Gala-Days [49]
to assume the responsibility of its movements. I did not think it right to travel on Sunday, but neither do I think it right for one person to compel a whole party to change its plans out of deference to his scruples. So I insisted that I would not cause detention. But Halicarnassus insisted that he would not have my conscience forced. Now it would seem natural that so tender and profound a regard for my scruples would have moved me to a tender and profound gratitude; but nobody understands Halicarnassus except myself. He is a dark lane, full of crooks and turns,--a labyrinth which nobody can thread without the clew. That clew I hold. I know him. I can walk right through him in the darkest night without any lantern. He is fully aware of it. He knows that it is utterly futile for him to attempt to deceive me, and yet, with the infatuation of a lunatic, he is continually producing his flimsy little fictions for me as continually to blow away. For instance, when we were walking down the path to the steps of Montmorency, Grande called out in delight at some new and beautiful white flowers beside the path. What were they? I did not know. What are they, Halicarnassus? "Ah! wax-flowers," says he, coming up, and Grande passed on content, as would ninety-nine out of a hundred; but an indescribable something in his air convinced me that he was not drawing on his botany for his facts. I determined to get at the root of the matter.
"Do you mean," I asked, "that the name of those flowers is wax-flowers?"
"Of course," he replied. "Why not?"
"Do you mean," I persisted, confirmed in my suspicions by his remarkable question, "that you know that they are wax-flowers, or that you do not know that they are not wax-flowers?"
"Why, look at 'em for yourself. Can't you see with your own eyes?" he ejaculated, attempting to walk on.
I planted myself full in front of him. "Halicarnassus, one step further except over my lifeless body you do not go, until you tell me whether those are or are not wax-flowers?"
"Well," he said, brought to bay at last, and sheepishly enough whisking off the heads of a dozen or two with his cane, "if they are not that, they are something else." There!
So when he showed his delicate consideration for my conscience, I was not grateful, but watchful. I detected under the glitter something that was not gold. I made very indifferent and guarded acknowledgments, and silently detached a corps of observation. In five minutes it came out that no train left Quebec on Sunday!
PART V.
So we remained over Sunday in Quebec, and in the morning attended service at the French Cathedral; and as we all had the American accomplishments of the "Nonne, a Prioresse," who spoke French
"ful fayre and fetisly After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, The Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe,"
it may be inferred that we were greatly edified by the service. From the French, as one cannot have too much of a good thing, we proceeded without pause to the English Cathedral,--cathedral by courtesy?--and heard a sermon by a Connecticut bishop, which, however good, was a disappointment, because we wanted the flavor of the soil. And after dinner we walked on the high and sightly Durham terrace, and then went to the Scotch church, joined in Scotch singing, and heard a broad Scotch sermon. So we tried to worship as well as we could; but it is impossible not to be sight-seeing where there are sights to see, and for that matter I don't suppose there is any harm in it. You don't go to a show; but if the church and the people and the minister are all a show, what can you do about it?
As I sat listening in the French Cathedral to a service I but a quarter comprehended, the residual three fourths of me went wandering at its own sweet will, and queried why it is that a battle-ground should so stir the blood, while a church suffers one to pass calmly and coldly out through its portals. I do not believe it is total depravity; for though the church stands for what is good, the battle-field
"Do you mean," I asked, "that the name of those flowers is wax-flowers?"
"Of course," he replied. "Why not?"
"Do you mean," I persisted, confirmed in my suspicions by his remarkable question, "that you know that they are wax-flowers, or that you do not know that they are not wax-flowers?"
"Why, look at 'em for yourself. Can't you see with your own eyes?" he ejaculated, attempting to walk on.
I planted myself full in front of him. "Halicarnassus, one step further except over my lifeless body you do not go, until you tell me whether those are or are not wax-flowers?"
"Well," he said, brought to bay at last, and sheepishly enough whisking off the heads of a dozen or two with his cane, "if they are not that, they are something else." There!
So when he showed his delicate consideration for my conscience, I was not grateful, but watchful. I detected under the glitter something that was not gold. I made very indifferent and guarded acknowledgments, and silently detached a corps of observation. In five minutes it came out that no train left Quebec on Sunday!
PART V.
So we remained over Sunday in Quebec, and in the morning attended service at the French Cathedral; and as we all had the American accomplishments of the "Nonne, a Prioresse," who spoke French
"ful fayre and fetisly After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, The Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe,"
it may be inferred that we were greatly edified by the service. From the French, as one cannot have too much of a good thing, we proceeded without pause to the English Cathedral,--cathedral by courtesy?--and heard a sermon by a Connecticut bishop, which, however good, was a disappointment, because we wanted the flavor of the soil. And after dinner we walked on the high and sightly Durham terrace, and then went to the Scotch church, joined in Scotch singing, and heard a broad Scotch sermon. So we tried to worship as well as we could; but it is impossible not to be sight-seeing where there are sights to see, and for that matter I don't suppose there is any harm in it. You don't go to a show; but if the church and the people and the minister are all a show, what can you do about it?
As I sat listening in the French Cathedral to a service I but a quarter comprehended, the residual three fourths of me went wandering at its own sweet will, and queried why it is that a battle-ground should so stir the blood, while a church suffers one to pass calmly and coldly out through its portals. I do not believe it is total depravity; for though the church stands for what is good, the battle-field