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The Curious Republic Of Gondour
A Memory
Introductory To “Memoranda”
About Smells
A Couple Of Sad Experiences
Dan Murphy
The “Tournament” In A. D. 1870
Curious Relic For Sale
A Reminiscence Of The Back Settlements
A Royal Compliment
The Approaching Epidemic
The Tone-Imparting Committee
Goldsmith’s Friend Abroad Again
Our Precious Lunatic[4]
The European wars[5]
The wild man interviewed[6]
Last words of great men[7]
When I say that I never knew my austere father to be enamoured of but one poem in all the long half century that he lived, persons who knew him will easily believe me; when I say that I have never composed but one poem in all the long third of a century that I have lived, persons who know me will be sincerely grateful; and finally, when I say that the poem which I composed was not the one which my father was enamoured of, persons who may have known us both will not need to have this truth shot into them with a mountain howitzer before they can receive it. My father and I were always on the most distant terms when I was a boy – a sort of armed neutrality so to speak. At irregular intervals this neutrality was broken, and suffering ensued; but I will be candid enough to say that the breaking and the suffering were always divided up with strict impartiality between us – which is to say, my father did the breaking, and I did the suffering. As a general thing I was a backward, cautious, unadventurous boy; but I once jumped off a two-story table; another time I gave an elephant a “plug” of tobacco and retired without waiting for an answer; and still another time I pretended to be talking in my sleep, and got off a portion of a very wretched original conundrum in the hearing of my father. Let us not pry into the result; it was of no consequence to any one but me.
But the poem I have referred to as attracting my father’s attention and achieving his favour was “Hiawatha.” Some man who courted a sudden and awful death presented him an early copy, and I never lost faith in my own senses until I saw him sit down and go to reading it in cold blood – saw him open the book, and heard him read these following lines, with the same inflectionless judicial frigidity with which he always read his charge to the jury, or administered an oath to a witness:
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“Yes – in this very deed,” said my father, throwing it on the table. “There is more poetry, more romance, more sublimity, more splendid imagery hidden away in that homely document than could be found in all the traditions of all the savages that live.”
“Indeed, sir? Could I – could I get it out, sir? Could I compose the poem, sir, do you think?”
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