prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XLII. UPON THE HEEL OF THE LAST SCENE THE COSMOPOLITAN ENTERS THE BARBER'S SHOP, A BENEDICTION ON HIS LIPS.

"Bless you, barber!"

Now, owing to the lateness of the hour, the barber had been all alone
until within the ten minutes last passed; when, finding himself rather
dullish company to himself, he thought he would have a good time with
Souter John and Tam O'Shanter, otherwise called Somnus and Morpheus, two
very good fellows, though one was not very bright, and the other an
arrant rattlebrain, who, though much listened to by some, no wise man
would believe under oath.

In short, with back presented to the glare of his lamps, and so to the
door, the honest barber was taking what are called cat-naps, and
dreaming in his chair; so that, upon suddenly hearing the benediction
above, pronounced in tones not unangelic, starting up, half awake, he
stared before him, but saw nothing, for the stranger stood behind. What
with cat-naps, dreams, and bewilderments, therefore, the voice seemed a
sort of spiritual manifestation to him; so that, for the moment, he
stood all agape, eyes fixed, and one arm in the air.

"Why, barber, are you reaching up to catch birds there with salt?"

"Ah!" turning round disenchanted, "it is only a man, then."

"_Only_ a man? As if to be but a man were nothing. But don't be too sure
what I am. You call me _man_, just as the townsfolk called the angels
who, in man's form, came to Lot's house; just as the Jew rustics called
the devils who, in man's form, haunted the tombs. You can conclude
nothing absolute from the human form, barber."

"But I can conclude something from that sort of talk, with that sort of
dress," shrewdly thought the barber, eying him with regained
self-possession, and not without some latent touch of apprehension at
being alone with him. What was passing in his mind seemed divined by the
other, who now, more rationally and gravely, and as if he expected it
should be attended to, said: "Whatever else you may conclude upon, it is
my desire that you conclude to give me a good shave," at the same time
loosening his neck-cloth. "Are you competent to a good shave, barber?"

"No broker more so, sir," answered the barber, whom the business-like
proposition instinctively made confine to business-ends his views of the
visitor.

"Broker? What has a broker to do with lather? A broker I have always
understood to be a worthy dealer in certain papers and metals."

"He, he!" taking him now for some dry sort of joker, whose jokes, he
being a customer, it might be as well to appreciate, "he, he! You
understand well enough, sir. Take this seat, sir," laying his hand on a
great stuffed chair, high-backed and high-armed, crimson-covered, and
raised on a sort of dais, and which seemed but to lack a canopy and
quarterings, to make it in aspect quite a throne, "take this seat, sir."

"Thank you," sitting down; "and now, pray, explain that about the
broker. But look, look--what's this?" suddenly rising, and pointing,
with his long pipe, towards a gilt notification swinging among colored
fly-papers from the ceiling, like a tavern sign, "_No Trust?_" "No trust
means distrust; distrust means no confidence. Barber," turning upon him
excitedly, "what fell suspiciousness prompts this scandalous confession?
My life!" stamping his foot, "if but to tell a dog that you have no
confidence in him be matter for affront to the dog, what an insult to
take that way the whole haughty race of man by the beard! By my heart,
sir! but at least you are valiant; backing the spleen of Thersites with
the pluck of Agamemnon."

"Your sort of talk, sir, is not exactly in my line," said the barber,
rather ruefully, being now again hopeless of his customer, and not
without return of uneasiness; "not in my line, sir," he emphatically
repeated.

"But the taking of mankind by the nose is; a habit, barber, which I
sadly fear has insensibly bred in you a disrespect for man. For how,
indeed, may respectful conceptions of him coexist with the perpetual
habit of taking him by the nose? But, tell me, though I, too, clearly
see the import of your notification, I do not, as yet, perceive the
object. What is it?"

"Now you speak a little in my line, sir," said the barber, not
unrelieved at this return to plain talk; "that notification I find very
useful, sparing me much work which would not pay. Yes, I lost a good
deal, off and on, before putting that up," gratefully glancing towards
it.

"But what is its object? Surely, you don't mean to say, in so many
words, that you have no confidence? For instance, now," flinging aside
his neck-cloth, throwing back his blouse, and reseating himself on the
tonsorial throne, at sight of which proceeding the barber mechanically
filled a cup with hot water from a copper vessel over a spirit-lamp,
"for instance, now, suppose I say to you, 'Barber, my dear barber,
unhappily I have no small change by me to-night, but shave me, and
depend upon your money to-morrow'--suppose I should say that now, you
would put trust in me, wouldn't you? You would have confidence?"

"Seeing that it is you, sir," with complaisance replied the barber, now
mixing the lather, "seeing that it is _you_ sir, I won't answer that
question. No need to."

"Of course, of course--in that view. But, as a supposition--you would
have confidence in me, wouldn't you?"

"Why--yes, yes."

"Then why that sign?"

"Ah, sir, all people ain't like you," was the smooth reply, at the same
time, as if smoothly to close the debate, beginning smoothly to apply
the lather, which operation, however, was, by a motion, protested
against by the subject, but only out of a desire to rejoin, which was
done in these words:

"All people ain't like me. Then I must be either better or worse than
most people. Worse, you could not mean; no, barber, you could not mean
that; hardly that. It remains, then, that you think me better than most
people. But that I ain't vain enough to believe; though, from vanity, I
confess, I could never yet, by my best wrestlings, entirely free myself;
nor, indeed, to be frank, am I at bottom over anxious to--this same
vanity, barber, being so harmless, so useful, so comfortable, so
pleasingly preposterous a passion."

"Very true, sir; and upon my honor, sir, you talk very well. But the
lather is getting a little cold, sir."

"Better cold lather, barber, than a cold heart. Why that cold sign? Ah,
I don't wonder you try to shirk the confession. You feel in your soul
how ungenerous a hint is there. And yet, barber, now that I look into
your eyes--which somehow speak to me of the mother that must have so
often looked into them before me--I dare say, though you may not think
it, that the spirit of that notification is not one with your nature.
For look now, setting, business views aside, regarding the thing in an
abstract light; in short, supposing a case, barber; supposing, I say,
you see a stranger, his face accidentally averted, but his visible part
very respectable-looking; what now, barber--I put it to your conscience,
to your charity--what would be your impression of that man, in a moral
point of view? Being in a signal sense a stranger, would you, for that,
signally set him down for a knave?"

"Certainly not, sir; by no means," cried the barber, humanely resentful.

"You would upon the face of him----"

"Hold, sir," said the barber, "nothing about the face; you remember,
sir, that is out of sight."

