prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XXVI. CONTAINING THE METAPHYSICS OF INDIAN-HATING, ACCORDING TO THE VIEWS OF ONE EVIDENTLY NOT SO PREPOSSESSED AS ROUSSEAU IN FAVOR OF SAVAGES.

"The judge always began in these words: 'The backwoodsman's hatred of
the Indian has been a topic for some remark. In the earlier times of the
frontier the passion was thought to be readily accounted for. But Indian
rapine having mostly ceased through regions where it once prevailed, the
philanthropist is surprised that Indian-hating has not in like degree
ceased with it. He wonders why the backwoodsman still regards the red
man in much the same spirit that a jury does a murderer, or a trapper a
wild cat--a creature, in whose behalf mercy were not wisdom; truce is
vain; he must be executed.

"'A curious point,' the judge would continue, 'which perhaps not
everybody, even upon explanation, may fully understand; while, in order
for any one to approach to an understanding, it is necessary for him to
learn, or if he already know, to bear in mind, what manner of man the
backwoodsman is; as for what manner of man the Indian is, many know,
either from history or experience.

"'The backwoodsman is a lonely man. He is a thoughtful man. He is a man
strong and unsophisticated. Impulsive, he is what some might call
unprincipled. At any rate, he is self-willed; being one who less
hearkens to what others may say about things, than looks for himself, to
see what are things themselves. If in straits, there are few to help; he
must depend upon himself; he must continually look to himself. Hence
self-reliance, to the degree of standing by his own judgment, though it
stand alone. Not that he deems himself infallible; too many mistakes in
following trails prove the contrary; but he thinks that nature destines
such sagacity as she has given him, as she destines it to the 'possum.
To these fellow-beings of the wilds their untutored sagacity is their
best dependence. If with either it prove faulty, if the 'possum's betray
it to the trap, or the backwoodsman's mislead him into ambuscade, there
are consequences to be undergone, but no self-blame. As with the
'possum, instincts prevail with the backwoodsman over precepts. Like the
'possum, the backwoodsman presents the spectacle of a creature dwelling
exclusively among the works of God, yet these, truth must confess, breed
little in him of a godly mind. Small bowing and scraping is his, further
than when with bent knee he points his rifle, or picks its flint. With
few companions, solitude by necessity his lengthened lot, he stands the
trial--no slight one, since, next to dying, solitude, rightly borne, is
perhaps of fortitude the most rigorous test. But not merely is the
backwoodsman content to be alone, but in no few cases is anxious to be
so. The sight of smoke ten miles off is provocation to one more remove
from man, one step deeper into nature. Is it that he feels that whatever
man may be, man is not the universe? that glory, beauty, kindness, are
not all engrossed by him? that as the presence of man frights birds
away, so, many bird-like thoughts? Be that how it will, the backwoodsman
is not without some fineness to his nature. Hairy Orson as he looks, it
may be with him as with the Shetland seal--beneath the bristles lurks
the fur.

"'Though held in a sort a barbarian, the backwoodsman would seem to
America what Alexander was to Asia--captain in the vanguard of
conquering civilization. Whatever the nation's growing opulence or
power, does it not lackey his heels? Pathfinder, provider of security to
those who come after him, for himself he asks nothing but hardship.
Worthy to be compared with Moses in the Exodus, or the Emperor Julian in
Gaul, who on foot, and bare-browed, at the head of covered or mounted
legions, marched so through the elements, day after day. The tide of
emigration, let it roll as it will, never overwhelms the backwoodsman
into itself; he rides upon advance, as the Polynesian upon the comb of
the surf.

"'Thus, though he keep moving on through life, he maintains with respect
to nature much the same unaltered relation throughout; with her
creatures, too, including panthers and Indians. Hence, it is not
unlikely that, accurate as the theory of the Peace Congress may be with
respect to those two varieties of beings, among others, yet the
backwoodsman might be qualified to throw out some practical suggestions.

"'As the child born to a backwoodsman must in turn lead his father's
life--a life which, as related to humanity, is related mainly to
Indians--it is thought best not to mince matters, out of delicacy; but
to tell the boy pretty plainly what an Indian is, and what he must
expect from him. For however charitable it may be to view Indians as
members of the Society of Friends, yet to affirm them such to one
ignorant of Indians, whose lonely path lies a long way through their
lands, this, in the event, might prove not only injudicious but cruel.
At least something of this kind would seem the maxim upon which
backwoods' education is based. Accordingly, if in youth the backwoodsman
incline to knowledge, as is generally the case, he hears little from his
schoolmasters, the old chroniclers of the forest, but histories of
Indian lying, Indian theft, Indian double-dealing, Indian fraud and
perfidy, Indian want of conscience, Indian blood-thirstiness, Indian
diabolism--histories which, though of wild woods, are almost as full of
things unangelic as the Newgate Calendar or the Annals of Europe. In
these Indian narratives and traditions the lad is thoroughly grounded.
"As the twig is bent the tree's inclined." The instinct of antipathy
against an Indian grows in the backwoodsman with the sense of good and
bad, right and wrong. In one breath he learns that a brother is to be
loved, and an Indian to be hated.

"'Such are the facts,' the judge would say, 'upon which, if one seek to
moralize, he must do so with an eye to them. It is terrible that one
creature should so regard another, should make it conscience to abhor an
entire race. It is terrible; but is it surprising? Surprising, that one
should hate a race which he believes to be red from a cause akin to that
which makes some tribes of garden insects green? A race whose name is
upon the frontier a _memento mori_; painted to him in every evil light;
now a horse-thief like those in Moyamensing; now an assassin like a New
York rowdy; now a treaty-breaker like an Austrian; now a Palmer with
poisoned arrows; now a judicial murderer and Jeffries, after a fierce
farce of trial condemning his victim to bloody death; or a Jew with
hospitable speeches cozening some fainting stranger into ambuscade,
there to burk him, and account it a deed grateful to Manitou, his god.

"'Still, all this is less advanced as truths of the Indians than as
examples of the backwoodsman's impression of them--in which the
charitable may think he does them some injustice. Certain it is, the
Indians themselves think so; quite unanimously, too. The Indians, in
deed, protest against the backwoodsman's view of them; and some think
that one cause of their returning his antipathy so sincerely as they do,
is their moral indignation at being so libeled by him, as they really
believe and say. But whether, on this or any point, the Indians should
be permitted to testify for themselves, to the exclusion of other
testimony, is a question that may be left to the Supreme Court. At any
rate, it has been observed that when an Indian becomes a genuine
proselyte to Christianity (such cases, however, not being very many;
though, indeed, entire tribes are sometimes nominally brought to the
true light,) he will not in that case conceal his enlightened
conviction, that his race's portion by nature is total depravity; and,
in that way, as much as admits that the backwoodsman's worst idea of it
is not very far from true; while, on the other hand, those red men who
are the greatest sticklers for the theory of Indian virtue, and Indian
loving-kindness, are sometimes the arrantest horse-thieves and
tomahawkers among them. So, at least, avers the backwoodsman. And
though, knowing the Indian nature, as he thinks he does, he fancies he
is not ignorant that an Indian may in some points deceive himself almost
as effectually as in bush-tactics he can another, yet his theory and his
practice as above contrasted seem to involve an inconsistency so
extreme, that the backwoodsman only accounts for it on the supposition
that when a tomahawking red-man advances the notion of the benignity of
the red race, it is but part and parcel with that subtle strategy which
he finds so useful in war, in hunting, and the general conduct of life.'

"In further explanation of that deep abhorrence with which the
backwoodsman regards the savage, the judge used to think it might
perhaps a little help, to consider what kind of stimulus to it is
furnished in those forest histories and traditions before spoken of. In
which behalf, he would tell the story of the little colony of Wrights
and Weavers, originally seven cousins from Virginia, who, after
successive removals with their families, at last established themselves
near the southern frontier of the Bloody Ground, Kentucky: 'They were
strong, brave men; but, unlike many of the pioneers in those days,
theirs was no love of conflict for conflict's sake. Step by step they
had been lured to their lonely resting-place by the ever-beckoning
seductions of a fertile and virgin land, with a singular exemption,
during the march, from Indian molestation. But clearings made and houses
built, the bright shield was soon to turn its other side. After repeated
persecutions and eventual hostilities, forced on them by a dwindled
tribe in their neighborhood--persecutions resulting in loss of crops and
cattle; hostilities in which they lost two of their number, illy to be
spared, besides others getting painful wounds--the five remaining
cousins made, with some serious concessions, a kind of treaty with
Mocmohoc, the chief--being to this induced by the harryings of the
enemy, leaving them no peace. But they were further prompted, indeed,
first incited, by the suddenly changed ways of Mocmohoc, who, though
hitherto deemed a savage almost perfidious as Caesar Borgia, yet now put
on a seeming the reverse of this, engaging to bury the hatchet, smoke
the pipe, and be friends forever; not friends in the mere sense of
renouncing enmity, but in the sense of kindliness, active and familiar.

"'But what the chief now seemed, did not wholly blind them to what the
chief had been; so that, though in no small degree influenced by his
change of bearing, they still distrusted him enough to covenant with
him, among other articles on their side, that though friendly visits
should be exchanged between the wigwams and the cabins, yet the five
cousins should never, on any account, be expected to enter the chief's
lodge together. The intention was, though they reserved it, that if
ever, under the guise of amity, the chief should mean them mischief, and
effect it, it should be but partially; so that some of the five might
survive, not only for their families' sake, but also for retribution's.
Nevertheless, Mocmohoc did, upon a time, with such fine art and pleasing
carriage win their confidence, that he brought them all together to a
feast of bear's meat, and there, by stratagem, ended them. Years after,
over their calcined bones and those of all their families, the chief,
reproached for his treachery by a proud hunter whom he had made captive,
jeered out, "Treachery? pale face! 'Twas they who broke their covenant
first, in coming all together; they that broke it first, in trusting
Mocmohoc."'

"At this point the judge would pause, and lifting his hand, and rolling
his eyes, exclaim in a solemn enough voice, 'Circling wiles and bloody
lusts. The acuteness and genius of the chief but make him the more
atrocious.'

"After another pause, he would begin an imaginary kind of dialogue
between a backwoodsman and a questioner:

"'But are all Indians like Mocmohoc?--Not all have proved such; but in
the least harmful may lie his germ. There is an Indian nature. "Indian
blood is in me," is the half-breed's threat.--But are not some Indians
kind?--Yes, but kind Indians are mostly lazy, and reputed simple--at
all events, are seldom chiefs; chiefs among the red men being taken from
the active, and those accounted wise. Hence, with small promotion, kind
Indians have but proportionate influence. And kind Indians may be forced
to do unkind biddings. So "beware the Indian, kind or unkind," said
Daniel Boone, who lost his sons by them.--But, have all you backwoodsmen
been some way victimized by Indians?--No.--Well, and in certain cases
may not at least some few of you be favored by them?--Yes, but scarce
one among us so self-important, or so selfish-minded, as to hold his
personal exemption from Indian outrage such a set-off against the
contrary experience of so many others, as that he must needs, in a
general way, think well of Indians; or, if he do, an arrow in his flank
might suggest a pertinent doubt.

