Beauty for Ashes

— A year ago, more or less, I poured into the ears of my fellow Contributors a sorrowful tale, which, by way of an affected cheerfulness, I called Playing Second Fiddle. I had found myself overshadowed, locally at least, by the popularity of a favorite dog. I hope the ground and object of my complaint were not misunderstood : as if one could be jealous of a setter, or as if the least amiable of “ literary men ” would not rather play second fiddle to a dog than to any brother Contributor ! What I cannot away with is the second fiddle itself. Mine is a proud spirit, I apprehend, though I have had much to break it. If humiliation be the road to humility, as the moralists affirm, I can only conclude that it must be a long, long road, ending only amid the shadows of that faroff country which in my boyhood I used to hear spoken of, euphemistically, as “ the other side of Jordan.”

This time, however, I have another story to tell. I am to speak, not of mortification, but of something very, very different. And I speak of it triumphantly, though not without a proper measure of embarrassment. It is not easy for a modest man to sound a trumpet before him ; but with wind enough it can be done, as many of us have before now demonstrated. Glory is not a thing to be despised or hidden under a bushel. One may say so much without meaning to go the full length of M. Renan and Mr. Matthew Arnold. Probably glory is not “ the thing which has the best chance of not being altogether vanity.” Charity and meekness are better ; but if the graces hang beyond a man’s reach, while glory drops into his lap, he may safely accept the windfall as a providential consolation. And if his glory be not, as Mr. Arnold says in his earnest way, “ a most serious thing,” he can at all events take it seriously by making the most of it. So I mean to do, by my reader’s leave.

In the course of an aimless ramble, a few weeks ago, I wandered into an orchard ; a pleasant spot, not too well kept, and (what is a great virtue in orchards, — one not half enough attended to, I think, in modern plantations) conveniently sequestered. A Hock of sparrows was its primary attraction at that moment ; but finding myself there, and remembering the wise old proverb, “When the fruit is on the ground tie up thy shoe,” I turned aside to lay in a few apples. If one is to borrow favors of this kind, it is worth while to take the best, and I was looking about, accordingly, for the ripest and fairest, when the farmer, whom I had seen on previous occasions, but had never spoken with, appeared suddenly from behind the wall. I said good-afternoon with perfect composure (I think I did), and he greeted me with corresponding politeness. Then I explained my ornithological errand, and in a respectful, business-like tone remarked that his apples seemed to be hardly ripe as yet. “Oh, these are the best ones,” he said, turning to a tree in one corner ; and, in spite of my protestations, he insisted upon clambering into it and handing me down some of the choicest of the fruit. The good man was not heaping coals of fire on an enemy’s head. Such pious sophistication would have been beyond his thought, even if my innocent proceedings had in the least angered him. Rather, as I imagined, he had taken literally King Solomon’s mystical phrase, and was seeking to “comfort me with apples.” It was a mistaken kindness. I am something of a connoisseur in such matters, and the windfalls that I had selected were in a much fitter state for immediate consumption than anything to be found on the branches. But there was no declining hospitalities so generously proffered, and my side-pockets were presently in a state of repletion such as, in some quarters and at certain hours of the day, might have put me in danger of the police. Meanwhile, the farmer and I were fast becoming mutually acquainted. He had often seen me going by, he said. At first he had wondered who I could be, but somebody had told him that I was a naturalist. His boy knew considerable about birds, and had stuffed some. If I would come into the house, he would show them to me. I went in, of course, although my bulging pockets almost compelled me to squeeze through the door sidewise, and with a good conscience I praised the boy’s work ; for the hawks and owls were set up in a really creditable style.

All this has nothing to do with glory, the reader will say. True ; but I am coming to that. In the midst of our conversation the orchard owner remarked : “ I ’ll tell you what I heard What’s-his-name down there say. He was talking about you. ‘ I don’t know who he is,’ said he ; ‘ but whoever he is, he’s got plenty of money.’ ” I thought of my neighbors slaving day and night to get rich, or rather to get the name of being rich, and I felt a thrill of triumph. Here was I, happy man, wearing the halo of wealth for the very reason that I had given over the chase after it, and turned myself loose in the fields, like a horse ■with his day’s work done. It was a result I had never dreamed of ; a renown equally welcome and unexpected. “ Plenty of money!” — a sweet morsel, that, to roll under one’s tongue. Of a truth, as was long ago said, “ praise is comely,” and M. Renan, after all, spoke well within bounds : Glory (if the gracious compositor will allow me that capital letter) is one of the most substantial of verities.

Rare as this morsel was, it was hardly digested before I received another. I was on my way to the railway train, and, with my blue bag in hand, I should have said that I looked quite professional. At a casual glance, I might even have been taken for an editor. But as I stepped nimbly along — for I have one gait for the street and another for the old road — I met a provision-dealer’s wagon. On the seat were a man and a boy. The former said something that I did not catch ; but the boy’s answer was pitched in a higher key. “ Oh, he does n’t do anything,” I heard him say. “ He just goes walking round studying birds and things. He knows every bird there is ! ” Here it was again, — true glory ! I trust I did not betray any unseemly agitation as I passed on down the hill.

Beyond dispute, it does give a man éclat to be —or to seem to be — unemployed while other people are busy. The difference is a distinction ; and distinction is glory. Sometimes I have thought it one great motive for being a naturalist that it furnishes so admirable an excuse for unlimited idleness. Sauntering and sitting on fences are part of the trade, so to speak. But of course it is not every passer - by who can be trusted to frame hypotheses so flattering as the two of which I have been modestly boasting. Another man took me, not for a millionaire, but for an artist. He was in a trotting-gig, and Stopped his horse to Speak to me. “ Are you a painter ? ” he asked. I answered him to the contrary. “ Ah ! ” said he ; “ excuse me, please. I had seen you looking at the scenery a good deal, and thought you must be some kind of an artist.” He went on to explain that lie had a “ critter ” of which he was very fond, and wanted to get some one to “ paint its picture.” The “ critter ” was a horse, it turned out ; a wonderful trotter, who had made a mile in I don’t remember how much under two minutes, — or perhaps it was under three, for this was before the advent of the “ bicycle sulky,” and for a man of unlimited means I am rather indifferently informed as to matters of the turf. Whatever its “ record,” the creature was no doubt worthy of a good portrait. I apologized for being unable to paint it, and the man drove on. That was not so very glorious, I must admit. To be mistaken for a painter ! But two out of three is a pretty good average, and I shall continue to cultivate distinction in the only way that seems open to me, — by wandering in back roads and through woods and fields, staring at a bird, plucking a flower, and behaving in general as if this were not a workaday world, but a kind of idle man’s paradise.