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[page 392:]
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LIONIZING.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
———— all people went
Upon their ten toes in wild
wonderment.
Bishop Hall's Satires. |
I AM — that
is to say I was
— a great man; but I am neither the author of Junius nor the man in the
mask; for my name, I believe, is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere
in the city of Fum-Fudge.
The first action of my life was the
taking hold
of
my nose with both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius: —
my
father wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This
I mastered before I was breeched.
I now began to feel my way in the
science, and
soon
came to understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently
conspicuous,
he might, by merely following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my
attention
was not confined to theories alone. Every morning I gave my proboscis a
couple of pulls and swallowed a half dozen of drams.
When I came of age my father asked
me, one day,
if
I would step with him into his study.
"My son," said he, when we were
seated, "what is
the chief end of your existence?"
"My father," I answered, "it is the
study of
Nosology."
"And what, Robert," he inquired, "is
Nosology?"
"Sir," I said, "it is the Science of
Noses."
"And can you tell me," he demanded,
"what is the
meaning of a nose?"
"A nose, my father," I replied,
greatly softened,
"has been variously defined by about a thousand different authors."
[Here [page 393:] I pulled out my watch.] "It
is now noon
or thereabouts — we shall have time enough to get through with them all
before midnight. To commence then: — The nose, according to
Bartholinus,
is that protuberance — that bump — that excrescence — that —"
"Will do, Robert," interrupted the
good old
gentleman.
"I am thunderstruck at the extent of your information — I am positively
— upon my soul." [Here he closed his eyes and placed his hand upon his
heart.] "Come here!" [Here he took me by the arm.] "Your education may
now be considered as finished — it is high time you should scuffle for
yourself — and you cannot do a better thing than merely follow your
nose
— so — so — so — " [Here he kicked me down stairs and out of the door]
— "so get out of my house, and God bless you!"
As I felt within me the divine afflatus,
I
considered this accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to
be guided by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I
gave
it a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology
forthwith.
All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.
"Wonderful genius!" said the
Quarterly.
"Superb physiologist!" said the
Westminster.
"Clever fellow!" said the Foreign.
"Fine writer!" said the Edinburgh.
"Profound thinker!" said the Dublin.
"Great man!" said Bentley.
"Divine soul!" said Fraser.
"One of us!" said Blackwood.
"Who can he be?" said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.
"What can he be?" said big Miss
Bas-Bleu.
"Where can he be?" said little Miss
Bas-Bleu. —
But
I paid these people no attention whatever — I just stepped into the
shop
of an artist.
The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was
sitting for her
portrait; the Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess' poodle; the
Earl of This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal
Highness
of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair. [page
394:]
I approached the artist and turned up
my nose.
"Oh, beautiful!" sighed her Grace.
"Oh my!" lisped the Marquis.
"Oh, shocking!" groaned the Earl.
"Oh, abominable!" growled his Royal
Highness.
"What will you take for it?" asked
the artist.
"For his nose!" shouted her
Grace.
"A thousand pounds," said I, sitting
down.
"A thousand pounds?" inquired the
artist,
musingly.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"Beautiful!" said he, entranced.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"Do you warrant it?" he asked,
turning the nose
to
the light.
"I do," said I, blowing it well.
"Is it quite original?" he
inquired,
touching
it with reverence.
"Humph!" said I, twisting it to one
side.
"Has no copy been taken?" he
demanded,
surveying
it through a microscope.
"None," said I, turning it up.
"Admirable!" he ejaculated,
thrown quite
off
his guard by the beauty of the manœuvre.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"A thousand pounds?" said he.
"Precisely," said I.
"A thousand pounds?" said he.
"Just so," said I.
"You shall have them," said he. "What
a piece of virtu!" So he drew me a check upon the spot, and
took a sketch
of
my nose. I engaged rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the
ninety-ninth
edition of the "Nosology," with a portrait of the proboscis. — That sad
little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me to dinner.
We were all lions and recherchés.
There was a modern Platonist. He
quoted Porphyry,
Iamblicus, Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.
There was a human-perfectibility man.
