I have imagination of a certain kind. It has nothing to do with invention or fancy. It is not a mental faculty at all. It is not physical. Neither is it paralysis, butterscotch, or three spades re-doubled. I should so much like to give some idea of it if I had any. Perhaps an instance will help.
I remember that I once said to the Dean of Belial that I thought the naming of a Highland hotel “The Light Brigade” showed a high degree of imagination.
“Half a moment,” said the Dean. “I think I know that one. No—can’t get it. Why was the hotel called that?”
“Because of its terrific charges.”
“Yes,” he said wearily. “I’ve heard it. But”—more brightly—“can you tell me why a Highland regiment was called ‘The Black Watch’?”
“I can, Massa Johnson. Because there’s a ‘b’ in both.”
“Wrong again. It’s because there’s an ‘e’ in each.”
I gave him a half-nelson to the jaw and killed him, and the entire company then sung “Way down upon de Swannee Ribber,” with harmonium accompaniment, thus bringing the afternoon performance to a close. The front seats were half empty, but then it was late in the season, and looked like rain, and—
Certainly, I can stop if you like. But you do see what I mean, don’t you? The imagination is something that runs away with you. If I were to let mine get away with me, it would knock this old autobiography all to splinters.
But I do not appear to have the kind of imagination that makes me know what will hurt people’s feelings. If I love people I always tell them what their worst faults are, and repeat what everybody says about them behind their back. That ought to make people say: “Thank you, Marge, for your kind words. They will help me to improve myself.” It has not happened yet. It is my miraculous power of criticism that causes the trouble. Whenever I let it off the lead it seems to bite somebody; a muzzle has been suggested.