"'In short,' according to the judge, 'if we at all credit the
backwoodsman, his feeling against Indians, to be taken aright, must be
considered as being not so much on his own account as on others', or
jointly on both accounts. True it is, scarce a family he knows but some
member of it, or connection, has been by Indians maimed or scalped. What
avails, then, that some one Indian, or some two or three, treat a
backwoodsman friendly-like? He fears me, he thinks. Take my rifle from
me, give him motive, and what will come? Or if not so, how know I what
involuntary preparations may be going on in him for things as unbeknown
in present time to him as me--a sort of chemical preparation in the
soul for malice, as chemical preparation in the body for malady.'

"Not that the backwoodsman ever used those words, you see, but the judge
found him expression for his meaning. And this point he would conclude
with saying, that, 'what is called a "friendly Indian" is a very rare
sort of creature; and well it was so, for no ruthlessness exceeds that
of a "friendly Indian" turned enemy. A coward friend, he makes a valiant
foe.

"'But, thus far the passion in question has been viewed in a general way
as that of a community. When to his due share of this the backwoodsman
adds his private passion, we have then the stock out of which is formed,
if formed at all, the Indian-hater _par excellence_.'

"The Indian-hater _par excellence_ the judge defined to be one 'who,
having with his mother's milk drank in small love for red men, in youth
or early manhood, ere the sensibilities become osseous, receives at
their hand some signal outrage, or, which in effect is much the same,
some of his kin have, or some friend. Now, nature all around him by her
solitudes wooing or bidding him muse upon this matter, he accordingly
does so, till the thought develops such attraction, that much as
straggling vapors troop from all sides to a storm-cloud, so straggling
thoughts of other outrages troop to the nucleus thought, assimilate with
it, and swell it. At last, taking counsel with the elements, he comes to
his resolution. An intenser Hannibal, he makes a vow, the hate of which
is a vortex from whose suction scarce the remotest chip of the guilty
race may reasonably feel secure. Next, he declares himself and settles
his temporal affairs. With the solemnity of a Spaniard turned monk, he
takes leave of his kin; or rather, these leave-takings have something of
the still more impressive finality of death-bed adieus. Last, he commits
himself to the forest primeval; there, so long as life shall be his, to
act upon a calm, cloistered scheme of strategical, implacable, and
lonesome vengeance. Ever on the noiseless trail; cool, collected,
patient; less seen than felt; snuffing, smelling--a Leather-stocking
Nemesis. In the settlements he will not be seen again; in eyes of old
companions tears may start at some chance thing that speaks of him; but
they never look for him, nor call; they know he will not come. Suns and
seasons fleet; the tiger-lily blows and falls; babes are born and leap
in their mothers' arms; but, the Indian-hater is good as gone to his
long home, and "Terror" is his epitaph.'

"Here the judge, not unaffected, would pause again, but presently
resume: 'How evident that in strict speech there can be no biography of
an Indian-hater _par excellence_, any more than one of a sword-fish, or
other deep-sea denizen; or, which is still less imaginable, one of a
dead man. The career of the Indian-hater _par excellence_ has the
impenetrability of the fate of a lost steamer. Doubtless, events,
terrible ones, have happened, must have happened; but the powers that be
in nature have taken order that they shall never become news.

"'But, luckily for the curious, there is a species of diluted
Indian-hater, one whose heart proves not so steely as his brain. Soft
enticements of domestic life too, often draw him from the ascetic trail;
a monk who apostatizes to the world at times. Like a mariner, too,
though much abroad, he may have a wife and family in some green harbor
which he does not forget. It is with him as with the Papist converts in
Senegal; fasting and mortification prove hard to bear.'

"The judge, with his usual judgment, always thought that the intense
solitude to which the Indian-hater consigns himself, has, by its
overawing influence, no little to do with relaxing his vow. He would
relate instances where, after some months' lonely scoutings, the
Indian-hater is suddenly seized with a sort of calenture; hurries openly
towards the first smoke, though he knows it is an Indian's, announces
himself as a lost hunter, gives the savage his rifle, throws himself
upon his charity, embraces him with much affection, imploring the
privilege of living a while in his sweet companionship. What is too
often the sequel of so distempered a procedure may be best known by
those who best know the Indian. Upon the whole, the judge, by two and
thirty good and sufficient reasons, would maintain that there was no
known vocation whose consistent following calls for such
self-containings as that of the Indian-hater _par excellence_. In the
highest view, he considered such a soul one peeping out but once an age.

"For the diluted Indian-hater, although the vacations he permits himself
impair the keeping of the character, yet, it should not be overlooked
that this is the man who, by his very infirmity, enables us to form
surmises, however inadequate, of what Indian-hating in its perfection
is."

"One moment," gently interrupted the cosmopolitan here, "and let me
refill my calumet."

Which being done, the other proceeded:--

CHAPTER XXVII.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The new guy talks about Judge James Hall, a friend of his father, and his viewpoints on backwoodsmen and American Indians. According to Judge Hall, backwoodsmen are "Indian-haters par excellence" with a complicated history as to why. At one point, James Hall has a mock Q&A with a fictional backwoodsman and another fictional neutral party to assess why such hatred persists. Hall argues that there's a deep-seated distrust among these people. It begins when hatred is passed down through mothers' milk during nursing and is then solidified through community hatred. This is some dark stuff. Ultimately, Hall describes two kinds of backwoodsmen: 1) those who are committed to being loners and 2) those who visit towns and cities on occasion. Committed loners, Hall claims, often "break" and find a limited kind of friendship with American Indians. Non-committed loners get their fix of society, so they remain "Indian-haters par excellence" their whole lives. The new guy notes that since we only ever meet the non-committed kind of loners, they're our only example of what committed backwoodsmen might be like, thus our evidence is always flawed. Here the cosmopolitan interrupts him: Just a moment please; need to refill my drink.


prompt:
Chapter: SOME ACCOUNT OF A MAN OF QUESTIONABLE MORALITY, BUT WHO, NEVERTHELESS, WOULD SEEM ENTITLED TO THE ESTEEM OF THAT EMINENT ENGLISH MORALIST WHO SAID HE LIKED A GOOD HATER.

"Coming to mention the man to whose story all thus far said was but the
introduction, the judge, who, like you, was a great smoker, would insist
upon all the company taking cigars, and then lighting a fresh one
himself, rise in his place, and, with the solemnest voice,
say--'Gentlemen, let us smoke to the memory of Colonel John Moredock;'
when, after several whiffs taken standing in deep silence and deeper
reverie, he would resume his seat and his discourse, something in these
words:

"'Though Colonel John Moredock was not an Indian-hater _par excellence_,
he yet cherished a kind of sentiment towards the red man, and in that
degree, and so acted out his sentiment as sufficiently to merit the
tribute just rendered to his memory.

"'John Moredock was the son of a woman married thrice, and thrice
widowed by a tomahawk. The three successive husbands of this woman had
been pioneers, and with them she had wandered from wilderness to
wilderness, always on the frontier. With nine children, she at last
found herself at a little clearing, afterwards Vincennes. There she
joined a company about to remove to the new country of Illinois. On the
eastern side of Illinois there were then no settlements; but on the west
side, the shore of the Mississippi, there were, near the mouth of the
Kaskaskia, some old hamlets of French. To the vicinity of those hamlets,
very innocent and pleasant places, a new Arcadia, Mrs. Moredock's party
was destined; for thereabouts, among the vines, they meant to settle.
They embarked upon the Wabash in boats, proposing descending that stream
into the Ohio, and the Ohio into the Mississippi, and so, northwards,
towards the point to be reached. All went well till they made the rock
of the Grand Tower on the Mississippi, where they had to land and drag
their boats round a point swept by a strong current. Here a party of
Indians, lying in wait, rushed out and murdered nearly all of them. The
widow was among the victims with her children, John excepted, who, some
fifty miles distant, was following with a second party.

"He was just entering upon manhood, when thus left in nature sole
survivor of his race. Other youngsters might have turned mourners; he
turned avenger. His nerves were electric wires--sensitive, but steel. He
was one who, from self-possession, could be made neither to flush nor
pale. It is said that when the tidings were brought him, he was ashore
sitting beneath a hemlock eating his dinner of venison--and as the
tidings were told him, after the first start he kept on eating, but
slowly and deliberately, chewing the wild news with the wild meat, as
if both together, turned to chyle, together should sinew him to his
intent. From that meal he rose an Indian-hater. He rose; got his arms,
prevailed upon some comrades to join him, and without delay started to
discover who were the actual transgressors. They proved to belong to a
band of twenty renegades from various tribes, outlaws even among
Indians, and who had formed themselves into a maurauding crew. No
opportunity for action being at the time presented, he dismissed his
friends; told them to go on, thanking them, and saying he would ask
their aid at some future day. For upwards of a year, alone in the wilds,
he watched the crew. Once, what he thought a favorable chance having
occurred--it being midwinter, and the savages encamped, apparently to
remain so--he anew mustered his friends, and marched against them; but,
getting wind of his coming, the enemy fled, and in such panic that
everything was left behind but their weapons. During the winter, much
the same thing happened upon two subsequent occasions. The next year he
sought them at the head of a party pledged to serve him for forty days.
At last the hour came. It was on the shore of the Mississippi. From
their covert, Moredock and his men dimly descried the gang of Cains in
the red dusk of evening, paddling over to a jungled island in
mid-stream, there the more securely to lodge; for Moredock's retributive
spirit in the wilderness spoke ever to their trepidations now, like the
voice calling through the garden. Waiting until dead of night, the
whites swam the river, towing after them a raft laden with their arms.
On landing, Moredock cut the fastenings of the enemy's canoes, and
turned them, with his own raft, adrift; resolved that there should be
neither escape for the Indians, nor safety, except in victory, for the
whites. Victorious the whites were; but three of the Indians saved
themselves by taking to the stream. Moredock's band lost not a man.