He quoted
Turgôt, [page 395:] Price, Priestly,
Condorcêt,
De
Stäel,
and the "Ambitious Student in Ill Health."
There was Sir Positive Paradox. He
observed that
all fools were philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.
There was Æstheticus Ethix. He
spoke of
fire,
unity, and atoms; bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord;
primitive intelligence and homöomeria.
There was Theologos Theology. He
talked of
Eusebius
and Arianus; heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and
consubstantialism;
Homousios and Homouioisios.
There was Fricassée from the
Rocher de
Cancale.
He mentioned Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with velouté
sauce; veal à la St. Menehoult; marinade à la
St. Florentin; and orange jellies en mosäiques.
There was Bibulus O'Bumper. He
touched upon
Latour
and Markbrünnen; upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and
St. George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and
Preignac;
upon Grâve, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St. Peray. He
shook
his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his eyes shut, the
difference
between Sherry and Amontillado.
There was Signor Tintontintino from
Florence. He
discoursed of Cimabué, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino — of the
gloom of Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian,
of the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.
There was the President of the
Fum-Fudge
University.
He was of opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis
in
Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece.
There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul.
He could
not
help thinking that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that
somebody
in the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth was
supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of green horns.
There was Delphinus Polyglott. He
told us what
had
become of the eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus; of the
fifty-four
orations of Isæus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches
of
Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus; of the
eighth
book of the conic sections of Apollonius; of Pindar's [page
396:]
hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty tragedies of Homer
Junior.
There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus
Feltspar. He
informed
us all about internal fires and tertiary formations; about
äeriforms,
fluidiforms, and solidiforms; about quartz and marl; about schist and
schorl;
about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about blende and
horn-blende;
about mica-slate and pudding-stone; about cyanite and lepidolite; about
hæmatite and tremolite; about antimony and calcedony; about
manganese
and whatever you please.
There was myself. I spoke of myself;
— of myself,
of myself, of myself; — of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I
turned
up my nose, and I spoke of myself.
"Marvellous clever man!" said the
Prince.
"Superb!" said his guests: — and next
morning her
Grace of Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit.
"Will you go to Almack's, pretty
creature?" she
said,
tapping me under the chin.
"Upon honor," said I.
"Nose and all?" she asked.
"As I live," I replied.
"Here then is a card, my life. Shall
I say you will
be there?"
"Dear Duchess, with all my heart."
"Pshaw, no! — but with all your
nose?"
"Every bit of it, my love," said I: —
so I gave
it
a twist or two, and found myself at Almack's.
The rooms were crowded to
suffocation.
"He is coming!" said somebody on the
staircase.
"He is coming!" said somebody farther
up.
"He is coming!" said somebody farther
still.
"He is come!" exclaimed the Duchess.
"He is come,
the little love!" — and, seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me
thrice upon the nose.
A marked sensation immediately
ensued.
"Diavolo!" cried Count
Capricornutti.
"Dios guarda!" muttered Don
Stiletto.
"Mille tonnerres!" ejaculated
the Prince
de
Grenouille. [page 397:]
"Tousand teufel!" growled the
Elector of
Bluddennuff.
It was not to be borne. I grew angry.
I turned
short
upon Bluddennuff.
"Sir!" said I to him, "you are a
baboon."
"Sir," he replied, after a pause, "Donner
und
Blitzen!"
This was all that could be desired.
We exchanged
cards. At Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose — and then
called upon my friends.
"Bête!" said the first.
"Fool!" said the second.
"Dolt!" said the third.
"Ass!" said the fourth.
"Ninny!" said the fifth.
"Noodle!" said the sixth.
"Be off!" said the seventh.
At all this I felt mortified, and so
called upon
my father.
"Father," I asked, "what is the chief
end of my
existence?"
"My son," he replied, "it is still
the study of
Nosology;
but in hitting the Elector upon the nose you have overshot your mark.
You
have a fine nose, it is true; but then Bluddennuff has none. You are
damned,
and he has become the hero of the day. I grant you that in Fum-Fudge
the
greatness of a lion is in proportion to the size of his proboscis —
but,
good heavens! there is no competing with a lion who has no proboscis at
all." |
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