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THE CONVERSATION ROOM

To the Honorable, the Board of Directors of the Blankville Public Library. Gentlemen: I am forced to lay my complaint before you, because your librarian, Dr. W. M. Pierce, so I am told, has sailed for Europe to attend a meeting of librarians in Brussels, whence he will not return for six or seven weeks.

My name is doubtless familiar to you, but perhaps you are not aware that I am engaged in an important piece of research in your library. When I state that my work is an inquiry into the Indo-Iranian origins of the noun 'Fuddy-dud' and its possible derivation from the Semitic, you will understand that it requires the closest possible application and an entire freedom from interruptions and distractions.

When I began my researches in your library, six days ago, I presented letters to Dr. Pierce. He very kindly installed me in an alcove, where he had placed a table and chairs, and where he allowed me to assemble the books needed in my studies—some one hundred and thirty or forty volumes. These, together with my papers and writing materials, are permitted to remain on the table from one day to another, as obviously it would be inconvenient for me to have to call for them each morning.

It is my custom to begin work at nine o'clock every day, and to continue (save for an hour at noon) until 6 p.m. For a few days all went very well, and I was making fair progress in my work. But during the last two days, and particularly yesterday, I have been subjected to such annoyances that all of my studies have been held at a standstill.

The library, and particularly the remote part of it in which my alcove is situated, has been little frequented during this hot weather. Yesterday, however, an invasion began. The alcove next to mine was visited by a succession of incongruous, inconsequent persons whose conversation made it utterly impossible for me to work. A complaint to Miss Mayhew, the assistant in charge of the library, elicited the fact that conversation is allowed in this alcove.

It is out of the question for me to move my work, as an inspection of the building has shown that there is no other spot where the light suits my eyes.

Yesterday afternoon, totally unable to do any serious work, I took down, in shorthand, the stream of driveling talk that occurred in that alcove. I now transcribe it here, in order that your honorable board may have an opportunity of judging the nature of the interruptions to which I am subjected. After giving them due consideration I trust that you will be able to take action in the matter. In the meanwhile my philological researches are of necessity suspended.

I returned to my work, after luncheon, at two o'clock. The alcove next mine was occupied by two persons—a young man and woman, both about twenty years of age. Their talk reached me, and made it impossible for me to follow any consecutive line of thought. At the time when I began to take down their conversation, the young woman was saying:

"What's 'Gibbon'? People are always talking about reading Gibbon—and then they look awfully wise. I've never dared to ask what they mean."

"Oh, it's Gibbon's history of Rome—the 'Fall of the Roman Empire,' or something like that."

"Have you ever read it?"

"Great Scott, no! It's in about a dozen volumes—I don't know how many. I've read some of it—they made us do it, freshman year."

"Is it awfully dry? Would I like it?"

"It's pretty fierce. Nothing to Grote, though—Grote's 'History of Greece'—that's the limit!"

"Gibbon is a man then? I wasn't sure what he was."

"Yes; he's the author."

"Oh, why, I've seen him! How stupid of me! I saw him when I was in Baltimore visiting the Ashfords. Why, he's just the grandest thing you ever saw in your life. He came at the end of a great long procession, with the dearest little choir-boys at the head, and he was all in scarlet robes, and a great long train, with two more little boys holding up his train, and he had the loveliest lace collar—I just went crazy over him! And I saw him on the street afterwards, too, only he didn't have on his scarlet robes then. He had on black clothes, and a tall hat, and when he lifted his hat to someone he had on a little red skull-cap underneath it. Oh, he's a perfect dear. I'd like to read his book—I wonder if they've got it here?"

"No, no—that's not the man. This was an Englishman—his first name was—I forget what it was. Anyhow he's been dead a long time. He was a very fat man, and he proposed to Mme. de StaËl, or George Sand, or one of those women, and when he got down on his knees he was so fat that he couldn't get up again, and had to ask her to help him up."

"How perfectly ridiculous! I hate fat men. I hope she didn't accept him! Did she?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I don't want to read his book, anyhow. But I've simply got to read something that sounds cultured and learned. Aunt Ella has been at me again; she says this is a good time, during vacation. Fanny Brooks has a great long list of the books she has read—I am so tired of having Fanny Brooks thrown at me! She never reads anything interesting, or does anything at all for pleasure. She ought to be a nun. Can't you think of something that will impress Aunt Ella—something that sounds awfully impressive and dry and cultured, but really is easy to read?"

