I write these pages as a warning. I don’t suppose any one will profit by it. From the time of Cassandra downwards, nobody has ever paid attention to warnings. But that is not my affair.
A London newspaper, some years ago, gave up several columns of its valuable space to the question: ‘What shall we do with our Boys?’ I perused the correspondence with a strong personal interest, for I myself am the proprietor of a boy—several boys, in point of fact; but I refer more particularly to my eldest, aged nineteen, as to whom I felt that it was time something was settled. I have a great belief—partly derived from the before-mentioned correspondence, and partly from my own observation—in studying a boy’s natural bent, and finding him an occupation in accordance with it. Such being the case, I began to study Augustus with a view to finding out his special aptitude; but, unless a really remarkable faculty of outgrowing his trousers may be so regarded, I could not for some time discover that he had any. By dint, however, of careful observation and cross-examination of the household, I elicited that he was addicted to making extremely offensive smells in the back kitchen with chemicals, and that he had what he called a ‘collection’ of beetles and other unpleasant insects stuck on pins in a box in his bedroom. It appeared, therefore, that his proclivities were scientific, and I ultimately decided to make an analyst of him. Accordingly, after disposing of sundry painful but presumably necessary arrangements as to premium, Augustus was duly articled to a Public Analyst. I use capital letters, because I observed that Mr Scrutin himself always did so. Why, I cannot say. Possibly, a public analyst—without capitals—would not command the same amount of public confidence. On consideration, I don’t suppose he would.
Augustus’ first demand on taking up his new occupation was a microscope. ‘And while you’re about it,’ he suggested, ‘it had better be a good one.’ At first, I was inclined to suspect that this was an artful device for the further indulgence of his entomological vices, and that the implement would be devoted to post-mortem examinations of deceased caterpillars or other kindred abominations. He assured me, however, that such was not the case, and that the microscope was nowadays ‘the very sheet-anchor of analytical science.’ The ‘sheet-anchor’ completely took the wind out of my sails. (I feel that there is rather a confusion of metaphor here, but, not being a nautical person, I don’t feel competent to set it right.) I surrendered, humbly remarking that I supposed a five-pound note would cover it. The youthful analyst laughed me to scorn. The very least, he assured me, that a good working microscope could be got for would be ten or twelve pounds. Ultimately, I agreed to purchase one at ten guineas, and congratulated myself that at anyrate that was done with. On the contrary, it was only just begun. No sooner had my analyst secured his microscope, than he began to insist upon the purchase of a number of auxiliary appliances, which, it appeared, no respectable microscope would be seen without. He broke them to me by degrees. At first he only mentioned, if I remember right, an ‘achromatic condenser,’ at two guineas. Next came a ‘double nosepiece’ (why ‘double,’ I don’t know); then a polarising apparatus and a camera lucida (four pounds ten); then a micrometer and a microtome (three guineas more); then somebody’s prism, at one pound five; and somebody else’s microspectroscope, at I don’t know how much. Here, however, I put my foot down. I am compelled to regard the sordid consideration of price, though science doesn’t.
The microscope and its subsidiary apparatus were duly delivered; but my analyst appeared to be in no particular hurry to convey them to the laboratory where he was studying. On my making a remark to this effect, he replied: ‘Haven’t taken them to the laboratory? No; and I’m not going to. Mr Scrutin has got a precious sight better microscope than mine—cost sixty guineas without the little extra articles, and they were about thirty more. He’s got a microspectroscope, if you like!’
I refrained from arguing the point, and mildly remarked that in that case he might have used Mr Scrutin’s microscope, and saved me some twenty guineas. But he rejected the idea with scorn, and explained that his microscope was not for laboratory use, but for ‘private study.’
So far as my observation went, my analyst’s private study had hitherto been confined to a short pipe and the last number of some penny dreadful; but I did not think it wise to check his new-born ardour; I contented myself by observing that I only hoped he would ‘stick to it.’
‘No fear of that,’ he rejoined, as indignantly as a limpet might have done in answer to the same observation. ‘Why, microscopy is the most fascinating study out.—Just take a squint at that, now.’
I looked down the tube, but couldn’t see anything at all, and made a remark to that effect.
‘Oh, that’s because you haven’t got the focus.—Now, try again.’
I tried again, and saw a sort of network of red fibre.