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"THE DESERT ISLAND TEST"

A roll of papers containing the following narrative has been forwarded to the "Transcript" by Captain "Sol" Farr of the Gloucester fishing schooner "Salt Mackerel."

Captain Farr discovered them, floating about in an olive bottle, a few miles off Boston Light. As soon as he had examined the papers (which are slightly damaged by salt water and olive vinegar) he perceived their bearing upon an important literary question of the day, and very properly sent them to "The Librarian."

The original papers are to be deposited in the Ezra Beesly Free Public Library of Baxter (Captain Farr's native town), where in a week or two they may be seen by anyone applying to the librarian, or one of his assistants, between 9 a.m. and 8 p.m.

The narrative, written in a shaky hand, on twelve sheets of note paper, contains the following remarkable statement:

I, Professor Horatio B. Fassett, M.A., Ph.D., write this appeal (with a perfectly detestable fountain-pen) on an uninhabited and (so far as I am aware) unknown island, somewhere off the eastern coast of South America, on (as near as I can guess) the twelfth of December, 1908. For two years have I dwelt in wretchedness in this place, a most unwilling (and unsuccessful) follower of Robinson Crusoe. I know that it is customary in such appeals as this, which I am about (in the words of the burial service) to commit to the deep, to give, approximately at least, the latitude and longitude of my desert isle, in order that searching parties (which I earnestly pray may be sent for me) shall know where to look.

Alas! all my studies have been devoted to literature and the fine arts, and although I have certain instruments which poor Captain Bucko used to ascertain the ship's position, I am as helpless with them as an infant. True, I have endeavored to look at the sun with them—and the moon, too, but I could not observe that those bodies had any than their usual aspect when thus viewed. As for the signs which are engraved on the surface of these instruments, I could copy them down here in hope that they might give a clue to those expert in navigation; but as they are, so far as I can see, exactly the same as those which were on the instruments when we left New York, I fear it would be of no avail.

The only hint, then, of the geographical position of this island must come from my narrative. I beseech whatever person finds it to send news of me without delay to the president and faculty of Upidee University, where, alas, I suppose my chair (the James A. Rewbarb professorship of German Literature) is already filled.

It is unnecessary for me to speak much of my career. In the obituary notices that doubtless appeared when the ship "Hardtack" failed to arrive at Valparaiso, I suppose it was stated that I was the only passenger on that unfortunate vessel. I am, I believe, the only survivor of her wreck. Worn out with revising proof of the second edition of my doctor's thesis ("That the umlaut should be placed one-fourth of a millimetre higher than is now the custom") I had, at the advice of my physician, embarked on the "Hardtack," sailing from New York for Valparaiso, Sept. 9, 1906.

The voyage was uneventful for about four weeks, and life on the ship (which I think, by the way, was called by the captain a "brig") was not distasteful to me. One morning, however, I heard a commotion overhead, and going upstairs found Captain Bucko in a state of great excitement. I asked him the cause, and he replied that the mate had put the brig in irons.

I had often read of this custom in times of mutiny, so I remarked: "I suppose it was by your orders, Captain?"

He did not reply, and I presently learned the cause of his anxiety. They did not seem to be able to make the ship go ahead in a straight line, and, to make matters worse, a rocky island on which the waves were breaking violently, had been discovered on the right hand side of the vessel.

I ought to explain that I am not perfectly familiar with all the technicalities of ship-navigation, and I retain only a confused idea of what followed.

I know that I was ordered to get into a small rowboat which was jumping about in a most alarming fashion at one side of the ship, and that when I refused to take such a ridiculous step, I was seized by two sailors and thrown into the boat. I must have struck my head on something, for I knew nothing else until I found myself lying on a beach, pounded and bruised by the waves. I got up, and staggered to a place where the sand was dry, and there I fell again exhausted.

Of the captain and the crew of the "Hardtack" I have never seen a trace, except a coat belonging to the mate, which was washed on shore a few days later. Their small boat was probably tipped over by the waves, and they were all drowned. It is strange that I, the only one of them unfamiliar with the ocean, should have been spared. The "Hardtack" itself evidently became hitched on a rock some little distance from the shore, for there it stayed for part of that day, with great waves beating upon it. At last the masts fell down, and in a few days the ship was broken in pieces, till nothing remained. Many of these fragments floated to the shore, with various articles from the cargo.