"Well, let me see, how about Browning?"

"I've read him."

"Like him?"

"No."

"It seems to be a tough proposition. What does your Aunt Ella read? Why don't you take some of her books?"

"Oh, I don't know. She reads 'Women of the Renaissance' and things like that. I tried to read some of hers, and I told her I didn't like them. She said I couldn't expect to, because I haven't any foundation. How do you get a foundation—that's what I'd like to know! Aunt Ella is perfectly dippy on Italian art. Gracious, is that clock right? It's nearly three, and I haven't done any improving reading."

"Look here, it's a corking afternoon—you don't want to waste it in this joint. Let's go down to the boathouse and get my canoe."

"I'd like to. But what will I say to Aunt Ella?"

"Oh, we'll take some book with us, and you can read while I paddle. What's that one on that shelf?—it looks dry as the deuce. Here you are, just the thing:—'Notes on the Architectural Antiquities of the District of Gower in Glamorganshire'—that would make a hit with Aunt Ella, all right!"

"It doesn't sound very interesting."

"You're right, there. Well, how will this one do? 'The Recently Discovered Cromlech near Is-sur-Tille.'"

"What on earth is a cromlech?"

"You can search me."

"Let's take them both. I'll get them charged at the desk, and meet you outside. I'll read you all about the cromlech—if there are any words in the book I can pronounce."

With this they went out, and I endeavored to take up my work. Before I could make the slightest progress, however, two more persons entered the alcove. These, to judge from the conversation, were small boys. I had to sit and listen to this chatter:

"What yer got?"

"'Tinkham Brothers' Tide-mill.' What you got?"

"One of Henty's."

"What one?"

"'The Cat of Boobasts.'"

"Aw, that ain't any good. Why didn't yer get 'By England's Aid'?"

"'T warn't in."

"Yes, 't is, too. Jimmy Goodrich just brought it back."

"Well, the teacher won't let yer have it the same day it come in. An' she won't let me give back this one now."

"Aw, you're dead easy! Don't yer know how to work that?"

"No."

"Why, just go down there, an' when she ain't lookin' stick that one you got behind some other books on the shelf. Then go round to that wheel thing near her desk, 'By England's Aid' is on that, an' put it under your arm when she ain't lookin' an' go out quick with it. Then you can come round to-morrer, an' get the other one, an' give it back, an' get your card, an' you can stick back 'By England's Aid' any time. Bring it in under your coat, when you come with it."

"Gee, that's great! Have you ever tried it?"

"Have I? I've had six books at home to once, an' two more on my cards."

"How many cards you got?"

"Two. Ain't you?"

"No, I ain't got but one."

"Didn't they make you take a green card?"

"No; what good are they?"

"They ain't no good, but the teacher makes yer take one. You can get story books on the white card, but the other is for non-fiction."

"What's that?"

"Oh, school books, an' a lot of rotten things like that."

"What do yer want them for?"

"You don't want 'em—excep' a few of 'em. 'The American Boy's Handy Book' is one of 'em. That's all right. Most of 'em are bum. But if you take 'em, it makes a hit with the teacher. They want yer to read 'em. I got a prize last winter for readin' more'n any other feller that comes to the liberry."

"Gee, you must have hated to read all them school books."

"Aw, I didn't read 'em, you mutt. I jus' took 'em home, an' brought 'em back in a day or two. Say, have you ever read any of Alger's?"

"Yup—two of 'em. Eddie Meaghan let me take two of his. You can't get 'em here. I wish you could, though. They're great."

"I know. I tried to get 'em off the teacher down stairs. She said they warn't nice. I says yes they are too, for my brother who's studyin' to be a lawyer read 'em. She said she'd give me some book that was better, an' she give me one called 'Brothers of the Air.'"

"Was it any good?"

"Rotten. But Danny Corrigan, the bootblack, told me about a place, a liberry in back of Schmidt's cigar store where you can get Alger's an' Old Sleuth, and Di'mond Dick, an' Bowery Billy. Gee, the teacher'd have a fit if she sees them—she took one of Old Sleuth's away from Jimmy Goodrich, an' burned it up, an' wrote to his mother about it."

"I'm goin' down to the children's room, now. Do you s'pose I can work that gag now, an' get 'By England's Aid'?"

"Sure. I'll go down, too, an' show yer how."