"'Three of the murderers survived. He knew their names and persons. In
the course of three years each successively fell by his own hand. All
were now dead. But this did not suffice. He made no avowal, but to kill
Indians had become his passion. As an athlete, he had few equals; as a
shot, none; in single combat, not to be beaten. Master of that
woodland-cunning enabling the adept to subsist where the tyro would
perish, and expert in all those arts by which an enemy is pursued for
weeks, perhaps months, without once suspecting it, he kept to the
forest. The solitary Indian that met him, died. When a murder was
descried, he would either secretly pursue their track for some chance to
strike at least one blow; or if, while thus engaged, he himself was
discovered, he would elude them by superior skill.

"'Many years he spent thus; and though after a time he was, in a degree,
restored to the ordinary life of the region and period, yet it is
believed that John Moredock never let pass an opportunity of quenching
an Indian. Sins of commission in that kind may have been his, but none
of omission.

"'It were to err to suppose,' the judge would say, 'that this gentleman
was naturally ferocious, or peculiarly possessed of those qualities,
which, unhelped by provocation of events, tend to withdraw man from
social life. On the contrary, Moredock was an example of something
apparently self-contradicting, certainly curious, but, at the same time,
undeniable: namely, that nearly all Indian-haters have at bottom loving
hearts; at any rate, hearts, if anything, more generous than the
average. Certain it is, that, to the degree in which he mingled in the
life of the settlements, Moredock showed himself not without humane
feelings. No cold husband or colder father, he; and, though often and
long away from his household, bore its needs in mind, and provided for
them. He could be very convivial; told a good story (though never of his
more private exploits), and sung a capital song. Hospitable, not
backward to help a neighbor; by report, benevolent, as retributive, in
secret; while, in a general manner, though sometimes grave--as is not
unusual with men of his complexion, a sultry and tragical brown--yet
with nobody, Indians excepted, otherwise than courteous in a manly
fashion; a moccasined gentleman, admired and loved. In fact, no one more
popular, as an incident to follow may prove.

"'His bravery, whether in Indian fight or any other, was unquestionable.
An officer in the ranging service during the war of 1812, he acquitted
himself with more than credit. Of his soldierly character, this anecdote
is told: Not long after Hull's dubious surrender at Detroit, Moredock
with some of his rangers rode up at night to a log-house, there to rest
till morning. The horses being attended to, supper over, and
sleeping-places assigned the troop, the host showed the colonel his
best bed, not on the ground like the rest, but a bed that stood on legs.
But out of delicacy, the guest declined to monopolize it, or, indeed, to
occupy it at all; when, to increase the inducement, as the host thought,
he was told that a general officer had once slept in that bed. "Who,
pray?" asked the colonel. "General Hull." "Then you must not take
offense," said the colonel, buttoning up his coat, "but, really, no
coward's bed, for me, however comfortable." Accordingly he took up with
valor's bed--a cold one on the ground.

"'At one time the colonel was a member of the territorial council of
Illinois, and at the formation of the state government, was pressed to
become candidate for governor, but begged to be excused. And, though he
declined to give his reasons for declining, yet by those who best knew
him the cause was not wholly unsurmised. In his official capacity he
might be called upon to enter into friendly treaties with Indian tribes,
a thing not to be thought of. And even did no such contingecy arise, yet
he felt there would be an impropriety in the Governor of Illinois
stealing out now and then, during a recess of the legislative bodies,
for a few days' shooting at human beings, within the limits of his
paternal chief-magistracy. If the governorship offered large honors,
from Moredock it demanded larger sacrifices. These were incompatibles.
In short, he was not unaware that to be a consistent Indian-hater
involves the renunciation of ambition, with its objects--the pomps and
glories of the world; and since religion, pronouncing such things
vanities, accounts it merit to renounce them, therefore, so far as this
goes, Indian-hating, whatever may be thought of it in other respects,
may be regarded as not wholly without the efficacy of a devout
sentiment.'"

Here the narrator paused. Then, after his long and irksome sitting,
started to his feet, and regulating his disordered shirt-frill, and at
the same time adjustingly shaking his legs down in his rumpled
pantaloons, concluded: "There, I have done; having given you, not my
story, mind, or my thoughts, but another's. And now, for your friend
Coonskins, I doubt not, that, if the judge were here, he would pronounce
him a sort of comprehensive Colonel Moredock, who, too much spreading
his passion, shallows it."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The new guy moves from talk of backwoodsmen to describing the main man himself: Colonel John Moredock. Moredock's hatred has a somewhat different origin. According to the judge, his mother and eight siblings were killed by American Indians. He vowed to take revenge, killed the renegade group responsible, and then dedicated the rest of his life to tracking and killing others. There's a twist: as much as he hated American Indians, that's how much Moredock supposedly loved and cared for everyone else. We're not impressed. The judge goes on to say that Moredock was a hero in the War of 1812 and was then offered the governorship of Illinois. He turned it down because, well, you can't quite go around killing people if you're a governor, can you? At any rate, the new guy continues, that's who Pitch reminds me of. He's just like Colonel Moredock.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XXVIII. MOOT POINTS TOUCHING THE LATE COLONEL JOHN MOREDOCK.

"Charity, charity!" exclaimed the cosmopolitan, "never a sound judgment
without charity. When man judges man, charity is less a bounty from our
mercy than just allowance for the insensible lee-way of human
fallibility. God forbid that my eccentric friend should be what you
hint. You do not know him, or but imperfectly. His outside deceived you;
at first it came near deceiving even me. But I seized a chance, when,
owing to indignation against some wrong, he laid himself a little open;
I seized that lucky chance, I say, to inspect his heart, and found it an
inviting oyster in a forbidding shell. His outside is but put on.
Ashamed of his own goodness, he treats mankind as those strange old
uncles in romances do their nephews--snapping at them all the time and
yet loving them as the apple of their eye."

"Well, my words with him were few. Perhaps he is not what I took him
for. Yes, for aught I know, you may be right."

"Glad to hear it. Charity, like poetry, should be cultivated, if only
for its being graceful. And now, since you have renounced your notion,
I should be happy, would you, so to speak, renounce your story, too.
That, story strikes me with even more incredulity than wonder. To me
some parts don't hang together. If the man of hate, how could John
Moredock be also the man of love? Either his lone campaigns are fabulous
as Hercules'; or else, those being true, what was thrown in about his
geniality is but garnish. In short, if ever there was such a man as
Moredock, he, in my way of thinking, was either misanthrope or nothing;
and his misanthropy the more intense from being focused on one race of
men. Though, like suicide, man-hatred would seem peculiarly a Roman and
a Grecian passion--that is, Pagan; yet, the annals of neither Rome nor
Greece can produce the equal in man-hatred of Colonel Moredock, as the
judge and you have painted him. As for this Indian-hating in general, I
can only say of it what Dr. Johnson said of the alleged Lisbon
earthquake: 'Sir, I don't believe it.'"

"Didn't believe it? Why not? Clashed with any little prejudice of his?"

"Doctor Johnson had no prejudice; but, like a certain other person,"
with an ingenuous smile, "he had sensibilities, and those were pained."

"Dr. Johnson was a good Christian, wasn't he?"

"He was."

"Suppose he had been something else."

"Then small incredulity as to the alleged earthquake."

"Suppose he had been also a misanthrope?"

"Then small incredulity as to the robberies and murders alleged to have
been perpetrated under the pall of smoke and ashes. The infidels of the
time were quick to credit those reports and worse. So true is it that,
while religion, contrary to the common notion, implies, in certain
cases, a spirit of slow reserve as to assent, infidelity, which claims
to despise credulity, is sometimes swift to it."

"You rather jumble together misanthropy and infidelity."

"I do not jumble them; they are coordinates. For misanthropy, springing
from the same root with disbelief of religion, is twin with that. It
springs from the same root, I say; for, set aside materialism, and what
is an atheist, but one who does not, or will not, see in the universe a
ruling principle of love; and what a misanthrope, but one who does not,
or will not, see in man a ruling principle of kindness? Don't you see?
In either case the vice consists in a want of confidence."

"What sort of a sensation is misanthropy?"

"Might as well ask me what sort of sensation is hydrophobia. Don't know;
never had it. But I have often wondered what it can be like. Can a
misanthrope feel warm, I ask myself; take ease? be companionable with
himself? Can a misanthrope smoke a cigar and muse? How fares he in
solitude? Has the misanthrope such a thing as an appetite? Shall a peach
refresh him? The effervescence of champagne, with what eye does he
behold it? Is summer good to him? Of long winters how much can he
sleep? What are his dreams? How feels he, and what does he, when
suddenly awakened, alone, at dead of night, by fusilades of thunder?"

"Like you," said the stranger, "I can't understand the misanthrope. So
far as my experience goes, either mankind is worthy one's best love, or
else I have been lucky. Never has it been my lot to have been wronged,
though but in the smallest degree. Cheating, backbiting,
superciliousness, disdain, hard-heartedness, and all that brood, I know
but by report. Cold regards tossed over the sinister shoulder of a
former friend, ingratitude in a beneficiary, treachery in a
confidant--such things may be; but I must take somebody's word for it.
Now the bridge that has carried me so well over, shall I not praise it?"

"Ingratitude to the worthy bridge not to do so. Man is a noble fellow,
and in an age of satirists, I am not displeased to find one who has
confidence in him, and bravely stands up for him."

"Yes, I always speak a good word for man; and what is more, am always
ready to do a good deed for him."

"You are a man after my own heart," responded the cosmopolitan, with a
candor which lost nothing by its calmness. "Indeed," he added, "our
sentiments agree so, that were they written in a book, whose was whose,
few but the nicest critics might determine."

"Since we are thus joined in mind," said the stranger, "why not be
joined in hand?"

"My hand is always at the service of virtue," frankly extending it to
him as to virtue personified.

"And now," said the stranger, cordially retaining his hand, "you know
our fashion here at the West. It may be a little low, but it is kind.
Briefly, we being newly-made friends must drink together. What say you?"

"Thank you; but indeed, you must excuse me."

"Why?"

"Because, to tell the truth, I have to-day met so many old friends, all
free-hearted, convivial gentlemen, that really, really, though for the
present I succeed in mastering it, I am at bottom almost in the
condition of a sailor who, stepping ashore after a long voyage, ere
night reels with loving welcomes, his head of less capacity than his
heart."

At the allusion to old friends, the stranger's countenance a little
fell, as a jealous lover's might at hearing from his sweetheart of
former ones. But rallying, he said: "No doubt they treated you to
something strong; but wine--surely, that gentle creature, wine; come,
let us have a little gentle wine at one of these little tables here.
Come, come." Then essaying to roll about like a full pipe in the sea,
sang in a voice which had had more of good-fellowship, had there been
less of a latent squeak to it:

    "Let us drink of the wine of the vine benign,
    That sparkles warm in Zansovine."