For the first three days I was excessively miserable. I was forced to sleep out of doors on the first night, and when I felt hungry the next morning, there was nothing to eat. My tastes are simple, but my habits are regular, and in my rooms at Upidee, as well as in the "Hardtack," I was accustomed to have a cup of coffee at half-past seven each morning. Now I searched the shore for some hours, but could find nothing except some mussels or clams and a few starfish. The starfish were very tough, and not at all agreeable in taste, and though a Little Neck clam, properly iced and served with lemon and other condiments, is not an ill beginning to a dinner, I cannot pretend that I found these shellfish, eaten raw on a windy beach, other than nauseous.

But I hasten over these troubles and also over my discovery of a large number of boxes of food which floated ashore, three days later, from the wreck. Some of it was edible and it sufficed until I found other means of sustenance on the island. Of my discovery of two deserted huts (relics of former castaways, perhaps), of my domestication of several wild goats, whom I learned (not without difficulty) to milk, and of my capture of fish in the inlet—of all these things I need not write. My troubles are not material, but intellectual. And they are so great that I earnestly implore some one to come to my rescue.

To make my sufferings clear I must remind the reader that I am that Horatio Fassett who won the $500 prize from "Somebody's Magazine" four years ago for the best answer to the question: "If you were cast away on a desert island what one hundred books would you prefer to have with you?"

I worked hard to compile my list, and it was generally agreed to be the most scholarly selection of one hundred titles ever made. The publishers of "Somebody's Magazine" not only paid me the $500, but presented me with a copy, well bound, of each of the books. These (packed securely in a water-tight box, so constructed as to float) accompanied me in the "Hardtack," and I need tell no scholar that during my first days on this island, as I walked the beach and watched the remnants of the vessel float ashore, it was not so much for cases of concentrated soup nor tins of baked-beans that I yearned, as for my box of the "One Hundred Best Books."

At last it came! That was a happy day—about a week after my arrival on the island. I saw the box, tossed about in the surf, and I dashed in and secured it. I was now living, with comparative comfort, in one of the huts; and thither I carried the books. I was overjoyed. It was my privilege to put my books to the test—something that had never been accorded to the compilers of any of the similar lists which have been made in such profusion. With trembling hands (and a screwdriver) I opened the box and took out the books. They were in perfect order—the waterproof box had been well made.

From this point, I copy the entries in my diary, and let them tell the rest of my dismal story.

"Oct. 16. I arranged the books neatly, this afternoon, on top of some empty biscuit boxes. They were all there: Tasso, Homer, Don Quixote, The Divine Comedy, Browning, and the rest. They looked delightful, and reminded me of my study at Upidee. I wonder if I shall ever see that study again, and I wonder what will become of the second edition of my thesis on the umlaut. It was to appear next April, and now who knows whether I shall be there ready to reply to the attacks which I know it will provoke?

"From this gloomy line of thought, I turned again to the Hundred Best Books. Which should I begin to read? There were my beloved Goethe and Schiller—should I start with them? I took a volume, and had opened it, when it occurred to me that I had not yet gone that day to the high rock where I looked for passing ships. I put Goethe back on the biscuit box, and spent an anxious afternoon staring at the ocean. But I saw nothing.

"The evening I spent in trying to arrange some fishing lines, as the firelight—my only illumination—is not favorable for reading to one afflicted with astigmatism. I miss the electric droplight that I used at Upidee, or even the kerosene lamp in the cabin of the 'Hardtack.' I must try to make some candles.

"Oct. 17. I passed the morning in trying to tame a wild goat—or perhaps I had better say in trying to induce one to graze outside my cabin, instead of investigating the interior. They are not at all shy, but are inclined to be rather sociable. In the afternoon I took Goethe with me to the high rock, where I sat with the volume on my knee keeping a watch for vessels. I cannot say that I read much. German literature makes me feel rather homesick, and I find brings me recollections of the distressing recitations of last year's freshman class.

