The wretched husband saw but too distinctly the destruction of all he held dear.But here alas and forever were shut off from him all sublunary prospects.He fell upon the deck--powerless, senseless, a corpse--the victim of a sublime sensibility!
There's language for you! How different it is from that historic passage when the crack of Little Sure Shot's rifle rang out and another Redskin bit the dust.Nothing is said there about anybody having his sublunary prospects shut off; nothing about the Redskin becoming the victim of a sublime sensibility.In fifteen graphic words and in one sentence Little Sure Shot croaked him, and then with bated breath you moved on to the next paragraph, sure of finding in it yet more attractive casualties snappily narrated.
No, sir!In the nickul librury the author did not waste his time and yours telling you that an individual on becoming a corpse would simultaneously become powerless and senseless.He credited your intelligence for something.For contrast, take the immortal work entitled Deadwood **** of Deadwood; or, The Picked Party; by Edward L. Wheeler, a copy of which has just come to my attention again nearly thirty years after the time of my first reading of it.
Consider the opening paragraph:
The sun was just kissing the mountain tops that frowned down upon Billy-Goat Gulch, and in the aforesaid mighty seam in the face of mighty Nature the shadows of a Warm June night were gathering rapidly.
The birds had mostly hushed their songs and flown to their nests in the dismal lonely pines, and only the tuneful twang of a well-played banjo aroused the brooding quiet, save it be the shrill, croaking screams of a crow, perched upon the top of a dead pine, which rose from the nearly perpendicular mountain side that retreated in the ascending from the gulch bottom.
That, as I recall, was a powerfully long bit of deion for a nickul librury, and having got it out of his system Mr. Wheeler wasted no more valuable space on the scenery.From this point on he gave you action--action with reason behind it and logic to it and the guaranty of a proper climax and a satisfactory conclusion to follow.Deadwood **** marched many a flower-strewn mile through my young life, but to the best of my recollection he never shut off anybody's sublunary prospects.If a party deserved killing Deadwood just naturally up and killed him, and the historian told about it in graphic yet straightforward terms of speech; and that was all there was to it, and that was all there should have been to it.
At the risk of being termed an iconoclast and a smasher of the pure high ideals of the olden days, I propose to undertake to show that practically all of the preposterous asses and the impossible idiots of literature found their way into the school readers of my generation.With the passage of years there may have been some reform in this direction, but I dare affirm, without having positive knowledge of the facts, that a majority of these half-wits still are being featured in the grammar-grade literature of the present time.The authors of school readers, even modern school readers, surely are no smarter than the run of grown-ups even, say, as you and as I; and we blindly go on holding up as examples before the eyes of the young of the period the characters and the acts of certain popular figures of poetry and prose who--did but we give them the acid test of reason--would reveal themselves either as incurable idiots, or else as figures in scenes and incidents which physically could never have occurred.
You remember, don't you, the schoolbook classic of the noble lad who by reason of his neat dress, and by his use in the most casual conversation of the sort of language which the late Mr. Henry James used when he was writing his very Jamesiest, secured a job as a trusted messenger in the large city store or in the city's large store, if we are going to be purists about it, as the boy in question undoubtedly was?
It seems that he had supported his widowed mother and a large family of brothers and sisters by shoveling snow and, I think, laying brick or something of that technical nature.After this lapse of years I won't be sure about the bricklaying, but at any rate, work was slack in his regular line, and so he went to the proprietor of this vast retail establishment and procured a responsible position on the strength of his easy and graceful personal address and his employment of some of the most stylish adjectives in the dictionary.At this time he was nearly seven years old--yes, sir, actually nearly seven.We have the word of the schoolbook for it.We should have had a second chapter on this boy.Probably at nine he was being considered for president of Yale--no, Harvard.He would know too much to be president of Yale.
Then there was the familiar instance of the Spartan youth who having stolen a fox and hidden it inside his robe calmly stood up and let the animal gnaw his vitals rather than be caught with it in his possession.But, why? I ask you, why? What was the good of it all? What object was served? To begin with, the boy had absconded with somebody else's fox, or with somebody's else fox, which is undoubtedly the way a compiler of school readers would phrase it.This, right at the beginning, makes the morality of the transaction highly dubious.In the second place, he showed poor taste.If he was going to swipe something, why should he not have swiped a chicken or something else of practical value?