"I forgot that. Well then, you would, upon the _back_ of him, conclude
him to be, not improbably, some worthy sort of person; in short, an
honest man: wouldn't you?"

"Not unlikely I should, sir."

"Well now--don't be so impatient with your brush, barber--suppose that
honest man meet you by night in some dark corner of the boat where his
face would still remain unseen, asking you to trust him for a shave--how
then?"

"Wouldn't trust him, sir."

"But is not an honest man to be trusted?"

"Why--why--yes, sir."

"There! don't you see, now?"

"See what?" asked the disconcerted barber, rather vexedly.

"Why, you stand self-contradicted, barber; don't you?"

"No," doggedly.

"Barber," gravely, and after a pause of concern, "the enemies of our
race have a saying that insincerity is the most universal and
inveterate vice of man--the lasting bar to real amelioration, whether of
individuals or of the world. Don't you now, barber, by your stubbornness
on this occasion, give color to such a calumny?"

"Hity-tity!" cried the barber, losing patience, and with it respect;
"stubbornness?" Then clattering round the brush in the cup, "Will you be
shaved, or won't you?"

"Barber, I will be shaved, and with pleasure; but, pray, don't raise
your voice that way. Why, now, if you go through life gritting your
teeth in that fashion, what a comfortless time you will have."

"I take as much comfort in this world as you or any other man," cried
the barber, whom the other's sweetness of temper seemed rather to
exasperate than soothe.

"To resent the imputation of anything like unhappiness I have often
observed to be peculiar to certain orders of men," said the other
pensively, and half to himself, "just as to be indifferent to that
imputation, from holding happiness but for a secondary good and inferior
grace, I have observed to be equally peculiar to other kinds of men.
Pray, barber," innocently looking up, "which think you is the superior
creature?"

"All this sort of talk," cried the barber, still unmollified, "is, as I
told you once before, not in my line. In a few minutes I shall shut up
this shop. Will you be shaved?"

"Shave away, barber. What hinders?" turning up his face like a flower.

The shaving began, and proceeded in silence, till at length it became
necessary to prepare to relather a little--affording an opportunity for
resuming the subject, which, on one side, was not let slip.

"Barber," with a kind of cautious kindliness, feeling his way, "barber,
now have a little patience with me; do; trust me, I wish not to offend.
I have been thinking over that supposed case of the man with the averted
face, and I cannot rid my mind of the impression that, by your opposite
replies to my questions at the time, you showed yourself much of a piece
with a good many other men--that is, you have confidence, and then
again, you have none. Now, what I would ask is, do you think it sensible
standing for a sensible man, one foot on confidence and the other on
suspicion? Don't you think, barber, that you ought to elect? Don't you
think consistency requires that you should either say 'I have confidence
in all men,' and take down your notification; or else say, 'I suspect
all men,' and keep it up."

This dispassionate, if not deferential, way of putting the case, did not
fail to impress the barber, and proportionately conciliate him.
Likewise, from its pointedness, it served to make him thoughtful; for,
instead of going to the copper vessel for more water, as he had
purposed, he halted half-way towards it, and, after a pause, cup in
hand, said: "Sir, I hope you would not do me injustice. I don't say, and
can't say, and wouldn't say, that I suspect all men; but I _do_ say that
strangers are not to be trusted, and so," pointing up to the sign, "no
trust."

"But look, now, I beg, barber," rejoined the other deprecatingly, not
presuming too much upon the barber's changed temper; "look, now; to say
that strangers are not to be trusted, does not that imply something like
saying that mankind is not to be trusted; for the mass of mankind, are
they not necessarily strangers to each individual man? Come, come, my
friend," winningly, "you are no Timon to hold the mass of mankind
untrustworthy. Take down your notification; it is misanthropical; much
the same sign that Timon traced with charcoal on the forehead of a skull
stuck over his cave. Take it down, barber; take it down to-night. Trust
men. Just try the experiment of trusting men for this one little trip.
Come now, I'm a philanthropist, and will insure you against losing a
cent."

The barber shook his head dryly, and answered, "Sir, you must excuse me.
I have a family."

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

completion: Frank the cosmopolitan enters a barber shop. He greets the barber with a cheery "Bless you!" The barber has been dozing off and dreaming, so at first he thinks that Frank is an angel or other kind of spirit. Frank's like, Um, what's your deal? Then the barber turns around and sees a real human and is a little bummed, but the world makes more sense this way. Next, the barber suspects something amiss about Frank. It's late, Frank's staring, the barber starts to worry. Frank realizes what the barber is thinking and reassures him: Just want a shave, dude. The barber's like, Phew. He knows the terms of their interaction now, so he gets down to business. Frank starts bugging the barber about why he doesn't have confidence in his fellow man when he sees the "No Trust" sign that we saw the barber put up in chapter one. Frank: But don't you trust people? Barber: No. The barber is not cool with somebody accusing him of not having faith in his fellow man. Nevertheless, he asserts his right to protect his interests from the tomfoolery of strangers.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XLIII VERY CHARMING.

"So you are a philanthropist, sir," added the barber with an illuminated
look; "that accounts, then, for all. Very odd sort of man the
philanthropist. You are the second one, sir, I have seen. Very odd sort
of man, indeed, the philanthropist. Ah, sir," again meditatively
stirring in the shaving-cup, "I sadly fear, lest you philanthropists
know better what goodness is, than what men are." Then, eying him as if
he were some strange creature behind cage-bars, "So you are a
philanthropist, sir."

"I am Philanthropos, and love mankind. And, what is more than you do,
barber, I trust them."

Here the barber, casually recalled to his business, would have
replenished his shaving-cup, but finding now that on his last visit to
the water-vessel he had not replaced it over the lamp, he did so now;
and, while waiting for it to heat again, became almost as sociable as if
the heating water were meant for whisky-punch; and almost as pleasantly
garrulous as the pleasant barbers in romances.

"Sir," said he, taking a throne beside his customer (for in a row there
were three thrones on the dais, as for the three kings of Cologne, those
patron saints of the barber), "sir, you say you trust men. Well, I
suppose I might share some of your trust, were it not for this trade,
that I follow, too much letting me in behind the scenes."

"I think I understand," with a saddened look; "and much the same thing I
have heard from persons in pursuits different from yours--from the
lawyer, from the congressman, from the editor, not to mention others,
each, with a strange kind of melancholy vanity, claiming for his
vocation the distinction of affording the surest inlets to the
conviction that man is no better than he should be. All of which
testimony, if reliable, would, by mutual corroboration, justify some
disturbance in a good man's mind. But no, no; it is a mistake--all a
mistake."

"True, sir, very true," assented the barber.

"Glad to hear that," brightening up.

