the poet at the breakfast table-第52章

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watch　the　habits　of　insects；　those　that　I　do　not　pretend　to　study。
Here　is　my　muscarium；　my　home　for　house…flies；　very　interesting
creatures；　here　they　breed　and　buzz　and　feed　and　enjoy　themselves；
and　die　in　a　good　old　age　of　a　few　months。　　My　favorite　insect　lives
in　this　other　case；　she　is　at　home；　but　in　her　private…chamber；　you
shall　see　her。

He　tapped　on　the　glass　lightly；　and　a　large；　gray；　hairy　spider　came
forth　from　the　hollow　of　a　funnel…like　web。

And　this　is　all　the　friend　you　have　to　love？　　said　the　Master；　with
a　tenderness　in　his　voice　which　made　the　question　very　significant。

Nothing　else　loves　me　better　than　she　does；　that　I　know　of；he
answered。

To　think　of　it！　　Not　even　a　dog　to　lick　his　hand；　or　a　cat　to　purr
and　rub　her　fur　against　him！　　Oh；　these　boarding…houses；　these
boarding…houses！　　What　forlorn　people　one　sees　stranded　on　their
desolate　shores！　　Decayed　gentlewomen　with　the　poor　wrecks　of　what
once　made　their　households　beautiful；　disposed　around　them　in　narrow
chambers　as　they　best　may　be；　coming　down　day　after　day；　poor　souls！
to　sit　at　the　board　with　strangers；　their　hearts　full　of　sad　memories
which　have　no　language　but　a　sigh；　no　record　but　the　lines　of　sorrow
on　their　features；　orphans；　creatures　with　growing　tendrils　and
nothing　to　cling　to；　lonely　rich　men；　casting　about　them　what　to　do
with　the　wealth　they　never　knew　how　to　enjoy；　when　they　shall　no
longer　worry　over　keeping　and　increasing　it；　young　men　and　young
women；　left　to　their　instincts；　unguarded；　unwatched；　save　by
malicious　eyes；　which　are　sure　to　be　found　and　to　find　occupation　in
these　miscellaneous　collections　of　human　beings；　and　now　and　then　a
shred　of　humanity　like　this　little　adust　specialist；　with　just　the
resources　needed　to　keep　the　〃radical　moisture〃　from　entirely
exhaling　from　his　attenuated　organism；　and　busying　himself　over　a
point　of　science；　or　compiling　a　hymn…book；　or　editing　a　grammar　or　a
dictionary；such　are　the　tenants　of　boarding…houses　whom　we　cannot
think　of　without　feeling　how　sad　it　is　when　the　wind　is　not　tempered
to　the　shorn　lamb；　when　the　solitary；　whose　hearts　are　shrivelling；
are　not　set　in　families！

The　Master　was　greatly　interested　in　the　Scarabee's　Muscarium。

I　don't　remember；he　said；that　I　have　heard　of　such　a　thing　as
that　before。　　Mighty　curious　creatures；　these　same　house…flies！　　Talk
about　miracles！　　Was　there　ever　anything　more　miraculous；　so　far　as
our　common　observation　goes；　than　the　coming　and　the　going　of　these
creatures？　　Why　didn't　Job　ask　where　the　flies　come　from　and　where
they　go　to？　　I　did　not　say　that　you　and　I　don't　know；　but　how　many
people　do　know　anything　about　it？　　Where　are　the　cradles　of　the　young
flies？　　Where　are　the　cemeteries　of　the　dead　ones；　or　do　they　die　at
all　except　when　we　kill　them？　　You　think　all　the　flies　of　the　year
are　dead　and　gone；　and　there　comes　a　warm　day　and　all　at　once　there
is　a　general　resurrection　of　'em；　they　had　been　taking　a　nap；　that　is
all。

I　suppose　you　do　not　trust　your　spider　in　the　Muscarium　？said　I；
addressing　the　Scarabee。

Not　exactly；he　answered；she　is　a　terrible　creature。　　She　loves
me；　I　think；　but　she　is　a　killer　and　a　cannibal　among　other　insects。
I　wanted　to　pair　her　with　a　male　spider；　but　it　wouldn't　do。

…Wouldn't　do？said　I；why　not？　　Don't　spiders　have　their　mates　as
well　as　other　folks？

…Oh　yes；　sometimes；　but　the　females　are　apt　to　be　particular；　and　if
they　don't　like　the　mate　you　offer　them　they　fall　upon　him　and　kill
him　and　eat　him　up。　　You　see　they　are　a　great　deal　bigger　and
stronger　than　the　males；　and　they　are　always　hungry　and　not　always
particularly　anxious　to　have　one　of　the　other　sex　bothering　round。

Woman's　rights！said　I；there　you　have　it！　　Why　don't　those
talking　ladies　take　a　spider　as　their　emblem？　　Let　them　form
arachnoid　associations；　spinsters　and　spiders　would　be　a　good　motto。