Whereupon these two nuisances departed. Really it seems amazing that children and frivolous persons should be allowed in libraries. As it was four o'clock now, I did hope to be allowed to study in peace for what remained of the afternoon. But the hope was vain, for inside of five minutes two women came into that alcove, that Cave of the Winds, as I may call it.

They apparently brought some books with them, and they instantly began to discuss them in a manner that drove every idea from my head. There was nothing left for me to do but to record their talk in order to make my complaint perfectly clear to your honorable board. This was the conversation:

"Well, now, this says that Daniel Pingree died at Marblehead in 1703. If that's so, how under the sun, I'd like to know, was he married to Pamela Perkins in 1706?"

"Why, it doesn't say that, does it?"

"Look for yourself. There it is. And who was Pamela Pingree who died in 1689?"

"Oh, she was his great-aunt. I've got her traced all clear enough. Her mother was a Jimson. They lived in the old Jimson homestead in Worcester. Her father was Zachariah Jimson, and he was my ancestor; he was the third cousin of the Earl of Dingleberry. I got into the 'Grand Dames of the Pequot War,' and the 'United Order of American Descendants of Third Cousins of Earls'—both of them, through Zachariah. But that doesn't explain how Molly Bixby, whose mother came over in the Sarah Jane from Bristol, and who settled at Cohasset in 1690, turned up in Philadelphia in 1775 married to an officer in the English army. Then I am nearly distracted about Jabez Whicher. He was an intimate friend of Sir Harry Vane, and I don't see how I can ever get into the 'Descendants of Persons Who Were Acquainted With People Worth While' unless I can find out something about him."

"Are you sure there was such a man?"

"Of course I am. My mother was a Whicher. I have been all through the town history of Tinkleham, where he came from. We have two samplers at home, worked by his great-granddaughter. And I have hunted in the genealogies of the Diddleback family—he married a Diddleback, my grandfather always said, and in the genealogies of the Fritterleys and the Nynkums, because they were the most prominent families of Tinkleham."

"What have you got there?"

"This? Oh, this is the town and court records of Footleboro'—it is only three miles from Tinkleham, you know, and I thought I might find out something about him. Let me see, let me see—gracious, what fine print! There, here are the Whichers, lots of them. Andrew, Benjamin, Charles—why, here he is! Victory at last! 'Whicher, Jabez.' That's the man! Now, page 719. Here we are! What's this—'Site of the Old Pump'? Why, what's the matter with this index? It says page 719 clear enough. And, look here, isn't this page 719?"

"Why, yes, it seems to be. I don't understand. Oh, this is it—that means paragraph 719. Look under that. There you are. What? 'June 2d, 1659, Jabez Whicher was accused before the justices of stealing sundry fowl and swine from several of the townsfolk, and he did plead that he was guilty, and was fined twelve pence, and sentenced to confinement in the jail for one year, and to be branded with the letter T on his right cheek.' Dear me, is that your ancestor?"

"Why no, certainly not; how ridiculous! Another person of the same name, of course."

"But it is a very unusual name."

"Not at all, Whicher is a common name—I mean, that is—I mean—oh, of course this is some one else."

I cannot chronicle their conversation any further. Enough has been given to show you the nature of the annoyances to which I was subjected yesterday. I look to you, gentlemen, for relief.

Yours very truly,

Obadiah Wurzberger.

To the Board of Directors of the Blankville Public Library.

Gentlemen: I regret to hear from my colleague, Dr. O. Wurzberger, that you have denied his application for relief in the matter of conversation within the library alcoves. Dr. Wurzberger has been unable to work for over a week on account of the disturbing chatter that goes on in the alcove next to his, and yet you reply that conversation has always been allowed there, and that you do not see your way to forbidding it.

In order to show you that he is not alone in finding this conversation disturbing, I wish to state that I have been intolerably annoyed. I have been trying to work in the alcove on the other side of the one where the talking occurs. The first volume of my Arabic dictionary (on which I have been engaged continuously since 1867) is soon to appear, and I had hoped to devote a few weeks to a final revision. But how much I was able to accomplish to-day, for instance, you may see from this clack and chatter which took place within eight feet of me.

The first to begin, at half-past nine o'clock, were two youths. This is a literal account of what they said:

"When is the exam?"

"September 22d."

"What in thunder are you beginning to grind now for?"