"Not so fast, sir," said the barber; "I agree with you in thinking that
the lawyer, and the congressman, and the editor, are in error, but only
in so far as each claims peculiar facilities for the sort of knowledge
in question; because, you see, sir, the truth is, that every trade or
pursuit which brings one into contact with the facts, sir, such trade or
pursuit is equally an avenue to those facts."

"_How_ exactly is that?"

"Why, sir, in my opinion--and for the last twenty years I have, at odd
times, turned the matter over some in my mind--he who comes to know
man, will not remain in ignorance of man. I think I am not rash in
saying that; am I, sir?"

"Barber, you talk like an oracle--obscurely, barber, obscurely."

"Well, sir," with some self-complacency, "the barber has always been
held an oracle, but as for the obscurity, that I don't admit."

"But pray, now, by your account, what precisely may be this mysterious
knowledge gained in your trade? I grant you, indeed, as before hinted,
that your trade, imposing on you the necessity of functionally tweaking
the noses of mankind, is, in that respect, unfortunate, very much so;
nevertheless, a well-regulated imagination should be proof even to such
a provocation to improper conceits. But what I want to learn from you,
barber, is, how does the mere handling of the outside of men's heads
lead you to distrust the inside of their hearts?

"What, sir, to say nothing more, can one be forever dealing in macassar
oil, hair dyes, cosmetics, false moustaches, wigs, and toupees, and
still believe that men are wholly what they look to be? What think you,
sir, are a thoughtful barber's reflections, when, behind a careful
curtain, he shaves the thin, dead stubble off a head, and then dismisses
it to the world, radiant in curling auburn? To contrast the shamefaced
air behind the curtain, the fearful looking forward to being possibly
discovered there by a prying acquaintance, with the cheerful assurance
and challenging pride with which the same man steps forth again, a gay
deception, into the street, while some honest, shock-headed fellow
humbly gives him the wall! Ah, sir, they may talk of the courage of
truth, but my trade teaches me that truth sometimes is sheepish. Lies,
lies, sir, brave lies are the lions!"

"You twist the moral, barber; you sadly twist it. Look, now; take it
this way: A modest man thrust out naked into the street, would he not be
abashed? Take him in and clothe him; would not his confidence be
restored? And in either case, is any reproach involved? Now, what is
true of the whole, holds proportionably true of the part. The bald head
is a nakedness which the wig is a coat to. To feel uneasy at the
possibility of the exposure of one's nakedness at top, and to feel
comforted by the consciousness of having it clothed--these feelings,
instead of being dishonorable to a bold man, do, in fact, but attest a
proper respect for himself and his fellows. And as for the deception,
you may as well call the fine roof of a fine chateau a deception, since,
like a fine wig, it also is an artificial cover to the head, and
equally, in the common eye, decorates the wearer.--I have confuted you,
my dear barber; I have confounded you."

"Pardon," said the barber, "but I do not see that you have. His coat and
his roof no man pretends to palm off as a part of himself, but the bald
man palms off hair, not his, for his own."

"Not _his_, barber? If he have fairly purchased his hair, the law will
protect him in its ownership, even against the claims of the head on
which it grew. But it cannot be that you believe what you say, barber;
you talk merely for the humor. I could not think so of you as to suppose
that you would contentedly deal in the impostures you condemn."

"Ah, sir, I must live."

"And can't you do that without sinning against your conscience, as you
believe? Take up some other calling."

"Wouldn't mend the matter much, sir."

"Do you think, then, barber, that, in a certain point, all the trades
and callings of men are much on a par? Fatal, indeed," raising his hand,
"inexpressibly dreadful, the trade of the barber, if to such conclusions
it necessarily leads. Barber," eying him not without emotion, "you
appear to me not so much a misbeliever, as a man misled. Now, let me set
you on the right track; let me restore you to trust in human nature, and
by no other means than the very trade that has brought you to suspect
it."

"You mean, sir, you would have me try the experiment of taking down that
notification," again pointing to it with his brush; "but, dear me, while
I sit chatting here, the water boils over."

With which words, and such a well-pleased, sly, snug, expression, as
they say some men have when they think their little stratagem has
succeeded, he hurried to the copper vessel, and soon had his cup foaming
up with white bubbles, as if it were a mug of new ale.

Meantime, the other would have fain gone on with the discourse; but the
cunning barber lathered him with so generous a brush, so piled up the
foam on him, that his face looked like the yeasty crest of a billow, and
vain to think of talking under it, as for a drowning priest in the sea
to exhort his fellow-sinners on a raft. Nothing would do, but he must
keep his mouth shut. Doubtless, the interval was not, in a meditative
way, unimproved; for, upon the traces of the operation being at last
removed, the cosmopolitan rose, and, for added refreshment, washed his
face and hands; and having generally readjusted himself, began, at last,
addressing the barber in a manner different, singularly so, from his
previous one. Hard to say exactly what the manner was, any more than to
hint it was a sort of magical; in a benign way, not wholly unlike the
manner, fabled or otherwise, of certain creatures in nature, which have
the power of persuasive fascination--the power of holding another
creature by the button of the eye, as it were, despite the serious
disinclination, and, indeed, earnest protest, of the victim. With this
manner the conclusion of the matter was not out of keeping; for, in the
end, all argument and expostulation proved vain, the barber being
irresistibly persuaded to agree to try, for the remainder of the present
trip, the experiment of trusting men, as both phrased it. True, to save
his credit as a free agent, he was loud in averring that it was only for
the novelty of the thing that he so agreed, and he required the other,
as before volunteered, to go security to him against any loss that might
ensue; but still the fact remained, that he engaged to trust men, a
thing he had before said he would not do, at least not unreservedly.
Still the more to save his credit, he now insisted upon it, as a last
point, that the agreement should be put in black and white, especially
the security part. The other made no demur; pen, ink, and paper were
provided, and grave as any notary the cosmopolitan sat down, but, ere
taking the pen, glanced up at the notification, and said: "First down
with that sign, barber--Timon's sign, there; down with it."

This, being in the agreement, was done--though a little
reluctantly--with an eye to the future, the sign being carefully put
away in a drawer.

"Now, then, for the writing," said the cosmopolitan, squaring himself.
"Ah," with a sigh, "I shall make a poor lawyer, I fear. Ain't used, you
see, barber, to a business which, ignoring the principle of honor, holds
no nail fast till clinched. Strange, barber," taking up the blank paper,
"that such flimsy stuff as this should make such strong hawsers; vile
hawsers, too. Barber," starting up, "I won't put it in black and white.
It were a reflection upon our joint honor. I will take your word, and
you shall take mine."