The　Master　smiled。　　I　think　it　was　an　eleemosynary　smile；　for　my
pleasantry　seems　to　me　a　particularly　basso　rilievo；　as　I　look　upon
it　in　cold　blood。　　But　conversation　at　the　best　is　only　a　thin
sprinkling　of　occasional　felicities　set　in　platitudes　and
commonplaces。　　I　never　heard　people　talk　like　the　characters　in　the
〃School　for　Scandal；〃I　should　very　much　like　to。…I　say　the　Master
smiled。　　But　the　Scarabee　did　not　relax　a　muscle　of　his　countenance。

There　are　persons　whom　the　very　mildest　of　faecetiae　sets　off　into
such　convulsions　of　laughter；　that　one　is　afraid　lest　they　should
injure　themselves。　　Even　when　a　jest　misses　fire　completely；　so　that
it　is　no　jest　at　all；　but　only　a　jocular　intention；　they　laugh　just
as　heartily。　　Leave　out　the　point　of　your　story；　get　the　word　wrong
on　the　duplicity　of　which　the　pun　that　was　to　excite　hilarity
depended；　and　they　still　honor　your　abortive　attempt　with　the　most
lusty　and　vociferous　merriment。

There　is　a　very　opposite　class　of　persons　whom　anything　in　the　nature
of　a　joke　perplexes；　troubles；　and　even　sometimes　irritates；　seeming
to　make　them　think　they　are　trifled　with；　if　not　insulted。　　If　you
are　fortunate　enough　to　set　the　whole　table　laughing；　one　of　this
class　of　persons　will　look　inquiringly　round；　as　if　something　had
happened；　and；　seeing　everybody　apparently　amused　but　himself；　feel
as　if　he　was　being　laughed　at；　or　at　any　rate　as　if　something　had
been　said　which　he　was　not　to　hear。　　Often；　however；　it　does　not　go
so　far　as　this；　and　there　is　nothing　more　than　mere　insensibility　to
the　cause　of　other　people's　laughter；　a　sort　of　joke…blindness；
comparable　to　the　well…known　color…blindness　with　which　many　persons
are　afflicted　as　a　congenital　incapacity。

I　have　never　seen　the　Scarabee　smile。　　I　have　seen　him　take　off　his
goggles；he　breakfasts　in　these　occasionally；I　suppose　when　he　has
been　tiring　his　poor　old　eyes　out　over　night　gazing　through　his
microscope；I　have　seen　him　take　his　goggles　off；　I　say；　and　stare
about　him；　when　the　rest　of　us　were　laughing　at　something　which
amused　us；　but　his　features　betrayed　nothing　more　than　a　certain
bewilderment；　as　if　we　had　been　foreigners　talking　in　an　unknown
tongue。　　I　do　not　think　it　was　a　mere　fancy　of　mine　that　he　bears　a
kind　of　resemblance　to　the　tribe　of　insects　he　gives　his　life　to
studying。　　His　shiny　black　coat；　his　rounded　back；　convex　with　years
of　stooping　over　his　minute　work；　his　angular　movements；　made　natural
to　him　by　his　habitual　style　of　manipulation；　the　aridity　of　his
organism；　with　which　his　voice　is　in　perfect　keeping；all　these
marks　of　his　special　sedentary　occupation　are　so　nearly　what　might　be
expected；　and　indeed　so　much；　in　accordance　with　the　more　general
fact　that　a　man's　aspect　is　subdued　to　the　look　of　what　he　works　in；
that　I　do　not　feel　disposed　to　accuse　myself　of　exaggeration　in　my
account　of　the　Scarabee's　appearance。　　But　I　think　he　has　learned
something　else　of　his　coleopterous　friends。　　The　beetles　never　smile。
Their　physiognomy　is　not　adapted　to　the　display　of　the　emotions；　the
lateral　movement　of　their　jaws　being　effective　for　alimentary
purposes；　but　very　limited　in　its　gamut　of　expression。　　It　is　with
these　unemotional　beings　that　the　Scarabee　passes　his　life。　　He　has
but　one　object；　and　that　is　perfectly　serious；　to　his　mind；　in　fact；
of　absorbing　interest　and　importance。　　In　one　aspect　of　the　matter　he
is　quite　right；　for　if　the　Creator　has　taken　the　trouble　to　make　one
of　His　creatures　in　just　such　a　way　and　not　otherwise；　from　the
beginning　of　its　existence　on　our　planet　in　ages　of　unknown
remoteness　to　the　present　time；　the　man　who　first　explains　His　idea
to　us　is　charged　with　a　revelation。　　It　is　by　no　means　impossible
that　there　may　be　angels　in　the　celestial　hierarchy　to　whom　it　would
be　new　and　interesting。　　I　have　often　thought　that　spirits　of　a
higher　order　than　man　might　be　willing　to　learn　something　from　a
human　mind　like　that　of　Newton；　and　I　see　no　reason　why　an　angelic
being　might　not　be　glad　to　hear　a　lecture　from　Mr。　　Huxley；　or　Mr。
Tyndall；　or　one　of　our　friends　at　Cambridge。

I　have　been　sinuous　as　the　Links　of　Forth　seen　from　Stirling　Castle；
or　as　that　other　river　which　threads　the　Berkshire　valley　and　runs；　a
perennial　s