I waited a week, to let the incident fade; waited longer;waited until he brought up for reasonings and vituperation my pet position, my pet argument, the one which I was fondest of, the one which I prized far above all others in my ammunition-wagon--to wit, that Shakespeare couldn't have written Shakespeare's words, for the reason that the man who wrote them was limitlessly familiar with the laws, and the law-courts, and law-proceedings, and lawyer-talk, and lawyer-ways--and if Shakespeare was possessed of the infinitely divided star-dust that constituted this vast wealth, HOW did he get it, and WHERE and WHEN?
"From books."
From books! That was always the idea.I answered as my readings of the champions of my side of the great controversy had taught me to answer: that a man can't handle glibly and easily and comfortably and successfully the argot of a trade at which he has not personally served.He will make mistakes; he will not, and cannot, get the trade-phrasings precisely and exactly right;and the moment he departs, by even a shade, from a common trade-form, the reader who has served that trade will know the writer HASN'T.Ealer would not be convinced; he said a man could learn how to correctly handle the subtleties and mysteries and free-masonries of ANY trade by careful reading and studying.But when I got him to read again the passage from Shakespeare with the interlardings, he perceived, himself, that books couldn't teach a student a bewildering multitude of pilot-phrases so thoroughly and perfectly that he could talk them off in book and play or conversation and make no mistake that a pilot would not immediately discover.It was a triumph for me.He was silent awhile, and I knew what was happening--he was losing his temper.
And I knew he would presently close the session with the same old argument that was always his stay and his support in time of need; the same old argument, the one I couldn't answer, because Idasn't--the argument that I was an ass, and better shut up.He delivered it, and I obeyed.
O dear, how long ago it was--how pathetically long ago! And here am I, old, forsaken, forlorn, and alone, arranging to get that argument out of somebody again.
When a man has a passion for Shakespeare, it goes without saying that he keeps company with other standard authors.Ealer always had several high-class books in the pilot-house, and he read the same ones over and over again, and did not care to change to newer and fresher ones.He played well on the flute, and greatly enjoyed hearing himself play.So did I.He had a notion that a flute would keep its health better if you took it apart when it was not standing a watch; and so, when it was not on duty it took its rest, disjointed, on the compass-shelf under the breastboard.When the PENNSYLVANIA blew up and became a drifting rack-heap freighted with wounded and dying poor souls (my young brother Henry among them), pilot Brown had the watch below, and was probably asleep and never knew what killed him;but Ealer escaped unhurt.He and his pilot-house were shot up into the air; then they fell, and Ealer sank through the ragged cavern where the hurricane-deck and the boiler-deck had been, and landed in a nest of ruins on the main deck, on top of one of the unexploded boilers, where he lay prone in a fog of scald and deadly steam.But not for long.He did not lose his head--long familiarity with danger had taught him to keep it, in any and all emergencies.He held his coat-lapels to his nose with one hand, to keep out the steam, and scrabbled around with the other till he found the joints of his flute, then he took measures to save himself alive, and was successful.I was not on board.I had been put ashore in New Orleans by Captain Klinenfelter.The reason--however, I have told all about it in the book called OLDTIMES ON THE MISSISSIPPI, and it isn't important, anyway, it is so long ago.
II
When I was a Sunday-school scholar, something more than sixty years ago, I became interested in Satan, and wanted to find out all I could about him.I began to ask questions, but my class-teacher, Mr.Barclay, the stone-mason, was reluctant about answering them, it seemed to me.I was anxious to be praised for turning my thoughts to serious subjects when there wasn't another boy in the village who could be hired to do such a thing.I was greatly interested in the incident of Eve and the serpent, and thought Eve's calmness was perfectly noble.I asked Mr.Barclay if he had ever heard of another woman who, being approached by a serpeant, would not excuse herself and break for the nearest timber.He did not answer my question, but rebuked me for inquiring into matters above my age and comprehension.I will say for Mr.Barclay that he was willing to tell me the facts of Satan's history, but he stopped there: he wouldn't allow any discussion of them.
In the course of time we exhausted the facts.There were only five or six of them; you could set them all down on a visiting-card.I was disappointed.I had been meditating a biography, and was grieved to find that there were no materials.
I said as much, with the tears running down.Mr.Barclay's sympathy and compassion were aroused, for he was a most kind and gentle-spirited man, and he patted me on the head and cheered me up by saying there was a whole vast ocean of materials! I can still feel the happy thrill which these blessed words shot through me.