"But your memory may be none of the best, sir. Well for you, on your
side, to have it in black and white, just for a memorandum like, you
know."

"That, indeed! Yes, and it would help _your_ memory, too, wouldn't it,
barber? Yours, on your side, being a little weak, too, I dare say. Ah,
barber! how ingenious we human beings are; and how kindly we reciprocate
each other's little delicacies, don't we? What better proof, now, that
we are kind, considerate fellows, with responsive fellow-feelings--eh,
barber? But to business. Let me see. What's your name, barber?"

"William Cream, sir."

Pondering a moment, he began to write; and, after some corrections,
leaned back, and read aloud the following:

     "AGREEMENT
     Between
     FRANK GOODMAN, Philanthropist, and Citizen of the World,
     and
     WILLIAM CREAM, Barber of the Mississippi steamer, Fidele.

     "The first hereby agrees to make good to the last any loss that may
     come from his trusting mankind, in the way of his vocation, for the
     residue of the present trip; PROVIDED that William Cream keep out
     of sight, for the given term, his notification of NO TRUST, and by
     no other mode convey any, the least hint or intimation, tending to
     discourage men from soliciting trust from him, in the way of his
     vocation, for the time above specified; but, on the contrary, he
     do, by all proper and reasonable words, gestures, manners, and
     looks, evince a perfect confidence in all men, especially
     strangers; otherwise, this agreement to be void.

     "Done, in good faith, this 1st day of April 18--, at a quarter to
     twelve o'clock, P. M., in the shop of said William Cream, on board
     the said boat, Fidele."

"There, barber; will that do?"

"That will do," said the barber, "only now put down your name."

Both signatures being affixed, the question was started by the barber,
who should have custody of the instrument; which point, however, he
settled for himself, by proposing that both should go together to the
captain, and give the document into his hands--the barber hinting that
this would be a safe proceeding, because the captain was necessarily a
party disinterested, and, what was more, could not, from the nature of
the present case, make anything by a breach of trust. All of which was
listened to with some surprise and concern.

"Why, barber," said the cosmopolitan, "this don't show the right spirit;
for me, I have confidence in the captain purely because he is a man; but
he shall have nothing to do with our affair; for if you have no
confidence in me, barber, I have in you. There, keep the paper
yourself," handing it magnanimously.

"Very good," said the barber, "and now nothing remains but for me to
receive the cash."

Though the mention of that word, or any of its singularly numerous
equivalents, in serious neighborhood to a requisition upon one's purse,
is attended with a more or less noteworthy effect upon the human
countenance, producing in many an abrupt fall of it--in others, a
writhing and screwing up of the features to a point not undistressing to
behold, in some, attended with a blank pallor and fatal
consternation--yet no trace of any of these symptoms was visible upon
the countenance of the cosmopolitan, notwithstanding nothing could be
more sudden and unexpected than the barber's demand.

"You speak of cash, barber; pray in what connection?"

"In a nearer one, sir," answered the barber, less blandly, "than I
thought the man with the sweet voice stood, who wanted me to trust him
once for a shave, on the score of being a sort of thirteenth cousin."

"Indeed, and what did you say to him?"

"I said, 'Thank you, sir, but I don't see the connection,'"

"How could you so unsweetly answer one with a sweet voice?"

"Because, I recalled what the son of Sirach says in the True Book: 'An
enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips;' and so I did what the son of
Sirach advises in such cases: 'I believed not his many words.'"

"What, barber, do you say that such cynical sort of things are in the
True Book, by which, of course, you mean the Bible?"

"Yes, and plenty more to the same effect. Read the Book of Proverbs."

"That's strange, now, barber; for I never happen to have met with those
passages you cite. Before I go to bed this night, I'll inspect the Bible
I saw on the cabin-table, to-day. But mind, you mustn't quote the True
Book that way to people coming in here; it would be impliedly a
violation of the contract. But you don't know how glad I feel that you
have for one while signed off all that sort of thing."

"No, sir; not unless you down with the cash."

"Cash again! What do you mean?"

"Why, in this paper here, you engage, sir, to insure me against a
certain loss, and----"

"Certain? Is it so _certain_ you are going to lose?"

"Why, that way of taking the word may not be amiss, but I didn't mean
it so. I meant a _certain_ loss; you understand, a CERTAIN loss; that is
to say, a certain loss. Now then, sir, what use your mere writing and
saying you will insure me, unless beforehand you place in my hands a
money-pledge, sufficient to that end?"

"I see; the material pledge."

"Yes, and I will put it low; say fifty dollars."

"Now what sort of a beginning is this? You, barber, for a given time
engage to trust man, to put confidence in men, and, for your first step,
make a demand implying no confidence in the very man you engage with.
But fifty dollars is nothing, and I would let you have it cheerfully,
only I unfortunately happen to have but little change with me just now."

"But you have money in your trunk, though?"

"To be sure. But you see--in fact, barber, you must be consistent. No, I
won't let you have the money now; I won't let you violate the inmost
spirit of our contract, that way. So good-night, and I will see you
again."

"Stay, sir"--humming and hawing--"you have forgotten something."

"Handkerchief?--gloves? No, forgotten nothing. Good-night."

"Stay, sir--the--the shaving."

"Ah, I _did_ forget that. But now that it strikes me, I shan't pay you
at present. Look at your agreement; you must trust. Tut! against loss
you hold the guarantee. Good-night, my dear barber."

With which words he sauntered off, leaving the barber in a maze, staring
after.

But it holding true in fascination as in natural philosophy, that
nothing can act where it is not, so the barber was not long now in being
restored to his self-possession and senses; the first evidence of which
perhaps was, that, drawing forth his notification from the drawer, he
put it back where it belonged; while, as for the agreement, that he tore
up; which he felt the more free to do from the impression that in all
human probability he would never again see the person who had drawn it.
Whether that impression proved well-founded or not, does not appear. But
in after days, telling the night's adventure to his friends, the worthy
barber always spoke of his queer customer as the man-charmer--as certain
East Indians are called snake-charmers--and all his friends united in
thinking him QUITE AN ORIGINAL.