The cosmopolitan, with longing eye upon him, stood as sorely tempted and
wavering a moment; then, abruptly stepping towards him, with a look of
dissolved surrender, said: "When mermaid songs move figure-heads, then
may glory, gold, and women try their blandishments on me. But a good
fellow, singing a good song, he woos forth my every spike, so that my
whole hull, like a ship's, sailing by a magnetic rock, caves in with
acquiescence. Enough: when one has a heart of a certain sort, it is in
vain trying to be resolute."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Not cool. At least that's the cosmopolitan's response to the new guy's assertion at the end of the last chapter. Don't judge him, dude, he says. You don't know him. He's got a hard shell, but a heart of gold. The new guy is glad to hear it. On to more important things: the cosmopolitan thinks the story of Colonel Moredock is a tall tale. How could a guy with so much hate love the rest of humanity? That's just not sound reasoning, bro. The cosmopolitan also makes a case for misanthropy being akin to atheism: one denies kindness in humans just like the other denies love as something ordering the world. The two men bond over not having a frame of reference for determining what it means to be a misanthrope. They both just love humanity oh so much. The new guy wants to shake hands with the cosmopolitan because they're, like, so much alike. The men shake hands. The new guy says that now that they're besties, he and the cosmopolitan have to do what besties do best: drink together. The cosmopolitan would love to do that, totally, yeah, but he can't, because he already had too much while catching up with his other friends. Hold the phone. New guy is totally jealous that the cosmopolitan has other friends. But he tries to shake it off and act cool. You can have a little wine, the new guy says. Just a little. New guy is such an enabler. The cosmopolitan gets up and caves. He's so down.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XXIX THE BOON COMPANIONS.

The wine, port, being called for, and the two seated at the little
table, a natural pause of convivial expectancy ensued; the stranger's
eye turned towards the bar near by, watching the red-cheeked,
white-aproned man there, blithely dusting the bottle, and invitingly
arranging the salver and glasses; when, with a sudden impulse turning
round his head towards his companion, he said, "Ours is friendship at
first sight, ain't it?"

"It is," was the placidly pleased reply: "and the same may be said of
friendship at first sight as of love at first sight: it is the only true
one, the only noble one. It bespeaks confidence. Who would go sounding
his way into love or friendship, like a strange ship by night, into an
enemy's harbor?"

"Right. Boldly in before the wind. Agreeable, how we always agree.
By-the-way, though but a formality, friends should know each other's
names. What is yours, pray?"

"Francis Goodman. But those who love me, call me Frank. And yours?"

"Charles Arnold Noble. But do you call me Charlie."

"I will, Charlie; nothing like preserving in manhood the fraternal
familiarities of youth. It proves the heart a rosy boy to the last."

"My sentiments again. Ah!"

It was a smiling waiter, with the smiling bottle, the cork drawn; a
common quart bottle, but for the occasion fitted at bottom into a little
bark basket, braided with porcupine quills, gayly tinted in the Indian
fashion. This being set before the entertainer, he regarded it with
affectionate interest, but seemed not to understand, or else to pretend
not to, a handsome red label pasted on the bottle, bearing the capital
letters, P. W.

"P. W.," said he at last, perplexedly eying the pleasing poser, "now
what does P. W. mean?"

"Shouldn't wonder," said the cosmopolitan gravely, "if it stood for port
wine. You called for port wine, didn't you?"

"Why so it is, so it is!"

"I find some little mysteries not very hard to clear up," said the
other, quietly crossing his legs.

This commonplace seemed to escape the stranger's hearing, for, full of
his bottle, he now rubbed his somewhat sallow hands over it, and with a
strange kind of cackle, meant to be a chirrup, cried: "Good wine, good
wine; is it not the peculiar bond of good feeling?" Then brimming both
glasses, pushed one over, saying, with what seemed intended for an air
of fine disdain: "Ill betide those gloomy skeptics who maintain that
now-a-days pure wine is unpurchasable; that almost every variety on sale
is less the vintage of vineyards than laboratories; that most
bar-keepers are but a set of male Brinvilliarses, with complaisant arts
practicing against the lives of their best friends, their customers."

A shade passed over the cosmopolitan. After a few minutes' down-cast
musing, he lifted his eyes and said: "I have long thought, my dear
Charlie, that the spirit in which wine is regarded by too many in these
days is one of the most painful examples of want of confidence. Look at
these glasses. He who could mistrust poison in this wine would mistrust
consumption in Hebe's cheek. While, as for suspicions against the
dealers in wine and sellers of it, those who cherish such suspicions can
have but limited trust in the human heart. Each human heart they must
think to be much like each bottle of port, not such port as this, but
such port as they hold to. Strange traducers, who see good faith in
nothing, however sacred. Not medicines, not the wine in sacraments, has
escaped them. The doctor with his phial, and the priest with his
chalice, they deem equally the unconscious dispensers of bogus cordials
to the dying."

"Dreadful!"

"Dreadful indeed," said the cosmopolitan solemnly. "These distrusters
stab at the very soul of confidence. If this wine," impressively holding
up his full glass, "if this wine with its bright promise be not true,
how shall man be, whose promise can be no brighter? But if wine be
false, while men are true, whither shall fly convivial geniality? To
think of sincerely-genial souls drinking each other's health at unawares
in perfidious and murderous drugs!"

"Horrible!"

"Much too much so to be true, Charlie. Let us forget it. Come, you are
my entertainer on this occasion, and yet you don't pledge me. I have
been waiting for it."

"Pardon, pardon," half confusedly and half ostentatiously lifting his
glass. "I pledge you, Frank, with my whole heart, believe me," taking a
draught too decorous to be large, but which, small though it was, was
followed by a slight involuntary wryness to the mouth.

"And I return you the pledge, Charlie, heart-warm as it came to me, and
honest as this wine I drink it in," reciprocated the cosmopolitan with
princely kindliness in his gesture, taking a generous swallow,
concluding in a smack, which, though audible, was not so much so as to
be unpleasing.

"Talking of alleged spuriousness of wines," said he, tranquilly setting
down his glass, and then sloping back his head and with friendly
fixedness eying the wine, "perhaps the strangest part of those allegings
is, that there is, as claimed, a kind of man who, while convinced that
on this continent most wines are shams, yet still drinks away at them;
accounting wine so fine a thing, that even the sham article is better
than none at all. And if the temperance people urge that, by this
course, he will sooner or later be undermined in health, he answers,
'And do you think I don't know that? But health without cheer I hold a
bore; and cheer, even of the spurious sort, has its price, which I am
willing to pay.'"

"Such a man, Frank, must have a disposition ungovernably bacchanalian."

"Yes, if such a man there be, which I don't credit. It is a fable, but a
fable from which I once heard a person of less genius than grotesqueness
draw a moral even more extravagant than the fable itself. He said that
it illustrated, as in a parable, how that a man of a disposition
ungovernably good-natured might still familiarly associate with men,
though, at the same time, he believed the greater part of men
false-hearted--accounting society so sweet a thing that even the
spurious sort was better than none at all. And if the Rochefoucaultites
urge that, by this course, he will sooner or later be undermined in
security, he answers, 'And do you think I don't know that? But security
without society I hold a bore; and society, even of the spurious sort,
has its price, which I am willing to pay.'"

"A most singular theory," said the stranger with a slight fidget, eying
his companion with some inquisitiveness, "indeed, Frank, a most
slanderous thought," he exclaimed in sudden heat and with an involuntary
look almost of being personally aggrieved.

"In one sense it merits all you say, and more," rejoined the other with
wonted mildness, "but, for a kind of drollery in it, charity might,
perhaps, overlook something of the wickedness. Humor is, in fact, so
blessed a thing, that even in the least virtuous product of the human
mind, if there can be found but nine good jokes, some philosophers are
clement enough to affirm that those nine good jokes should redeem all
the wicked thoughts, though plenty as the populace of Sodom. At any
rate, this same humor has something, there is no telling what, of
beneficence in it, it is such a catholicon and charm--nearly all men
agreeing in relishing it, though they may agree in little else--and in
its way it undeniably does such a deal of familiar good in the world,
that no wonder it is almost a proverb, that a man of humor, a man
capable of a good loud laugh--seem how he may in other things--can
hardly be a heartless scamp."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the other, pointing to the figure of a pale
pauper-boy on the deck below, whose pitiableness was touched, as it
were, with ludicrousness by a pair of monstrous boots, apparently some
mason's discarded ones, cracked with drouth, half eaten by lime, and
curled up about the toe like a bassoon. "Look--ha, ha, ha!"

"I see," said the other, with what seemed quiet appreciation, but of a
kind expressing an eye to the grotesque, without blindness to what in
this case accompanied it, "I see; and the way in which it moves you,
Charlie, comes in very apropos to point the proverb I was speaking of.
Indeed, had you intended this effect, it could not have been more so.
For who that heard that laugh, but would as naturally argue from it a
sound heart as sound lungs? True, it is said that a man may smile, and
smile, and smile, and be a villain; but it is not said that a man may
laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and be one, is it, Charlie?"

"Ha, ha, ha!--no no, no no."

"Why Charlie, your explosions illustrate my remarks almost as aptly as
the chemist's imitation volcano did his lectures. But even if experience
did not sanction the proverb, that a good laugher cannot be a bad man, I
should yet feel bound in confidence to believe it, since it is a saying
current among the people, and I doubt not originated among them, and
hence _must_ be true; for the voice of the people is the voice of truth.
Don't you think so?"

"Of course I do. If Truth don't speak through the people, it never
speaks at all; so I heard one say."

"A true saying. But we stray. The popular notion of humor, considered as
index to the heart, would seem curiously confirmed by Aristotle--I
think, in his 'Politics,' (a work, by-the-by, which, however it may be
viewed upon the whole, yet, from the tenor of certain sections, should
not, without precaution, be placed in the hands of youth)--who remarks
that the least lovable men in history seem to have had for humor not
only a disrelish, but a hatred; and this, in some cases, along with an
extraordinary dry taste for practical punning. I remember it is related
of Phalaris, the capricious tyrant of Sicily, that he once caused a poor
fellow to be beheaded on a horse-block, for no other cause than having a
horse-laugh."

"Funny Phalaris!"

"Cruel Phalaris!"