"Why, we are going to start for Squid Cove day after to-morrow, and we always stay till after Labor Day. Of course I shan't do any grinding down there; and then when we get back Pete Brown and I are going to take the car and go up to Lake George for the rest of the month—or till the exam, anyhow."

"So you've only got to-day and to-morrow?"

"That's all."

"Gee! What does the course cover?"

"English literature from Beowulf to the death of Swinburne."

"Know anything about it?"

"Not a damned thing."

"Know who Beowulf was?"

"No,—I thought you were going to put me on to that."

"Well, you know who Swinburne was, don't you?"

"Sure thing; he wrote 'The Blessed Damozel.'"

"Snappy work, old man. You came pretty near it, anyhow. Only, don't put that in the exam. You won't get asked many questions about modern writers, so don't worry over them. Perhaps you'll get one on Tennyson. Don't say he lived in the Craigie House on Brattle street, and wrote 'Evangeline,' will you? Now, we might as well open the book, and take a chance anywhere. Here's Milton. Ever hear of him?"

"John Milton, England's greatest epic poet, was the son of a scrivener. He was born in 1608 in Grub Street, London. He lived there till he was sixteen, so it is possible that his youthful eyes may have beheld Shakspeare, his only superior. He—"

"Well, well! Where did you get all this?"

"Wait a minute. Little did his worthy parents realize that their son was destined to write some of the most charming lyrics, the most powerful sonnets, and the greatest epic in the English language, and to lose his sight in—in—oh! I forget what he lost his sight in. But, say, how is that? Learned it this morning, while I was eating breakfast."

"Marvelous! But what was that about Grub Street? This book says Bread Street."

"Yes, that's right—Bread Street. Knew it was something about grub."

"Well, you better cut all that out about the street. You might get mixed again, and put it Pudding Lane. It doesn't make a hit, anyhow. They would rather have some drool about his influence on literature, or something of that sort. They'll probably ask you to contrast 'L'Allegro' with 'Il Penseroso,' or describe his attitude toward the Presbyterians, or—"

"That's all right—I'm there with the goods. 'L'Allegro' describes the care-free life of the happy man—the philosophy falsely attributed to the followers of Epicurus, which is summed up in the maxim, 'Eat, drink and be merry,' more completely described in the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. 'Il Penseroso,' on the other hand, is the thoughtful, sober student by no means to be confounded with the melancholy man, but, on the other hand—oh, I've got that down cold—I can go on that way for three pages."

"We'll let Milton alone, then. You seem to know everything to be known about him. How are you on Swift, Addison and that crowd? They always give you three or four questions about them."

"I've got to read over what that book says on that period. I am not very sure whether Swift or Defoe wrote the 'Tatler,' and those other things—they're all mixed up in my mind, anyway."

"How about Shakspeare?"

"Oh, yes. No one knows when he was born or died, what he did, or whether he wrote his plays or not."

"You'll get in trouble if you say that. I don't believe you will get any question about him. Here's Jane Austen."

"She was the woman that was married three or four times, and ought to have been two or three other times, wasn't she?"

"No; you've mixed her with someone else. You ought to be able to discuss her style, and compare it with Charlotte Bronte's. They're dippy about Jane out there, so be sure and read her up. And don't fail to express great admiration for Spenser, if you get a chance."

"Was he the fellow who said we were all descended from monkeys?"

"No, no. What are you talking about? He was a poet—time of Shakspeare, or about then. You ought to read some of him. Read some of 'The Shepherd's Calendar' and quote from it. You'll hate it, but it will work a great swipe with the examiner."

"Well, I'll have to go along now. Mighty good of you to put me on to these points."

"Don't mention it."

"Let's see—Swift, Jane Austen and Spenser are the ducks you say I ought to look up?"

"Yes; and Addison and Marlowe. And say, find out something about Wordsworth. They'll ask about his attitude toward the French Revolution, or some damfool thing like that."

"All right, I will. What was his attitude toward it?"

"I don't know. I had it all down fine once—when I took that exam. He liked it or else he didn't, I forget which. But say, you want to know a little about Dryden and Pope, too."

"Dryden and Pope. All right, I got 'em on my list. I'll be able to write three pages about both of 'em before I go to bed. So long!"

"So long!"

They parted; but the alcove was empty only three minutes. It was then occupied by a man and a woman. The woman began the conversation.