"Oct. 18. When I went to the lookout to-day I took Browning with me. Good heavens, I found I can no longer read Browning! This was an astounding state of things, and I had to examine myself rather sharply. I remembered that I had never for a moment been in doubt, when I made up my list, of including Browning. I had read, twenty years ago, the 'Dramatic Lyrics,' with the greatest of pleasure, but the longer poems had seemed to me rather dull, and indeed a large proportion of the poet's work was intensely irritating to me on account of its needless and exasperating obscurity. At the time I did not consider this a cause for worry. Browning was a great poet—everyone said so; his treasures did not lie on the surface—one must dive below in order to find the rich pearls which lay concealed there. I remember using this metaphor in a lecture that I delivered before the Woman's Club of Buffalo. I had always intended to study the longer poems; but I had never done it. Now they were unreadable to me. As for the 'Dramatic Lyrics,' they did not charm me as formerly. I found myself longing for a volume of Wordsworth or Tennyson. Neither was included in my Best Books, though I cannot see now, for the life of me, why I didn't include Tennyson. Could it have been because his poems are easy to understand and that I thought it would seem more 'scholarly' to put in Browning?

"Oct. 20. I have not been to the high rock lately except for a brief visit after breakfast. I have had a little rheumatism—not being used to sleeping in draughty cabins. The goats have been a source of entertainment to me, and I have caught some crabs, which I keep in a little pool of salt water near the cabin. They are amusing to watch, and toasted crab-meat is far from bad at supper time. I kill one with a stick and then broil him on a hot stone.

"Yesterday I tried reading again, but I am bound to confess that there was not much solace in it. The Odyssey I soon put down—too much shipwreck and wandering in strange lands. There is no Penelope waiting for me, even if I ever get home alive. And the thought of Ithaca reminded me of Cornell and Professor von FÜglemann, who is all ready to tear my thesis on the umlaut to pieces. Shakspeare I picked up, but the first play I opened to was 'The Tempest.' I closed Shakspeare and put him back.

"Nov. 25. Nothing has happened worth recording for weeks. Once I saw smoke, from a steamboat, I suppose, but smoke did not do me any good.

"There is something the matter with this list of Best Books. For one thing, they are most of them so tragic. I would give anything for a volume of Mr. Dooley. But that is not all. I have always realized that the great literature of the world is very largely sombre, and I have no more sympathy now than I ever had with the people who want to read nothing but that which keeps them on a broad grin. Even in my dreary situation I could read tragedy, but I have brought precious little tragedy that I care for. No doubt most of my books are great monuments of literature, but I am afraid I must have forgotten, when I wrote my list, how few of these books I read now. I must have put them in because they are praised by writers of text-books, and because it seemed the proper thing to do.

"As I go over my reading for the past five years at Upidee, in what do I find it to consist? First, the literature and text-books of my profession. Second, current books—history, biography, art criticism, and an infrequent novel or book of verse. There are not many living novelists or poets that I care about. It makes me fairly rage when I think that I hesitated between 'Pickwick' and 'Jerusalem Delivered' when I made up my list, and finally decided in favor of the latter as more weighty—which it certainly is.

"I used my copy to help sink a lobster trap the other day.

"Almost the only novel which I condescended to include in my list is 'Don Quixote,' and why did I do that? Because it has been praised for three hundred years, I suppose, instead of for only forty or fifty. It is about the only humorous work which I did include—and except for places here and there it is a dreary waste.

"Aug. 10, 1907. It is now months since I have had the courage to face this diary. I dreamed last night that I had wandered into a book shop. There were rows of books, for any one of which I would have gladly given my whole celebrated One Hundred. (At least, I would give what is left of them. 'Don Quixote' has been used to paste over cracks in the walls of my cabin. 'Orlando Furioso' served to boil some sea-gulls' eggs one morning for breakfast, when I was short of firewood, and the 'Koran' fell into the fire one night when I hurled it at some animal—a fox, I think, that came into the hut.) The sight of that bookshop made me weep. I had seized a volume of Tennyson, Stevenson's Letters, and 'Sherlock Holmes,' when the shopkeeper jumped over his counter at me—and I woke, sobbing.

"Sept. 1, 1907. One of the goats ate the Æneid to-day.

"Sept. 2. The goat is ill, and I have had to give it one of my few pepsin tablets."

This is the last entry from the diary that I need transcribe. Over a year has elapsed since I wrote it; and my case is desperate. I will now seal up this narrative in a bottle, and throw it into the sea. Come to my rescue, or I fear I shall go mad!