Deadlight.—And segars?
Professor.—I use the term man as including the human race.
Searcher.—Well, go on.
Deadlight.—I’m ashamed of you, Professor; would you have us go back to savage life?
Professor.—Yes, but only in fancy, for the purpose of illustration. Let us drop down on a remote island in the Indian
Ocean. It is night-fall. The last rosy tints of sunset are fading from the western sky. The murmur of the distant surf mingles with the soft lullaby of the Indian mother who soothes her babe to sleep.
Searcher.—Why didn’t the goose use soothing syrup?
Deadlight.—Or a cradle?
Professor.—Beneath a tall palm, circled about the embers of a dying fire, sit the tawny natives. They are listening to the words that fall from the lips of an aged chief. With rapture they hang upon the oft-told legend of the isle. In their hearts they wonder at the old man’s wisdom. As he dilates upon their by-gone deeds, and their present might, their eyes involuntarily wander toward the rich foliage that gently sways on yonder high hill top; now they glance at the bright stars that peep forth from the upper blue, and now at the dim ocean that stretches away on either hand like a desert waste. Contentment almost perfect sits on every brow. Each savage has his spear, his hut of twigs: thus the Great Creator hath set them to fulfill their mission; and yet the spear and hut are the initial steps in the march of civilization; only luxury lies beyond them; comparative luxury is the acme of civilization.
Searcher.—You’re a crank!