"Mrs. Brooks said I certainly ought to consult you, Mr. Wigglesworth. She said your knowledge of local history will be indispensable to us."

"Now, I wonder if I understand you correctly. You and the other ladies of your club wish to give a pageant, illustrating past events in the history of the town?"

"That's it, exactly. Now, we thought it would be so nice if we could have the visit of Lafayette to Blankville, for one thing. I am to be the Marquise de Lafayette, in a Louis Quinze gown and powdered hair."

"Ah, yes. And your husband, I presume, will represent the marquis?"

"Daniel? Oh dear, no. Mr. Jones would never take any interest in it. He is so busy, you know. Dr. Peabody will be Lafayette."

"I see. Dr. Peabody will be Lafayette. I suppose, of course, that you wish to carry out the pageant with due regard for historical accuracy, correctness of costume, and all that sort of thing?"

"Oh, yes. Certainly! That is what will make it so charming, and interesting, and picturesque, and er—er—educational. Dr. Peabody has picked out his costume already. He has spent hours over it. It is all white satin, high-heeled shoes, a jeweled sword, and a powdered wig. We thought we would represent the ball given to the marquis and marchioness by the leading citizens of the town. Then we could have a minuet, you know. Dr. Peabody dances so beautifully."

"Ah, yes. I see only one objection to this. From the point of view of historical truth, I mean. Lafayette did not visit Blankville on his first sojourn in this country."

"Oh, would that make any difference?"

"Well, it would, rather."

"I don't see why."

"Well, for one thing, when he did come here he was an old man. He was about old enough to be Dr. Peabody's grandfather, I should judge."

"Oh!"

"Furthermore, there was no ball given by the leading citizens, and no minuet."

"But there must have been something!"

"There was. The selectmen gathered at the post-house and presented an address of welcome."

"Well, why couldn't we have that?"

"Undoubtedly you could. But it occurred at about nine o'clock on a rainy night. Lafayette did not alight from his coach, for he was trying to get on to Fairfield that night. He was suffering from a headache, and not only had on a nightcap, but had his head swathed in flannel bandages as well. He merely put out his head for a moment from the coach window, took the address, thanked the selectmen and immediately retired from view. There is no doubt at all about this, for Abner Willcox, the first historian of Blankville, was one of the selectmen."

"I don't see how we could have that very well."

"It is possible that you could persuade Dr. Peabody to appear in a nightcap and flannel bandages, but from what I know of the young man I should think it extremely doubtful."

"Well, it would not be picturesque!"

"Possibly not; but it would be historically correct, which is even better."

"I do not think so. I do not believe that a pageant should follow the facts of history slavishly. The object is to reproduce in a beautiful manner the events of the past."

"Exactly so, Mrs. Jones. I have no objection to the beauty of the spectacle, but if the Historical Association, whose president and representative I am, are to contribute toward the pageant, I must insist upon some regard for historical truth."

"Well, what could we have? Are there not some events that would be suitable? Did not General Washington and Mrs. Washington visit our town?"

"They did not. They seem to have overlooked it."

"Was there never an Indian raid?"

"Yes; there was. In 1641."

"How would that do?"

"I will leave you to judge. The Indians—there were three of them—were all intoxicated. They endeavored to steal a horse, but were discovered by a servant girl of one Enoch Winslow, who owned the horse. She locked them up in the barn until the constable could come and take them to the village jail."

"It does not sound very dramatic."

"I am no judge of what is or is not dramatic, Mrs. Jones. I merely give you the facts. Possibly you might like to represent the landing of the first settlers."

"Yes; that sounds delightful."

"It was not a delightful occasion for the settlers. It is a matter of record that on landing they were instantly attacked by mosquitoes in such large numbers that they had to beat a hasty retreat to their ship."

"Perhaps we could have that and leave out the mosquitoes,—it would be hard to have them, anyway."

"That would be impossible, madam. The modern school of history, of which I am a follower, allows the omission of no detail which makes for accuracy. Perhaps you would not be able to introduce the mosquitoes, though it might be managed. If not, I should insist that the persons representing the settlers beat their arms and hands about, and retreat to the vessel in evident distress."

"It does seem hard to find anything. I must go now. I hope you will think it over, Mr. Wigglesworth. Good morning."

These, gentlemen of the board, were the annoyances I suffered to-day. Can you do nothing to remedy this state of things?

Respectfully yours,

Nicholas Jasper, Ph.D.