As after fire-crackers, there was a pause, both looking downward on the
table as if mutually struck by the contrast of exclamations, and
pondering upon its significance, if any. So, at least, it seemed; but on
one side it might have been otherwise: for presently glancing up, the
cosmopolitan said: "In the instance of the moral, drolly cynic, drawn
from the queer bacchanalian fellow we were speaking of, who had his
reasons for still drinking spurious wine, though knowing it to be
such--there, I say, we have an example of what is certainly a wicked
thought, but conceived in humor. I will now give you one of a wicked
thought conceived in wickedness. You shall compare the two, and answer,
whether in the one case the sting is not neutralized by the humor, and
whether in the other the absence of humor does not leave the sting free
play. I once heard a wit, a mere wit, mind, an irreligious Parisian wit,
say, with regard to the temperance movement, that none, to their
personal benefit, joined it sooner than niggards and knaves; because, as
he affirmed, the one by it saved money and the other made money, as in
ship-owners cutting off the spirit ration without giving its equivalent,
and gamblers and all sorts of subtle tricksters sticking to cold water,
the better to keep a cool head for business."

"A wicked thought, indeed!" cried the stranger, feelingly.

"Yes," leaning over the table on his elbow and genially gesturing at him
with his forefinger: "yes, and, as I said, you don't remark the sting of
it?"

"I do, indeed. Most calumnious thought, Frank!"

"No humor in it?"

"Not a bit!"

"Well now, Charlie," eying him with moist regard, "let us drink. It
appears to me you don't drink freely."

"Oh, oh--indeed, indeed--I am not backward there. I protest, a freer
drinker than friend Charlie you will find nowhere," with feverish zeal
snatching his glass, but only in the sequel to dally with it.
"By-the-way, Frank," said he, perhaps, or perhaps not, to draw attention
from himself, "by-the-way, I saw a good thing the other day; capital
thing; a panegyric on the press, It pleased me so, I got it by heart at
two readings. It is a kind of poetry, but in a form which stands in
something the same relation to blank verse which that does to rhyme. A
sort of free-and-easy chant with refrains to it. Shall I recite it?"

"Anything in praise of the press I shall be happy to hear," rejoined the
cosmopolitan, "the more so," he gravely proceeded, "as of late I have
observed in some quarters a disposition to disparage the press."

"Disparage the press?"

"Even so; some gloomy souls affirming that it is proving with that great
invention as with brandy or eau-de-vie, which, upon its first discovery,
was believed by the doctors to be, as its French name implies, a
panacea--a notion which experience, it may be thought, has not fully
verified."

"You surprise me, Frank. Are there really those who so decry the press?
Tell me more. Their reasons."

"Reasons they have none, but affirmations they have many; among other
things affirming that, while under dynastic despotisms, the press is to
the people little but an improvisatore, under popular ones it is too apt
to be their Jack Cade. In fine, these sour sages regard the press in the
light of a Colt's revolver, pledged to no cause but his in whose chance
hands it may be; deeming the one invention an improvement upon the pen,
much akin to what the other is upon the pistol; involving, along with
the multiplication of the barrel, no consecration of the aim. The term
'freedom of the press' they consider on a par with _freedom of Colt's
revolver_. Hence, for truth and the right, they hold, to indulge hopes
from the one is little more sensible than for Kossuth and Mazzini to
indulge hopes from the other. Heart-breaking views enough, you think;
but their refutation is in every true reformer's contempt. Is it not
so?"

"Without doubt. But go on, go on. I like to hear you," flatteringly
brimming up his glass for him.

"For one," continued the cosmopolitan, grandly swelling his chest, "I
hold the press to be neither the people's improvisatore, nor Jack Cade;
neither their paid fool, nor conceited drudge. I think interest never
prevails with it over duty. The press still speaks for truth though
impaled, in the teeth of lies though intrenched. Disdaining for it the
poor name of cheap diffuser of news, I claim for it the independent
apostleship of Advancer of Knowledge:--the iron Paul! Paul, I say; for
not only does the press advance knowledge, but righteousness. In the
press, as in the sun, resides, my dear Charlie, a dedicated principle of
beneficent force and light. For the Satanic press, by its coappearance
with the apostolic, it is no more an aspersion to that, than to the true
sun is the coappearance of the mock one. For all the baleful-looking
parhelion, god Apollo dispenses the day. In a word, Charlie, what the
sovereign of England is titularly, I hold the press to be
actually--Defender of the Faith!--defender of the faith in the final
triumph of truth over error, metaphysics over superstition, theory over
falsehood, machinery over nature, and the good man over the bad. Such
are my views, which, if stated at some length, you, Charlie, must
pardon, for it is a theme upon which I cannot speak with cold brevity.
And now I am impatient for your panegyric, which, I doubt not, will put
mine to the blush."

"It is rather in the blush-giving vein," smiled the other; "but such as
it is, Frank, you shall have it."

"Tell me when you are about to begin," said the cosmopolitan, "for, when
at public dinners the press is toasted, I always drink the toast
standing, and shall stand while you pronounce the panegyric."

"Very good, Frank; you may stand up now."

He accordingly did so, when the stranger likewise rose, and uplifting
the ruby wine-flask, began.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The new guy comes on super strong by asking the cosmopolitan: We're friends at first sight, right? Right? But the cosmopolitan is into it. Feeling encouraged, the new guy proposes they exchange names. We are so grateful. The cosmopolitan is Francis Goodman . New guy is Charles Arnold Noble . What conveniently friendly sounding names these two fast friends have. Frank then bemoans how some people look down on wine when they argue that it is poorly made in the United States. He feels this faithlessness is like having no faith in mankind. Charlie's buying what he's selling. Frank shakes himself out of his wine thoughts and says that Charlie should toast to him. Charlie toasts Frank. Frank then toasts Charlie. #lushes #bffs #blessed Frank then shares an instance when a man argued that even if your wine is fake, it's better to have fake wine and be happy. Charlie thinks this is too much drunkenness. Frank's like, No, it's just a fable some grim dude laid out in order to still think of the world as bad: the wine is mankind, while getting tipsy is the fun you get from being around people. You risk the fake wine for the tipsiness . This line of thinking is bad, though, because people are good, Charlie; they are good. Charlie's like, Yeah, Frank. It's bad thinking, just like you say. Frank: But it actually gets a pass because it's funny, Charlie. Jokes and laughter are great and good, Charlie. Charlie then laughs really loudly at a poor boy in their line of sight. Apparently he's laughing at the boy's shoes. They clearly are shoes he found and that are way too big for him. Is it just us, or is Charlie a majorly jerky dude? Frank notices the boy. I get why you're laughing, he says. It's an icky thing to do that, but you prove my point. Namely, laughter excuses an icky thing. We are not on board with this either. What is wrong with these dudes? All of a sudden, Frank and Charlie have one of those beautiful best-friend moments when they say the same thing at the same time. It would be beautiful except there's a hiccup: they--gasp--say different things. Basically, after Frank tells a story about a tyrant who beheaded a guy who laughed like a horse, Frank's all boo, while Charlie goes yay. Awkward. The guys just stare at each other for a bit until Frank breaks the silence with another observation about confidence. Shocker. Then Frank notices that Charlie hasn't been drinking. He comments on it. Charlie picks up his glass, but he doesn't drink. Instead, Charlie launches into a spiel about a panegyric he heard and memorized about the press. Does Frank want to hear it? Yes. A thousand times yes. But first Frank complains about how some people don't trust the press. He sees it as a beacon of truth. Frank kind of gets carried away, but he asks Charlie to let him know when he's ready to deliver the panegyric. Frank wants to stand and raise a glass for Charlie when he starts. Frank tells Charlie to stand now.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XXX. OPENING WITH A POETICAL EULOGY OF THE PRESS AND CONTINUING WITH TALK INSPIRED BY THE SAME.

"'Praise be unto the press, not Faust's, but Noah's; let us extol and
magnify the press, the true press of Noah, from which breaketh the true
morning. Praise be unto the press, not the black press but the red; let
us extol and magnify the press, the red press of Noah, from which cometh
inspiration. Ye pressmen of the Rhineland and the Rhine, join in with
all ye who tread out the glad tidings on isle Madeira or Mitylene.--Who
giveth redness of eyes by making men long to tarry at the fine
print?--Praise be unto the press, the rosy press of Noah, which giveth
rosiness of hearts, by making men long to tarry at the rosy wine.--Who
hath babblings and contentions? Who, without cause, inflicteth wounds?
Praise be unto the press, the kindly press of Noah, which knitteth
friends, which fuseth foes.--Who may be bribed?--Who may be
bound?--Praise be unto the press, the free press of Noah, which will not
lie for tyrants, but make tyrants speak the truth.--Then praise be unto
the press, the frank old press of Noah; then let us extol and magnify
the press, the brave old press of Noah; then let us with roses garland
and enwreath the press, the grand old press of Noah, from which flow
streams of knowledge which give man a bliss no more unreal than his
pain.'"

"You deceived me," smiled the cosmopolitan, as both now resumed their
seats; "you roguishly took advantage of my simplicity; you archly played
upon my enthusiasm. But never mind; the offense, if any, was so
charming, I almost wish you would offend again. As for certain poetic
left-handers in your panegyric, those I cheerfully concede to the
indefinite privileges of the poet. Upon the whole, it was quite in the
lyric style--a style I always admire on account of that spirit of
Sibyllic confidence and assurance which is, perhaps, its prime
ingredient. But come," glancing at his companion's glass, "for a lyrist,
you let the bottle stay with you too long."

"The lyre and the vine forever!" cried the other in his rapture, or what
seemed such, heedless of the hint, "the vine, the vine! is it not the
most graceful and bounteous of all growths? And, by its being such, is
not something meant--divinely meant? As I live, a vine, a Catawba vine,
shall be planted on my grave!"

"A genial thought; but your glass there."

"Oh, oh," taking a moderate sip, "but you, why don't you drink?"

"You have forgotten, my dear Charlie, what I told you of my previous
convivialities to-day."

"Oh," cried the other, now in manner quite abandoned to the lyric mood,
not without contrast to the easy sociability of his companion. "Oh, one
can't drink too much of good old wine--the genuine, mellow old port.
Pooh, pooh! drink away."

"Then keep me company."

"Of course," with a flourish, taking another sip--"suppose we have
cigars. Never mind your pipe there; a pipe is best when alone. I say,
waiter, bring some cigars--your best."

They were brought in a pretty little bit of western pottery,
representing some kind of Indian utensil, mummy-colored, set down in a
mass of tobacco leaves, whose long, green fans, fancifully grouped,
formed with peeps of red the sides of the receptacle.

Accompanying it were two accessories, also bits of pottery, but smaller,
both globes; one in guise of an apple flushed with red and gold to the
life, and, through a cleft at top, you saw it was hollow. This was for
the ashes. The other, gray, with wrinkled surface, in the likeness of a
wasp's nest, was the match-box. "There," said the stranger, pushing over
the cigar-stand, "help yourself, and I will touch you off," taking a
match. "Nothing like tobacco," he added, when the fumes of the cigar
began to wreathe, glancing from the smoker to the pottery, "I will have
a Virginia tobacco-plant set over my grave beside the Catawba vine."