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

completion: The conversation and shave continue. The barber doesn't want to distrust people, but his line of work has taught him to. Frank counters that lawyers, politicians, and editors all argue the same. He wonders how everyone thinks their particular field is the one to provide insights into human nature. The barber has been thinking about this off and on for years, and Frank's got it wrong. It's not unique insight; it's equal insight. That is, anybody who's got a job dealing with the public gets to see the public's secrets. Some aren't pretty. For instance, the barber knows everyone on the boat who's bald and pretends that wigs are real. Let that sink in. They're liars. All of them. Frank then offers to strike a curious bargain with the barber. If he takes down the "No Trust" sign and doesn't try to scare off customers who might not have the cash up front to pay for a shave or a haircut, then Frank will pay the barber back for any money lost on the experiment. The barber says no at first, but then a sort of magical fascination overtakes him. This experiment is intriguing to him, and he agrees. Frank and the barber draw up a contract. The barber wants to take the contract to the captain as an impartial third party. Frank: No, you keep it. I trust you. The barber: Okay, then there's just the matter of the cash. The narrator notes that usually when it's time to pony up, people are shocked or grim. Not so with Frank. He's cool as a sea cucumber. Frank: Cash? The barber: I want cash in advance for the insurance you say you'll grant me. The barber goes on to quote a line from the Bible about not trusting people with honeyed words. Frank says this goes against the agreement, since it's all about building trust. Don't distrust me yet, man. The barber: Fine, but pay me what you owe for this shave. Frank: No can do. No cash on me, buddy, but I'm good for it. See you when the contract period ends. When Frank leaves, it's like the spell is broken. Barber: That guy's not coming back, is he? Voice inside the barber's head: No. The barber puts the sign back. He tears up the letter. He tells all his friends about Frank. They all agree that Frank is "Quite an original."


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XLIV. IN WHICH THE LAST THREE WORDS OF THE LAST CHAPTER ARE MADE THE TEXT OF DISCOURSE, WHICH WILL BE SURE OF RECEIVING MORE OR LESS ATTENTION FROM THOSE READERS WHO DO NOT SKIP IT.

"Quite an original:" A phrase, we fancy, rather oftener used by the
young, or the unlearned, or the untraveled, than by the old, or the
well-read, or the man who has made the grand tour. Certainly, the sense
of originality exists at its highest in an infant, and probably at its
lowest in him who has completed the circle of the sciences.

As for original characters in fiction, a grateful reader will, on
meeting with one, keep the anniversary of that day. True, we sometimes
hear of an author who, at one creation, produces some two or three score
such characters; it may be possible. But they can hardly be original in
the sense that Hamlet is, or Don Quixote, or Milton's Satan. That is to
say, they are not, in a thorough sense, original at all. They are novel,
or singular, or striking, or captivating, or all four at once.

More likely, they are what are called odd characters; but for that, are
no more original, than what is called an odd genius, in his way, is.
But, if original, whence came they? Or where did the novelist pick them
up?

Where does any novelist pick up any character? For the most part, in
town, to be sure. Every great town is a kind of man-show, where the
novelist goes for his stock, just as the agriculturist goes to the
cattle-show for his. But in the one fair, new species of quadrupeds are
hardly more rare, than in the other are new species of characters--that
is, original ones. Their rarity may still the more appear from this,
that, while characters, merely singular, imply but singular forms so to
speak, original ones, truly so, imply original instincts.

In short, a due conception of what is to be held for this sort of
personage in fiction would make him almost as much of a prodigy there,
as in real history is a new law-giver, a revolutionizing philosopher, or
the founder of a new religion.

In nearly all the original characters, loosely accounted such in works
of invention, there is discernible something prevailingly local, or of
the age; which circumstance, of itself, would seem to invalidate the
claim, judged by the principles here suggested.

Furthermore, if we consider, what is popularly held to entitle
characters in fiction to being deemed original, is but something
personal--confined to itself. The character sheds not its characteristic
on its surroundings, whereas, the original character, essentially such,
is like a revolving Drummond light, raying away from itself all round
it--everything is lit by it, everything starts up to it (mark how it is
with Hamlet), so that, in certain minds, there follows upon the adequate
conception of such a character, an effect, in its way, akin to that
which in Genesis attends upon the beginning of things.

For much the same reason that there is but one planet to one orbit, so
can there be but one such original character to one work of invention.
Two would conflict to chaos. In this view, to say that there are more
than one to a book, is good presumption there is none at all. But for
new, singular, striking, odd, eccentric, and all sorts of entertaining
and instructive characters, a good fiction may be full of them. To
produce such characters, an author, beside other things, must have seen
much, and seen through much: to produce but one original character, he
must have had much luck.

There would seem but one point in common between this sort of phenomenon
in fiction and all other sorts: it cannot be born in the author's
imagination--it being as true in literature as in zoology, that all life
is from the egg.

In the endeavor to show, if possible, the impropriety of the phrase,
_Quite an Original_, as applied by the barber's friends, we have, at
unawares, been led into a dissertation bordering upon the prosy, perhaps
upon the smoky. If so, the best use the smoke can be turned to, will be,
by retiring under cover of it, in good trim as may be, to the story.

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

completion: Melville loves these meta-moments. This chapter suggests that the only folks who think of anyone as "quite an original" are babies, the uneducated, or people who don't get out and travel. That is, they have no experience of the world and others. There are few originals in literature, and the narrator lists some: Hamlet, Milton's Satan, and Don Quixote. You can't have more than one original character in a text--that would be madness. Most of the time, the original is simply singular. More important, though, the original in literature is a stroke of luck. The author doesn't create it; it just happens.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XLV. THE COSMOPOLITAN INCREASES IN SERIOUSNESS.

In the middle of the gentleman's cabin burned a solar lamp, swung from
the ceiling, and whose shade of ground glass was all round fancifully
variegated, in transparency, with the image of a horned altar, from
which flames rose, alternate with the figure of a robed man, his head
encircled by a halo. The light of this lamp, after dazzlingly striking
on marble, snow-white and round--the slab of a centre-table beneath--on
all sides went rippling off with ever-diminishing distinctness, till,
like circles from a stone dropped in water, the rays died dimly away in
the furthest nook of the place.

Here and there, true to their place, but not to their function, swung
other lamps, barren planets, which had either gone out from exhaustion,
or been extinguished by such occupants of berths as the light annoyed,
or who wanted to sleep, not see.

By a perverse man, in a berth not remote, the remaining lamp would have
been extinguished as well, had not a steward forbade, saying that the
commands of the captain required it to be kept burning till the natural
light of day should come to relieve it. This steward, who, like many in
his vocation, was apt to be a little free-spoken at times, had been
provoked by the man's pertinacity to remind him, not only of the sad
consequences which might, upon occasion, ensue from the cabin being left
in darkness, but, also, of the circumstance that, in a place full of
strangers, to show one's self anxious to produce darkness there, such an
anxiety was, to say the least, not becoming. So the lamp--last survivor
of many--burned on, inwardly blessed by those in some berths, and
inwardly execrated by those in others.

