least, poor enough to belong to that honorable craft.
Notes.
The first of these two letters by Stevenson was written very early in his literary career, the second when he
may be supposed to have been at the height of his powers. It is interesting to see to what extent he had
improved his style.
Note now much suggestiveness (apart from the apparent meaning) is contained in such words and phrases as
"the whole filthy embarkation;" "made very heavy weather of it" (speaking French); "Parc"; "artificial" (the
peculiar meaning being indicated by italicizing); "pampered menial" (the reference being to just the opposite).
There is a peculiar mechanical sort of humor in omitting the word street after "Bush," "Powell," etc., and in
giving the cost of his meal so elaborately---"ten cents, or fivepence sterling (�0 0s 5d)."
The chief source of fun is in giving small things an importance they do not deserve. The author is making fun
at himself. Of course since he makes fun at himself it is good-natured; but it must be just as good-natured if
one is to make fun of any one else. Addison was so successful because no suggestion of malice ever crept into
his satire.
A LETTER TO BERNARD BARTON.
By Charles Lamb.
January 9, 1824.
Dear B. B.,---Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day-mare,---a "whoreson
lethargy," Falstaff calls it,---an indisposition to do anything or to be anything; a total deadness and distaste; a
suspension of vitality; an indifference to locality; a numb, soporifical good-for-nothingness; an ossification all
over; an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events; a mind-stupor; a brawny de---fiance to the needles of a
thrust-in conscience? Did you ever have a very bad cold with a total irresolution to submit to water-gruel
CHAPTER IV. 90
processes? This has been for many weeks my lot and my excuse. My fingers drag heavily over this paper, and
to my thinking it is three-and-twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet. I have not a thing to
say, nothing is of more importance than another. I am flatter than a denial or a pancake; emptier than Judge
Parke's wig when the head is in it; duller than a country stage when the actors are off it,---a cipher, an o! I
acknowledge life at all only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the
chest. I am weary of the world; life is weary of me. My day is gone into twilight, and I don't think it worth the
expense of candles. My wick bath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it. I inhale suffocation; I
can't distinguish veal from mutton; nothing interests me. 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Thurtell* is just now coming
out upon the new drop, Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality; yet
cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection. If you told me the world will be at an end tomorrow, I should say
"Will it?" I have not volition enough left to dot my i's, much less to comb my eyebrows; my eyes are set in my
head; my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back
again; my skull is a Grub-street attic to let,---not so much as a joint-stool left in it; my hand writes, not I, from
habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are cut off. Oh for a vigorous fit of gout, colic,
toothache---an earwig{#} * in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs; pain is life,---the sharper the more
evidence of life; but this apathy, this death! Did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks'
unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and everything? Yet do I try all I can to cure it. I
try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities; but they all only seem to make me
worse, instead of better. I sleep in a damp room, but it does no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not
find any visible amendment! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?
*Hanged that day for the murder of Weare.
{#} *An ant
It is just fifteen minutes after twelve. Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion,
perhaps. Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; and the Jew demurs at first at three half-crowns,
but on consideration that he may get somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally closes. C. L.
Notes.
The danger of not adapting your method to your auditor is well illustrated by the beginning of Lamb's next
letter to the same person:
"My dear sir,---That peevish letter of mine, which was meant to convey an apology for my incapacity to write,
seems to have been taken by you in too serious a light,---it was only my way of telling you I had a severe
cold." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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