"Improvement upon your first idea, which by itself was good--but you
don't smoke."

"Presently, presently--let me fill your glass again. You don't drink."

"Thank you; but no more just now. Fill _your_ glass."

"Presently, presently; do you drink on. Never mind me. Now that it
strikes me, let me say, that he who, out of superfine gentility or
fanatic morality, denies himself tobacco, suffers a more serious
abatement in the cheap pleasures of life than the dandy in his iron
boot, or the celibate on his iron cot. While for him who would fain
revel in tobacco, but cannot, it is a thing at which philanthropists
must weep, to see such an one, again and again, madly returning to the
cigar, which, for his incompetent stomach, he cannot enjoy, while still,
after each shameful repulse, the sweet dream of the impossible good
goads him on to his fierce misery once more--poor eunuch!"

"I agree with you," said the cosmopolitan, still gravely social, "but
you don't smoke."

"Presently, presently, do you smoke on. As I was saying about----"

"But _why_ don't you smoke--come. You don't think that tobacco, when in
league with wine, too much enhances the latter's vinous quality--in
short, with certain constitutions tends to impair self-possession, do
you?"

"To think that, were treason to good fellowship," was the warm
disclaimer. "No, no. But the fact is, there is an unpropitious flavor in
my mouth just now. Ate of a diabolical ragout at dinner, so I shan't
smoke till I have washed away the lingering memento of it with wine. But
smoke away, you, and pray, don't forget to drink. By-the-way, while we
sit here so companionably, giving loose to any companionable nothing,
your uncompanionable friend, Coonskins, is, by pure contrast, brought
to recollection. If he were but here now, he would see how much of real
heart-joy he denies himself by not hob-a-nobbing with his kind."

"Why," with loitering emphasis, slowly withdrawing his cigar, "I thought
I had undeceived you there. I thought you had come to a better
understanding of my eccentric friend."

"Well, I thought so, too; but first impressions will return, you know.
In truth, now that I think of it, I am led to conjecture from chance
things which dropped from Coonskins, during the little interview I had
with him, that he is not a Missourian by birth, but years ago came West
here, a young misanthrope from the other side of the Alleghanies, less
to make his fortune, than to flee man. Now, since they say trifles
sometimes effect great results, I shouldn't wonder, if his history were
probed, it would be found that what first indirectly gave his sad bias
to Coonskins was his disgust at reading in boyhood the advice of
Polonius to Laertes--advice which, in the selfishness it inculcates, is
almost on a par with a sort of ballad upon the economies of
money-making, to be occasionally seen pasted against the desk of small
retail traders in New England."

"I do hope now, my dear fellow," said the cosmopolitan with an air of
bland protest, "that, in my presence at least, you will throw out
nothing to the prejudice of the sons of the Puritans."

"Hey-day and high times indeed," exclaimed the other, nettled, "sons of
the Puritans forsooth! And who be Puritans, that I, an Alabamaian, must
do them reverence? A set of sourly conceited old Malvolios, whom
Shakespeare laughs his fill at in his comedies."

"Pray, what were you about to suggest with regard to Polonius," observed
the cosmopolitan with quiet forbearance, expressive of the patience of a
superior mind at the petulance of an inferior one; "how do you
characterize his advice to Laertes?"

"As false, fatal, and calumnious," exclaimed the other, with a degree of
ardor befitting one resenting a stigma upon the family escutcheon, "and
for a father to give his son--monstrous. The case you see is this: The
son is going abroad, and for the first. What does the father? Invoke
God's blessing upon him? Put the blessed Bible in his trunk? No. Crams
him with maxims smacking of my Lord Chesterfield, with maxims of France,
with maxims of Italy."

"No, no, be charitable, not that. Why, does he not among other things
say:--

    'The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
    Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel'?

Is that compatible with maxims of Italy?"

"Yes it is, Frank. Don't you see? Laertes is to take the best of care of
his friends--his proved friends, on the same principle that a
wine-corker takes the best of care of his proved bottles. When a bottle
gets a sharp knock and don't break, he says, 'Ah, I'll keep that
bottle.' Why? Because he loves it? No, he has particular use for it."

"Dear, dear!" appealingly turning in distress, "that--that kind of
criticism is--is--in fact--it won't do."

"Won't truth do, Frank? You are so charitable with everybody, do but
consider the tone of the speech. Now I put it to you, Frank; is there
anything in it hortatory to high, heroic, disinterested effort? Anything
like 'sell all thou hast and give to the poor?' And, in other points,
what desire seems most in the father's mind, that his son should cherish
nobleness for himself, or be on his guard against the contrary thing in
others? An irreligious warner, Frank--no devout counselor, is Polonius.
I hate him. Nor can I bear to hear your veterans of the world affirm,
that he who steers through life by the advice of old Polonius will not
steer among the breakers."

"No, no--I hope nobody affirms that," rejoined the cosmopolitan, with
tranquil abandonment; sideways reposing his arm at full length upon the
table. "I hope nobody affirms that; because, if Polonius' advice be
taken in your sense, then the recommendation of it by men of experience
would appear to involve more or less of an unhandsome sort of reflection
upon human nature. And yet," with a perplexed air, "your suggestions
have put things in such a strange light to me as in fact a little to
disturb my previous notions of Polonius and what he says. To be frank,
by your ingenuity you have unsettled me there, to that degree that were
it not for our coincidence of opinion in general, I should almost think
I was now at length beginning to feel the ill effect of an immature
mind, too much consorting with a mature one, except on the ground of
first principles in common."

"Really and truly," cried the other with a kind of tickled modesty and
pleased concern, "mine is an understanding too weak to throw out
grapnels and hug another to it. I have indeed heard of some great
scholars in these days, whose boast is less that they have made
disciples than victims. But for me, had I the power to do such things, I
have not the heart to desire."

"I believe you, my dear Charlie. And yet, I repeat, by your commentaries
on Polonius you have, I know not how, unsettled me; so that now I don't
exactly see how Shakespeare meant the words he puts in Polonius' mouth."

"Some say that he meant them to open people's eyes; but I don't think
so."

"Open their eyes?" echoed the cosmopolitan, slowly expanding his; "what
is there in this world for one to open his eyes to? I mean in the sort
of invidious sense you cite?"

"Well, others say he meant to corrupt people's morals; and still others,
that he had no express intention at all, but in effect opens their eyes
and corrupts their morals in one operation. All of which I reject."

"Of course you reject so crude an hypothesis; and yet, to confess, in
reading Shakespeare in my closet, struck by some passage, I have laid
down the volume, and said: 'This Shakespeare is a queer man.' At times
seeming irresponsible, he does not always seem reliable. There appears
to be a certain--what shall I call it?--hidden sun, say, about him, at
once enlightening and mystifying. Now, I should be afraid to say what I
have sometimes thought that hidden sun might be."

"Do you think it was the true light?" with clandestine geniality again
filling the other's glass.

"I would prefer to decline answering a categorical question there.
Shakespeare has got to be a kind of deity. Prudent minds, having certain
latent thoughts concerning him, will reserve them in a condition of
lasting probation. Still, as touching avowable speculations, we are
permitted a tether. Shakespeare himself is to be adored, not arraigned;
but, so we do it with humility, we may a little canvass his characters.
There's his Autolycus now, a fellow that always puzzled me. How is one
to take Autolycus? A rogue so happy, so lucky, so triumphant, of so
almost captivatingly vicious a career that a virtuous man reduced to the
poor-house (were such a contingency conceivable), might almost long to
change sides with him. And yet, see the words put into his mouth: 'Oh,'
cries Autolycus, as he comes galloping, gay as a buck, upon the stage,
'oh,' he laughs, 'oh what a fool is Honesty, and Trust, his sworn
brother, a very simple gentleman.' Think of that. Trust, that is,
confidence--that is, the thing in this universe the sacredest--is
rattlingly pronounced just the simplest. And the scenes in which the
rogue figures seem purposely devised for verification of his principles.
Mind, Charlie, I do not say it _is_ so, far from it; but I _do_ say it
seems so. Yes, Autolycus would seem a needy varlet acting upon the
persuasion that less is to be got by invoking pockets than picking
them, more to be made by an expert knave than a bungling beggar; and for
this reason, as he thinks, that the soft heads outnumber the soft
hearts. The devil's drilled recruit, Autolycus is joyous as if he wore
the livery of heaven. When disturbed by the character and career of one
thus wicked and thus happy, my sole consolation is in the fact that no
such creature ever existed, except in the powerful imagination which
evoked him. And yet, a creature, a living creature, he is, though only a
poet was his maker. It may be, that in that paper-and-ink investiture of
his, Autolycus acts more effectively upon mankind than he would in a
flesh-and-blood one. Can his influence be salutary? True, in Autolycus
there is humor; but though, according to my principle, humor is in
general to be held a saving quality, yet the case of Autolycus is an
exception; because it is his humor which, so to speak, oils his
mischievousness. The bravadoing mischievousness of Autolycus is slid
into the world on humor, as a pirate schooner, with colors flying, is
launched into the sea on greased ways."

"I approve of Autolycus as little as you," said the stranger, who,
during his companion's commonplaces, had seemed less attentive to them
than to maturing with in his own mind the original conceptions destined
to eclipse them. "But I cannot believe that Autolycus, mischievous as he
must prove upon the stage, can be near so much so as such a character as
Polonius."

"I don't know about that," bluntly, and yet not impolitely, returned the
cosmopolitan; "to be sure, accepting your view of the old courtier,
then if between him and Autolycus you raise the question of
unprepossessingness, I grant you the latter comes off best. For a moist
rogue may tickle the midriff, while a dry worldling may but wrinkle the
spleen."

"But Polonius is not dry," said the other excitedly; "he drules. One
sees the fly-blown old fop drule and look wise. His vile wisdom is made
the viler by his vile rheuminess. The bowing and cringing, time-serving
old sinner--is such an one to give manly precepts to youth? The
discreet, decorous, old dotard-of-state; senile prudence; fatuous
soullessness! The ribanded old dog is paralytic all down one side, and
that the side of nobleness. His soul is gone out. Only nature's
automatonism keeps him on his legs. As with some old trees, the bark
survives the pith, and will still stand stiffly up, though but to rim
round punk, so the body of old Polonius has outlived his soul."

"Come, come," said the cosmopolitan with serious air, almost displeased;
"though I yield to none in admiration of earnestness, yet, I think, even
earnestness may have limits. To human minds, strong language is always
more or less distressing. Besides, Polonius is an old man--as I remember
him upon the stage--with snowy locks. Now charity requires that such a
figure--think of it how you will--should at least be treated with
civility. Moreover, old age is ripeness, and I once heard say, 'Better
ripe than raw.'"