Keeping his lone vigils beneath his lone lamp, which lighted his book on
the table, sat a clean, comely, old man, his head snowy as the marble,
and a countenance like that which imagination ascribes to good Simeon,
when, having at last beheld the Master of Faith, he blessed him and
departed in peace. From his hale look of greenness in winter, and his
hands ingrained with the tan, less, apparently, of the present summer,
than of accumulated ones past, the old man seemed a well-to-do farmer,
happily dismissed, after a thrifty life of activity, from the fields to
the fireside--one of those who, at three-score-and-ten, are
fresh-hearted as at fifteen; to whom seclusion gives a boon more blessed
than knowledge, and at last sends them to heaven untainted by the world,
because ignorant of it; just as a countryman putting up at a London inn,
and never stirring out of it as a sight-seer, will leave London at last
without once being lost in its fog, or soiled by its mud.

Redolent from the barber's shop, as any bridegroom tripping to the
bridal chamber might come, and by his look of cheeriness seeming to
dispense a sort of morning through the night, in came the cosmopolitan;
but marking the old man, and how he was occupied, he toned himself down,
and trod softly, and took a seat on the other side of the table, and
said nothing. Still, there was a kind of waiting expression about him.

"Sir," said the old man, after looking up puzzled at him a moment,
"sir," said he, "one would think this was a coffee-house, and it was
war-time, and I had a newspaper here with great news, and the only copy
to be had, you sit there looking at me so eager."

"And so you _have_ good news there, sir--the very best of good news."

"Too good to be true," here came from one of the curtained berths.

"Hark!" said the cosmopolitan. "Some one talks in his sleep."

"Yes," said the old man, "and you--_you_ seem to be talking in a dream.
Why speak you, sir, of news, and all that, when you must see this is a
book I have here--the Bible, not a newspaper?"

"I know that; and when you are through with it--but not a moment
sooner--I will thank you for it. It belongs to the boat, I believe--a
present from a society."

"Oh, take it, take it!"

"Nay, sir, I did not mean to touch you at all. I simply stated the fact
in explanation of my waiting here--nothing more. Read on, sir, or you
will distress me."

This courtesy was not without effect. Removing his spectacles, and
saying he had about finished his chapter, the old man kindly presented
the volume, which was received with thanks equally kind. After reading
for some minutes, until his expression merged from attentiveness into
seriousness, and from that into a kind of pain, the cosmopolitan slowly
laid down the book, and turning to the old man, who thus far had been
watching him with benign curiosity, said: "Can you, my aged friend,
resolve me a doubt--a disturbing doubt?"

"There are doubts, sir," replied the old man, with a changed
countenance, "there are doubts, sir, which, if man have them, it is not
man that can solve them."

"True; but look, now, what my doubt is. I am one who thinks well of man.
I love man. I have confidence in man. But what was told me not a
half-hour since? I was told that I would find it written--'Believe not
his many words--an enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips'--and also I was
told that I would find a good deal more to the same effect, and all in
this book. I could not think it; and, coming here to look for myself,
what do I read? Not only just what was quoted, but also, as was engaged,
more to the same purpose, such as this: 'With much communication he will
tempt thee; he will smile upon thee, and speak thee fair, and say What
wantest thou? If thou be for his profit he will use thee; he will make
thee bear, and will not be sorry for it. Observe and take good heed.
When thou hearest these things, awake in thy sleep.'"

"Who's that describing the confidence-man?" here came from the berth
again.

"Awake in his sleep, sure enough, ain't he?" said the cosmopolitan,
again looking off in surprise. "Same voice as before, ain't it? Strange
sort of dreamy man, that. Which is his berth, pray?"

"Never mind _him_, sir," said the old man anxiously, "but tell me truly,
did you, indeed, read from the book just now?"

"I did," with changed air, "and gall and wormwood it is to me, a truster
in man; to me, a philanthropist."

"Why," moved, "you don't mean to say, that what you repeated is really
down there? Man and boy, I have read the good book this seventy years,
and don't remember seeing anything like that. Let me see it," rising
earnestly, and going round to him.

"There it is; and there--and there"--turning over the leaves, and
pointing to the sentences one by one; "there--all down in the 'Wisdom of
Jesus, the Son of Sirach.'"

"Ah!" cried the old man, brightening up, "now I know. Look," turning the
leaves forward and back, till all the Old Testament lay flat on one
side, and all the New Testament flat on the other, while in his fingers
he supported vertically the portion between, "look, sir, all this to the
right is certain truth, and all this to the left is certain truth, but
all I hold in my hand here is apocrypha."

"Apocrypha?"

"Yes; and there's the word in black and white," pointing to it. "And
what says the word? It says as much as 'not warranted;' for what do
college men say of anything of that sort? They say it is apocryphal. The
word itself, I've heard from the pulpit, implies something of uncertain
credit. So if your disturbance be raised from aught in this apocrypha,"
again taking up the pages, "in that case, think no more of it, for it's
apocrypha."

"What's that about the Apocalypse?" here, a third time, came from the
berth.

"He's seeing visions now, ain't he?" said the cosmopolitan, once more
looking in the direction of the interruption. "But, sir," resuming, "I
cannot tell you how thankful I am for your reminding me about the
apocrypha here. For the moment, its being such escaped me. Fact is, when
all is bound up together, it's sometimes confusing. The uncanonical part
should be bound distinct. And, now that I think of it, how well did
those learned doctors who rejected for us this whole book of Sirach. I
never read anything so calculated to destroy man's confidence in man.
This son of Sirach even says--I saw it but just now: 'Take heed of thy
friends;' not, observe, thy seeming friends, thy hypocritical friends,
thy false friends, but thy _friends_, thy real friends--that is to say,
not the truest friend in the world is to be implicitly trusted. Can
Rochefoucault equal that? I should not wonder if his view of human
nature, like Machiavelli's, was taken from this Son of Sirach. And to
call it wisdom--the Wisdom of the Son of Sirach! Wisdom, indeed! What an
ugly thing wisdom must be! Give me the folly that dimples the cheek,
say I, rather than the wisdom that curdles the blood. But no, no; it
ain't wisdom; it's apocrypha, as you say, sir. For how can that be
trustworthy that teaches distrust?"

"I tell you what it is," here cried the same voice as before, only more
in less of mockery, "if you two don't know enough to sleep, don't be
keeping wiser men awake. And if you want to know what wisdom is, go find
it under your blankets."

"Wisdom?" cried another voice with a brogue; "arrah and is't wisdom the
two geese are gabbling about all this while? To bed with ye, ye divils,
and don't be after burning your fingers with the likes of wisdom."

"We must talk lower," said the old man; "I fear we have annoyed these
good people."

