At least six families were made happy and thankful that night, for the boys had had a narrow escape.
Chapter XI.
A Talented Lecturer.
A few weeks later, the holidays, like all other good things, came to an end, and the six returned to school.
On the opening day a certain great man—great in his own estimation, at least—was to deliver a speech to the school children. This notable gentleman bristled with facts and figures; but, alas! he had acquired so much erudition that he had lost all sense of the fitness of things. Having learned all that is possible for one mortal to know, and yet live, he now made it his pursuit to journey through the country, delivering lectures at the different colleges, and sometimes, as in this instance, at the public schools. There was nothing wicked about this most peculiar man; but, with all his learning, he lacked one thing—practical wisdom.
He was of “slender bulk,”—that is, short and gaunt—saffron-faced, and had a pugilistic and threatening manner of poising himself while speaking, his hands, meantime, describing geometrical curves that were picturesque in the extreme. His eyes were sharp and prominent; his nose followed suit: and his cane, which was stout and elaborately ornamented, was worth, to descend to a hackneyed comparison, an emperor’s ransom.
He employed the same technical terms that he did when addressing the most polished audiences; and, for that reason, the younger children looked upon him as a sort of hero, while to George and Marmaduke he was a full-fledged demi-god. The former (George) listened attentively to the lecture, and took mental note of the big words, with a view to explain their import to his less learned schoolfellows, should an opportunity offer for doing so without too much ostentation. But, alas! poor youth, many words which were strange to him rolled glibly from the professors tongue.
Here we pause—not to make a “digression,” but a vulgar harangue.
The writer has the temerity to hazard the assertion that there might be, in some lone corner of the world, an English-speaking romancer, as familiar with a foreign language as with his own, who could write a tale about people speaking that language, and yet have his tale so purely and thoroughly English that the most neuralgic critic could not cavil or repine. But this is only a rash surmise, and is probably fanciful.
Or is it only those who have acquired a smattering of another language that are so eager to lug in words and phrases peculiar to that language?