"But not better rotten than raw!" bringing down his hand with energy on
the table.

"Why, bless me," in mild surprise contemplating his heated comrade, "how
you fly out against this unfortunate Polonius--a being that never was,
nor will be. And yet, viewed in a Christian light," he added pensively,
"I don't know that anger against this man of straw is a whit less wise
than anger against a man of flesh, Madness, to be mad with anything."

"That may be, or may not be," returned the other, a little testily,
perhaps; "but I stick to what I said, that it is better to be raw than
rotten. And what is to be feared on that head, may be known from this:
that it is with the best of hearts as with the best of pears--a
dangerous experiment to linger too long upon the scene. This did
Polonius. Thank fortune, Frank, I am young, every tooth sound in my
head, and if good wine can keep me where I am, long shall I remain so."

"True," with a smile. "But wine, to do good, must be drunk. You have
talked much and well, Charlie; but drunk little and indifferently--fill
up."

"Presently, presently," with a hasty and preoccupied air. "If I remember
right, Polonius hints as much as that one should, under no
circumstances, commit the indiscretion of aiding in a pecuniary way an
unfortunate friend. He drules out some stale stuff about 'loan losing
both itself and friend,' don't he? But our bottle; is it glued fast?
Keep it moving, my dear Frank. Good wine, and upon my soul I begin to
feel it, and through me old Polonius--yes, this wine, I fear, is what
excites me so against that detestable old dog without a tooth."

Upon this, the cosmopolitan, cigar in mouth, slowly raised the bottle,
and brought it slowly to the light, looking at it steadfastly, as one
might at a thermometer in August, to see not how low it was, but how
high. Then whiffing out a puff, set it down, and said: "Well, Charlie,
if what wine you have drunk came out of this bottle, in that case I
should say that if--supposing a case--that if one fellow had an object
in getting another fellow fuddled, and this fellow to be fuddled was of
your capacity, the operation would be comparatively inexpensive. What do
you think, Charlie?"

"Why, I think I don't much admire the supposition," said Charlie, with a
look of resentment; "it ain't safe, depend upon it, Frank, to venture
upon too jocose suppositions with one's friends."

"Why, bless you, Frank, my supposition wasn't personal, but general. You
mustn't be so touchy."

"If I am touchy it is the wine. Sometimes, when I freely drink, it has a
touchy effect on me, I have observed."

"Freely drink? you haven't drunk the perfect measure of one glass, yet.
While for me, this must be my fourth or fifth, thanks to your
importunity; not to speak of all I drank this morning, for old
acquaintance' sake. Drink, drink; you must drink."

"Oh, I drink while you are talking," laughed the other; "you have not
noticed it, but I have drunk my share. Have a queer way I learned from a
sedate old uncle, who used to tip off his glass-unperceived. Do you fill
up, and my glass, too. There! Now away with that stump, and have a new
cigar. Good fellowship forever!" again in the lyric mood, "Say, Frank,
are we not men? I say are we not human? Tell me, were they not human who
engendered us, as before heaven I believe they shall be whom we shall
engender? Fill up, up, up, my friend. Let the ruby tide aspire, and all
ruby aspirations with it! Up, fill up! Be we convivial. And
conviviality, what is it? The word, I mean; what expresses it? A living
together. But bats live together, and did you ever hear of convivial
bats?"

"If I ever did," observed the cosmopolitan, "it has quite slipped my
recollection."

"But _why_ did you never hear of convivial bats, nor anybody else?
Because bats, though they live together, live not together genially.
Bats are not genial souls. But men are; and how delightful to think that
the word which among men signifies the highest pitch of geniality,
implies, as indispensable auxiliary, the cheery benediction of the
bottle. Yes, Frank, to live together in the finest sense, we must drink
together. And so, what wonder that he who loves not wine, that sober
wretch has a lean heart--a heart like a wrung-out old bluing-bag, and
loves not his kind? Out upon him, to the rag-house with him, hang
him--the ungenial soul!"

"Oh, now, now, can't you be convivial without being censorious? I like
easy, unexcited conviviality. For the sober man, really, though for my
part I naturally love a cheerful glass, I will not prescribe my nature
as the law to other natures. So don't abuse the sober man. Conviviality
is one good thing, and sobriety is another good thing. So don't be
one-sided."

"Well, if I am one-sided, it is the wine. Indeed, indeed, I have
indulged too genially. My excitement upon slight provocation shows it.
But yours is a stronger head; drink you. By the way, talking of
geniality, it is much on the increase in these days, ain't it?"

"It is, and I hail the fact. Nothing better attests the advance of the
humanitarian spirit. In former and less humanitarian ages--the ages of
amphitheatres and gladiators--geniality was mostly confined to the
fireside and table. But in our age--the age of joint-stock companies and
free-and-easies--it is with this precious quality as with precious gold
in old Peru, which Pizarro found making up the scullion's sauce-pot as
the Inca's crown. Yes, we golden boys, the moderns, have geniality
everywhere--a bounty broadcast like noonlight."

"True, true; my sentiments again. Geniality has invaded each department
and profession. We have genial senators, genial authors, genial
lecturers, genial doctors, genial clergymen, genial surgeons, and the
next thing we shall have genial hangmen."

"As to the last-named sort of person," said the cosmopolitan, "I trust
that the advancing spirit of geniality will at last enable us to
dispense with him. No murderers--no hangmen. And surely, when the whole
world shall have been genialized, it will be as out of place to talk of
murderers, as in a Christianized world to talk of sinners."

"To pursue the thought," said the other, "every blessing is attended
with some evil, and----"

"Stay," said the cosmopolitan, "that may be better let pass for a loose
saying, than for hopeful doctrine."

"Well, assuming the saying's truth, it would apply to the future
supremacy of the genial spirit, since then it will fare with the hangman
as it did with the weaver when the spinning-jenny whizzed into the
ascendant. Thrown out of employment, what could Jack Ketch turn his hand
to? Butchering?"

"That he could turn his hand to it seems probable; but that, under the
circumstances, it would be appropriate, might in some minds admit of a
question. For one, I am inclined to think--and I trust it will not be
held fastidiousness--that it would hardly be suitable to the dignity of
our nature, that an individual, once employed in attending the last
hours of human unfortunates, should, that office being extinct, transfer
himself to the business of attending the last hours of unfortunate
cattle. I would suggest that the individual turn valet--a vocation to
which he would, perhaps, appear not wholly inadapted by his familiar
dexterity about the person. In particular, for giving a finishing tie to
a gentleman's cravat, I know few who would, in all likelihood, be, from
previous occupation, better fitted than the professional person in
question."

"Are you in earnest?" regarding the serene speaker with unaffected
curiosity; "are you really in earnest?"

"I trust I am never otherwise," was the mildly earnest reply; "but
talking of the advance of geniality, I am not without hopes that it
will eventually exert its influence even upon so difficult a subject as
the misanthrope."

"A genial misanthrope! I thought I had stretched the rope pretty hard in
talking of genial hangmen. A genial misanthrope is no more conceivable
than a surly philanthropist."

"True," lightly depositing in an unbroken little cylinder the ashes of
his cigar, "true, the two you name are well opposed."

"Why, you talk as if there _was_ such a being as a surly
philanthropist."

"I do. My eccentric friend, whom you call Coonskins, is an example. Does
he not, as I explained to you, hide under a surly air a philanthropic
heart? Now, the genial misanthrope, when, in the process of eras, he
shall turn up, will be the converse of this; under an affable air, he
will hide a misanthropical heart. In short, the genial misanthrope will
be a new kind of monster, but still no small improvement upon the
original one, since, instead of making faces and throwing stones at
people, like that poor old crazy man, Timon, he will take steps, fiddle
in hand, and set the tickled world a'dancing. In a word, as the progress
of Christianization mellows those in manner whom it cannot mend in mind,
much the same will it prove with the progress of genialization. And so,
thanks to geniality, the misanthrope, reclaimed from his boorish
address, will take on refinement and softness--to so genial a degree,
indeed, that it may possibly fall out that the misanthrope of the
coming century will be almost as popular as, I am sincerely sorry to
say, some philanthropists of the present time would seem not to be, as
witness my eccentric friend named before."

"Well," cried the other, a little weary, perhaps, of a speculation so
abstract, "well, however it may be with the century to come, certainly
in the century which is, whatever else one may be, he must be genial or
he is nothing. So fill up, fill up, and be genial!"

"I am trying my best," said the cosmopolitan, still calmly
companionable. "A moment since, we talked of Pizarro, gold, and Peru; no
doubt, now, you remember that when the Spaniard first entered Atahalpa's
treasure-chamber, and saw such profusion of plate stacked up, right and
left, with the wantonness of old barrels in a brewer's yard, the needy
fellow felt a twinge of misgiving, of want of confidence, as to the
genuineness of an opulence so profuse. He went about rapping the shining
vases with his knuckles. But it was all gold, pure gold, good gold,
sterling gold, which how cheerfully would have been stamped such at
Goldsmiths' Hall. And just so those needy minds, which, through their
own insincerity, having no confidence in mankind, doubt lest the liberal
geniality of this age be spurious. They are small Pizarros in their
way--by the very princeliness of men's geniality stunned into distrust
of it."

"Far be such distrust from you and me, my genial friend," cried the
other fervently; "fill up, fill up!"

"Well, this all along seems a division of labor," smiled the
cosmopolitan. "I do about all the drinking, and you do about all--the
genial. But yours is a nature competent to do that to a large
population. And now, my friend," with a peculiarly grave air, evidently
foreshadowing something not unimportant, and very likely of close
personal interest; "wine, you know, opens the heart, and----"

"Opens it!" with exultation, "it thaws it right out. Every heart is
ice-bound till wine melt it, and reveal the tender grass and sweet
herbage budding below, with every dear secret, hidden before like a
dropped jewel in a snow-bank, lying there unsuspected through winter
till spring."

"And just in that way, my dear Charlie, is one of my little secrets now
to be shown forth."

"Ah!" eagerly moving round his chair, "what is it?"

"Be not so impetuous, my dear Charlie. Let me explain. You see,
naturally, I am a man not overgifted with assurance; in general, I am,
if anything, diffidently reserved; so, if I shall presently seem
otherwise, the reason is, that you, by the geniality you have evinced in
all your talk, and especially the noble way in which, while affirming
your good opinion of men, you intimated that you never could prove false
to any man, but most by your indignation at a particularly illiberal
passage in Polonius' advice--in short, in short," with extreme
embarrassment, "how shall I express what I mean, unless I add that by
your whole character you impel me to throw myself upon your nobleness;
in one word, put confidence in you, a generous confidence?"