"I should be sorry if wisdom annoyed any one," said the other; "but we
will lower our voices, as you say. To resume: taking the thing as I did,
can you be surprised at my uneasiness in reading passages so charged
with the spirit of distrust?"

"No, sir, I am not surprised," said the old man; then added: "from what
you say, I see you are something of my way of thinking--you think that
to distrust the creature, is a kind of distrusting of the Creator. Well,
my young friend, what is it? This is rather late for you to be about.
What do you want of me?"

These questions were put to a boy in the fragment of an old linen coat,
bedraggled and yellow, who, coming in from the deck barefooted on the
soft carpet, had been unheard. All pointed and fluttering, the rags of
the little fellow's red-flannel shirt, mixed with those of his yellow
coat, flamed about him like the painted flames in the robes of a victim
in _auto-da-fe_. His face, too, wore such a polish of seasoned grime,
that his sloe-eyes sparkled from out it like lustrous sparks in fresh
coal. He was a juvenile peddler, or _marchand_, as the polite French
might have called him, of travelers' conveniences; and, having no
allotted sleeping-place, had, in his wanderings about the boat, spied,
through glass doors, the two in the cabin; and, late though it was,
thought it might never be too much so for turning a penny.

Among other things, he carried a curious affair--a miniature mahogany
door, hinged to its frame, and suitably furnished in all respects but
one, which will shortly appear. This little door he now meaningly held
before the old man, who, after staring at it a while, said: "Go thy ways
with thy toys, child."

"Now, may I never get so old and wise as that comes to," laughed the boy
through his grime; and, by so doing, disclosing leopard-like teeth, like
those of Murillo's wild beggar-boy's.

"The divils are laughing now, are they?" here came the brogue from the
berth. "What do the divils find to laugh about in wisdom, begorrah? To
bed with ye, ye divils, and no more of ye."

"You see, child, you have disturbed that person," said the old man; "you
mustn't laugh any more."

"Ah, now," said the cosmopolitan, "don't, pray, say that; don't let him
think that poor Laughter is persecuted for a fool in this world."

"Well," said the old man to the boy, "you must, at any rate, speak very
low."

"Yes, that wouldn't be amiss, perhaps," said the cosmopolitan; "but, my
fine fellow, you were about saying something to my aged friend here;
what was it?"

"Oh," with a lowered voice, coolly opening and shutting his little door,
"only this: when I kept a toy-stand at the fair in Cincinnati last
month, I sold more than one old man a child's rattle."

"No doubt of it," said the old man. "I myself often buy such things for
my little grandchildren."

"But these old men I talk of were old bachelors."

The old man stared at him a moment; then, whispering to the
cosmopolitan: "Strange boy, this; sort of simple, ain't he? Don't know
much, hey?"

"Not much," said the boy, "or I wouldn't be so ragged."

"Why, child, what sharp ears you have!" exclaimed the old man.

"If they were duller, I would hear less ill of myself," said the boy.

"You seem pretty wise, my lad," said the cosmopolitan; "why don't you
sell your wisdom, and buy a coat?"

"Faith," said the boy, "that's what I did to-day, and this is the coat
that the price of my wisdom bought. But won't you trade? See, now, it
is not the door I want to sell; I only carry the door round for a
specimen, like. Look now, sir," standing the thing up on the table,
"supposing this little door is your state-room door; well," opening it,
"you go in for the night; you close your door behind you--thus. Now, is
all safe?"

"I suppose so, child," said the old man.

"Of course it is, my fine fellow," said the cosmopolitan.

"All safe. Well. Now, about two o'clock in the morning, say, a
soft-handed gentleman comes softly and tries the knob here--thus; in
creeps my soft-handed gentleman; and hey, presto! how comes on the soft
cash?"

"I see, I see, child," said the old man; "your fine gentleman is a fine
thief, and there's no lock to your little door to keep him out;" with
which words he peered at it more closely than before.

"Well, now," again showing his white teeth, "well, now, some of you old
folks are knowing 'uns, sure enough; but now comes the great invention,"
producing a small steel contrivance, very simple but ingenious, and
which, being clapped on the inside of the little door, secured it as
with a bolt. "There now," admiringly holding it off at arm's-length,
"there now, let that soft-handed gentleman come now a' softly trying
this little knob here, and let him keep a' trying till he finds his head
as soft as his hand. Buy the traveler's patent lock, sir, only
twenty-five cents."

"Dear me," cried the old man, "this beats printing. Yes, child, I will
have one, and use it this very night."

With the phlegm of an old banker pouching the change, the boy now turned
to the other: "Sell you one, sir?"

"Excuse me, my fine fellow, but I never use such blacksmiths' things."

"Those who give the blacksmith most work seldom do," said the boy,
tipping him a wink expressive of a degree of indefinite knowingness, not
uninteresting to consider in one of his years. But the wink was not
marked by the old man, nor, to all appearances, by him for whom it was
intended.

"Now then," said the boy, again addressing the old man. "With your
traveler's lock on your door to-night, you will think yourself all safe,
won't you?"

"I think I will, child."

"But how about the window?"

"Dear me, the window, child. I never thought of that. I must see to
that."

"Never you mind about the window," said the boy, "nor, to be honor
bright, about the traveler's lock either, (though I ain't sorry for
selling one), do you just buy one of these little jokers," producing a
number of suspender-like objects, which he dangled before the old man;
"money-belts, sir; only fifty cents."

"Money-belt? never heard of such a thing."

"A sort of pocket-book," said the boy, "only a safer sort. Very good for
travelers."

"Oh, a pocket-book. Queer looking pocket-books though, seems to me.
Ain't they rather long and narrow for pocket-books?"

"They go round the waist, sir, inside," said the boy "door open or
locked, wide awake on your feet or fast asleep in your chair, impossible
to be robbed with a money-belt."

"I see, I see. It _would_ be hard to rob one's money-belt. And I was
told to-day the Mississippi is a bad river for pick-pockets. How much
are they?"

"Only fifty cents, sir."

"I'll take one. There!"

"Thank-ee. And now there's a present for ye," with which, drawing from
his breast a batch of little papers, he threw one before the old man,
who, looking at it, read "_Counterfeit Detector_."

"Very good thing," said the boy, "I give it to all my customers who
trade seventy-five cents' worth; best present can be made them. Sell you
a money-belt, sir?" turning to the cosmopolitan.

"Excuse me, my fine fellow, but I never use that sort of thing; my money
I carry loose."

"Loose bait ain't bad," said the boy, "look a lie and find the truth;
don't care about a Counterfeit Detector, do ye? or is the wind East,
d'ye think?"

