And this, methinks, is the place to introduce, an I durst, an excursus upon the Decay of Curiosity, a fine and tempting subject. There can be no sort of doubt that this is one of the vanishing instincts (the senses of locality and smell are others). The adult male European has very little curiosity, if of a fairly good stock and breeding, none at all. His wife, her maid, and the children of both sexes have traces of the faculty more or less pronounced, as being some degrees nearer to the savage. (I prithee madam, thump me not, I speak but the naked truth!) If the antique instinct reappears at intervals, as in Spy-manias, Dreyfus-obsessions and what-not, in modern France, it is less terrible than in that recent past which saw their Law of Suspects and our Popish Plot, and earlier witch-baitings. Across the Atlantic the defect is less noticeable, indeed one of the less endearing characteristics of Cousin Jonathan is that insatiable and unabashed curiosity which, whether it make for righteousness or no, is the making of the Yellow Press.
With us English the primeval safeguard has almost lapsed. We pride ourselves upon an incurious optimism, the outcome of urban surroundings and long internal peace. Are they yelling murder next door? Let them yell, 'tis no affair of ours; it don't do to interfere—leave it to the police. We have fifty little apothegms to excuse our cowardice or sloth. It has come to this that every time we find ourselves at war (we are still somewhat pugnacious)—it takes the average man of us from six to twelve months to get himself back into the sensitively-apprehensive, warily-cautious skin of his forefather to whom a condition of warfare was normal, who carried a weapon as we carry an umbrella and distrusted every bush. Some of His Majesty's forces never do regain a reasonable and saving curiosity. Middle-aged general officers, especially those who have hung about Windsor and done much reviewing, practically never. This sort go into action wearing white plumes, and insist upon being followed by a mounted orderly with a red-and-white guidon upon his lance. These are they who throw six shells at a wooded height at five miles' range and pronounce it "unoccupied": who excuse outpost duty on Christmas Eve "as a treat to the men," who reduce their superiors to despair, their subordinates to stupor, the operations to a standstill, and who, when sent home as incapable, arouse Society and the Houses upon their noble behalves, and assure the smoking-rooms of the clubs that the Service is going to the deuce.
Many a town-bred private is in his own way as deficient: he makes haste to lose his regiment upon the march, also himself; then, if it be night, in place of effacing himself and using his wits and his ears, he will strike a match, and the better to advertise his presence, sings for company, being a secret believer in "things in the dark," but an arrant agnostic as to the "hen'my bein' hanywheres abart." Thus poor Tommy knows not that doom hath gone forth until he finds himself being held down and vivisected by the Afridi knife; or, with better luck, stripped of every rag that covers him by a Dutchman.
All which makes most unpleasant reading, but, I put it to you, is it not true?
Agreed then, we have pretty well parted with the acute and rational curiosity which was the first armour of our race.
But, the Sun-Disc folk had it in a highly specialised form, and by the time that that deer-skin portière had ceased swinging behind the newcomers, had noticed much, and had actually deduced a good deal of the recent histories of Pŭl-Yūn and his companion, from a stick here and a bundle there, a limp and a side-glance, momentary impressions in the dusk.
"He goes short upon his left leg, and it is no strain," said Honk-Ah.
"He has not gone short of meat—see how heavy he is!—Whoever saw a brave come home from a winter-hunting, or a wife-hunting in such case? La, we were worn away to sinew and bone at our last war-party: but, he—" said an older man, a man of experience, with appropriate gesture.
"But his squaw!" said the women. "To let the Thing walk beside him!—and to hold her head up so! Why, when my man brought me into camp my hands were tied behind my back!"
"And mine," said another, "and my head was broken too, for my man stands no nonsense, I tell you!"