"I see, I see," with heightened interest, "something of moment you wish
to confide. Now, what is it, Frank? Love affair?"

"No, not that."

"What, then, my _dear_ Frank? Speak--depend upon me to the last. Out
with it."

"Out it shall come, then," said the cosmopolitan. "I am in want, urgent
want, of money."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Charlie dives right into praising the press, but it's not any old press--it's Noah's red press. Say what? Yeah, so, right about now, Charlie is dropping a somewhat obscure reference to this one moment in the Bible--specifically in Genesis 9:20-27--when Noah got tipsy, got naked, and then got sleepy. Scandalous. The cosmopolitan comments on this bait and switch, since he was expecting some cheerleading about newspapers. Charlie goes on about how wine is super duper cool. Frank's like, That's great, but you aren't drinking any, actually. Charlie takes a sip and pushes Frank to drink more. Frank: I already told you that I had too much earlier. Charlie: Oh, but this is the light stuff. Drink. Frank: Okay, but I hate to drink alone. Charlie takes another tiny sip, then orders cigars. They're way fancy, and they come with ornate ashtrays. Things are swank right now. Frank starts smoking while Charlie talks about how cool smoking is. Frank's like, that's great, but you're not smoking. Charlie avoids this and tries to refill Frank's glass. He keeps talking about how much he loves tobacco. Again, Frank comments on how Charlie isn't smoking. Charlie tries to brush past this, too, but Frank interrupts. Real talk: do you think smoking plus drinking makes you more of a dumb dumb in the moment than just drinking would, Charlie? Charlie: If I thought that, then that would make me suspicious, wouldn't it? Anyway, we're having so much fun drinking and smoking--wouldn't Pitch be so jelly? He's missing out. Frank is so not cool with making fun of Pitch, and he's really irritated that Charlie has brought up negative talk about him again. Charlie gives in to his dark feelings. Apparently, he doesn't trust Pitch, because he's from east of the Mississippi. The two then launch into a long conversation about the nature of, um, human nature, as seen through Shakespeare's characters--specifically, Polonius and Autolycus. Results are inconclusive at this point. Frank notices again that Charlie isn't drinking and jokes that if someone had a goal of getting his friend drunk then it would be super cheap to do so if that friend drank like Charlie. We get it. It's not that funny, but we get it. Charlie gets it, too, but he really does not think it's funny. He is seriously miffed. Frank tells Charlie not to be a baby. Charlie says he's only a baby because he's been drinking so much. Frank's like, But...you...haven't... Charlie does his talk-a-bunch-all-at-once thing. This time, it's about how friendly humans are and how much fun they're having. The conversation turns to how much friendlier the world is now versus in the past. Each day just gets friendlier and friendlier, until one day, even the hangman will be friendly. Ha ha ha. Charlie is losing it at this point. Frank hopes what Charlie's just said is true and that things will get so friendly that we won't need hangmen and even misanthropes will be cheery. The first step to not being a jerky-jerk who hates everyone is to be a fun-jerk who tries to hide that inner hate, he says. Eventually, everyone will learn to love. These dudes are both a little loopy. Charlie hasn't signed on to this theory, but he's just happy to party. He wants Frank to drink more. Frank gets a major case of the feels here. He wants to unburden his heart to Charlie. Charlie: Yes. Tell me your secrets. Frank: I need money.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XXXI. A METAMORPHOSIS MORE SURPRISING THAN ANY IN OVID.

"In want of money!" pushing back his chair as from a suddenly-disclosed
man-trap or crater.

"Yes," naively assented the cosmopolitan, "and you are going to loan me
fifty dollars. I could almost wish I was in need of more, only for your
sake. Yes, my dear Charlie, for your sake; that you might the better
prove your noble, kindliness, my dear Charlie."

"None of your dear Charlies," cried the other, springing to his feet,
and buttoning up his coat, as if hastily to depart upon a long journey.

"Why, why, why?" painfully looking up.

"None of your why, why, whys!" tossing out a foot, "go to the devil,
sir! Beggar, impostor!--never so deceived in a man in my life."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: You need money? Charlie pushes his chair away from Frank like he's poison. Frank gives Charlie the puppy-dog eyes. Yes, I need money, and you're going to give me $50 because we're friends and you love me! Charlie flips out, jumps up, and tells Frank to go to you know where. Ouch.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XXXII. SHOWING THAT THE AGE OF MAGIC AND MAGICIANS IS NOT YET OVER.

While speaking or rather hissing those words, the boon companion
underwent much such a change as one reads of in fairy-books. Out of old
materials sprang a new creature. Cadmus glided into the snake.

The cosmopolitan rose, the traces of previous feeling vanished; looked
steadfastly at his transformed friend a moment, then, taking ten
half-eagles from his pocket, stooped down, and laid them, one by one, in
a circle round him; and, retiring a pace, waved his long tasseled pipe
with the air of a necromancer, an air heightened by his costume,
accompanying each wave with a solemn murmur of cabalistical words.

Meantime, he within the magic-ring stood suddenly rapt, exhibiting every
symptom of a successful charm--a turned cheek, a fixed attitude, a
frozen eye; spellbound, not more by the waving wand than by the ten
invincible talismans on the floor.

"Reappear, reappear, reappear, oh, my former friend! Replace this
hideous apparition with thy blest shape, and be the token of thy return
the words, 'My dear Frank.'"

"My dear Frank," now cried the restored friend, cordially stepping out
of the ring, with regained self-possession regaining lost identity, "My
dear Frank, what a funny man you are; full of fun as an egg of meat. How
could you tell me that absurd story of your being in need? But I relish
a good joke too well to spoil it by letting on. Of course, I humored the
thing; and, on my side, put on all the cruel airs you would have me.
Come, this little episode of fictitious estrangement will but enhance
the delightful reality. Let us sit down again, and finish our bottle."

"With all my heart," said the cosmopolitan, dropping the necromancer
with the same facility with which he had assumed it. "Yes," he added,
soberly picking up the gold pieces, and returning them with a chink to
his pocket, "yes, I am something of a funny man now and then; while for
you, Charlie," eying him in tenderness, "what you say about your
humoring the thing is true enough; never did man second a joke better
than you did just now. You played your part better than I did mine; you
played it, Charlie, to the life."

"You see, I once belonged to an amateur play company; that accounts for
it. But come, fill up, and let's talk of something else."

"Well," acquiesced the cosmopolitan, seating himself, and quietly
brimming his glass, "what shall we talk about?"

"Oh, anything you please," a sort of nervously accommodating.

"Well, suppose we talk about Charlemont?"

"Charlemont? What's Charlemont? Who's Charlemont?"

"You shall hear, my dear Charlie," answered the cosmopolitan. "I will
tell you the story of Charlemont, the gentleman-madman."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The narrator describes the unexpected shift in the previous chapter as if Charlie had been transformed into a snake. He's not wrong. But the honeymoon isn't quite over yet, because something really weird happens. While Charlie is saying mean angry things to Frank, Frank takes out ten coins and places them in a circle around Charlie. Frank steps back, waves his pipe like a wand, and says some mysterious magic words. Inside the circle, Charlie is in a honest-to-goodness trance. Frank commands that the old happy Charlie return when he says the words "my dear Frank." Frank concludes the spell, and Charlie says a lot of things. What else is new? Apparently, Charlie is under the impression that Frank was just joking about needing money and says that being a mean jerk-face when he asked for it was all a joke. These guys--such tricksters. Charlie says they should keep drinking, and Frank is up for it. Frank says Charlie was so clever in how he played along and pretended to be angry about the money. Charlie: Well, I used to do theater. So kinda got this acting thing down. Frank: You're a gem. Want to hear about Charlemont? Charlie: Oh, yeah, for sure--who?


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XXXIII. WHICH MAY PASS FOR WHATEVER IT MAY PROVE TO BE WORTH.

But ere be given the rather grave story of Charlemont, a reply must in
civility be made to a certain voice which methinks I hear, that, in view
of past chapters, and more particularly the last, where certain antics
appear, exclaims: How unreal all this is! Who did ever dress or act like
your cosmopolitan? And who, it might be returned, did ever dress or act
like harlequin?

Strange, that in a work of amusement, this severe fidelity to real life
should be exacted by any one, who, by taking up such a work,
sufficiently shows that he is not unwilling to drop real life, and turn,
for a time, to something different. Yes, it is, indeed, strange that any
one should clamor for the thing he is weary of; that any one, who, for
any cause, finds real life dull, should yet demand of him who is to
divert his attention from it, that he should be true to that dullness.

There is another class, and with this class we side, who sit down to a
work of amusement tolerantly as they sit at a play, and with much the
same expectations and feelings. They look that fancy shall evoke scenes
different from those of the same old crowd round the custom-house
counter, and same old dishes on the boardinghouse table, with characters
unlike those of the same old acquaintances they meet in the same old way
every day in the same old street. And as, in real life, the proprieties
will not allow people to act out themselves with that unreserve
permitted to the stage; so, in books of fiction, they look not only for
more entertainment, but, at bottom, even for more reality, than real
life itself can show. Thus, though they want novelty, they want nature,
too; but nature unfettered, exhilarated, in effect transformed. In this
way of thinking, the people in a fiction, like the people in a play,
must dress as nobody exactly dresses, talk as nobody exactly talks, act
as nobody exactly acts. It is with fiction as with religion: it should
present another world, and yet one to which we feel the tie.

If, then, something is to be pardoned to well-meant endeavor, surely a
little is to be allowed to that writer who, in all his scenes, does but
seek to minister to what, as he understands it, is the implied wish of
the more indulgent lovers of entertainment, before whom harlequin can
never appear in a coat too parti-colored, or cut capers too fantastic.

One word more. Though every one knows how bootless it is to be in all
cases vindicating one's self, never mind how convinced one may be that
he is never in the wrong; yet, so precious to man is the approbation of
his kind, that to rest, though but under an imaginary censure applied to
but a work of imagination, is no easy thing. The mention of this
weakness will explain why such readers as may think they perceive
something harmonious between the boisterous hilarity of the cosmopolitan
with the bristling cynic, and his restrained good-nature with the
boon-companion, are now referred to that chapter where some similar
apparent inconsistency in another character is, on general principles,
modestly endeavored to-be apologized for.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The narrator interrupts with another meta-chapter and gives us some of his thoughts real-talk style. Look, guys--you can't have realism all the time, okay? Just back off and enjoy fiction the way you would a play. And if you think that Frank is an inconsistent character because he was so peppy when talking to Pitch but is super careful when talking to Charlie, well, just shut up and go read what I said before about inconsistency in characters. That is all. Thanks.