"Child," said the old man in some concern, "you mustn't sit up any
longer, it affects your mind; there, go away, go to bed."

"If I had some people's brains to lie on. I would," said the boy, "but
planks is hard, you know."

"Go, child--go, go!"

"Yes, child,--yes, yes," said the boy, with which roguish parody, by way
of conge, he scraped back his hard foot on the woven flowers of the
carpet, much as a mischievous steer in May scrapes back his horny hoof
in the pasture; and then with a flourish of his hat--which, like the
rest of his tatters, was, thanks to hard times, a belonging beyond his
years, though not beyond his experience, being a grown man's cast-off
beaver--turned, and with the air of a young Caffre, quitted the place.

"That's a strange boy," said the old man, looking after him. "I wonder
who's his mother; and whether she knows what late hours he keeps?"

"The probability is," observed the other, "that his mother does not
know. But if you remember, sir, you were saying something, when the boy
interrupted you with his door."

"So I was.--Let me see," unmindful of his purchases for the moment,
"what, now, was it? What was that I was saying? Do _you_ remember?"

"Not perfectly, sir; but, if I am not mistaken, it was something like
this: you hoped you did not distrust the creature; for that would imply
distrust of the Creator."

"Yes, that was something like it," mechanically and unintelligently
letting his eye fall now on his purchases.

"Pray, will you put your money in your belt to-night?"

"It's best, ain't it?" with a slight start. "Never too late to be
cautious. 'Beware of pick-pockets' is all over the boat."

"Yes, and it must have been the Son of Sirach, or some other morbid
cynic, who put them there. But that's not to the purpose. Since you are
minded to it, pray, sir, let me help you about the belt. I think that,
between us, we can make a secure thing of it."

"Oh no, no, no!" said the old man, not unperturbed, "no, no, I wouldn't
trouble you for the world," then, nervously folding up the belt, "and I
won't be so impolite as to do it for myself, before you, either. But,
now that I think of it," after a pause, carefully taking a little wad
from a remote corner of his vest pocket, "here are two bills they gave
me at St. Louis, yesterday. No doubt they are all right; but just to
pass time, I'll compare them with the Detector here. Blessed boy to make
me such a present. Public benefactor, that little boy!"

Laying the Detector square before him on the table, he then, with
something of the air of an officer bringing by the collar a brace of
culprits to the bar, placed the two bills opposite the Detector, upon
which, the examination began, lasting some time, prosecuted with no
small research and vigilance, the forefinger of the right hand proving
of lawyer-like efficacy in tracing out and pointing the evidence,
whichever way it might go.

After watching him a while, the cosmopolitan said in a formal voice,
"Well, what say you, Mr. Foreman; guilty, or not guilty?--Not guilty,
ain't it?"

"I don't know, I don't know," returned the old man, perplexed, "there's
so many marks of all sorts to go by, it makes it a kind of uncertain.
Here, now, is this bill," touching one, "it looks to be a three dollar
bill on the Vicksburgh Trust and Insurance Banking Company. Well, the
Detector says----"

"But why, in this case, care what it says? Trust and Insurance! What
more would you have?"

"No; but the Detector says, among fifty other things, that, if a good
bill, it must have, thickened here and there into the substance of the
paper, little wavy spots of red; and it says they must have a kind of
silky feel, being made by the lint of a red silk handkerchief stirred up
in the paper-maker's vat--the paper being made to order for the
company."

"Well, and is----"

"Stay. But then it adds, that sign is not always to be relied on; for
some good bills get so worn, the red marks get rubbed out. And that's
the case with my bill here--see how old it is--or else it's a
counterfeit, or else--I don't see right--or else--dear, dear me--I don't
know what else to think."

"What a peck of trouble that Detector makes for you now; believe me, the
bill is good; don't be so distrustful. Proves what I've always thought,
that much of the want of confidence, in these days, is owing to these
Counterfeit Detectors you see on every desk and counter. Puts people up
to suspecting good bills. Throw it away, I beg, if only because of the
trouble it breeds you."

"No; it's troublesome, but I think I'll keep it.--Stay, now, here's
another sign. It says that, if the bill is good, it must have in one
corner, mixed in with the vignette, the figure of a goose, very small,
indeed, all but microscopic; and, for added precaution, like the figure
of Napoleon outlined by the tree, not observable, even if magnified,
unless the attention is directed to it. Now, pore over it as I will, I
can't see this goose."

"Can't see the goose? why, I can; and a famous goose it is. There"
(reaching over and pointing to a spot in the vignette).

"I don't see it--dear me--I don't see the goose. Is it a real goose?"

"A perfect goose; beautiful goose."

"Dear, dear, I don't see it."

"Then throw that Detector away, I say again; it only makes you purblind;
don't you see what a wild-goose chase it has led you? The bill is good.
Throw the Detector away."

"No; it ain't so satisfactory as I thought for, but I must examine this
other bill."

"As you please, but I can't in conscience assist you any more; pray,
then, excuse me."

So, while the old man with much painstakings resumed his work, the
cosmopolitan, to allow him every facility, resumed his reading. At
length, seeing that he had given up his undertaking as hopeless, and was
at leisure again, the cosmopolitan addressed some gravely interesting
remarks to him about the book before him, and, presently, becoming more
and more grave, said, as he turned the large volume slowly over on the
table, and with much difficulty traced the faded remains of the gilt
inscription giving the name of the society who had presented it to the
boat, "Ah, sir, though every one must be pleased at the thought of the
presence in public places of such a book, yet there is something that
abates the satisfaction. Look at this volume; on the outside, battered
as any old valise in the baggage-room; and inside, white and virgin as
the hearts of lilies in bud."

"So it is, so it is," said the old man sadly, his attention for the
first directed to the circumstance.

"Nor is this the only time," continued the other, "that I have observed
these public Bibles in boats and hotels. All much like this--old
without, and new within. True, this aptly typifies that internal
freshness, the best mark of truth, however ancient; but then, it speaks
not so well as could be wished for the good book's esteem in the minds
of the traveling public. I may err, but it seems to me that if more
confidence was put in it by the traveling public, it would hardly be
so."

With an expression very unlike that with which he had bent over the
Detector, the old man sat meditating upon his companions remarks a
while; and, at last, with a rapt look, said: "And yet, of all people,
the traveling public most need to put trust in that guardianship which
is made known in this book."

"True, true," thoughtfully assented the other. "And one would think they
would want to, and be glad to," continued the old man kindling; "for,
in all our wanderings through this vale, how pleasant, not less than
obligatory, to feel that we need start at no wild alarms, provide for no
wild perils; trusting in that Power which is alike able and willing to
protect us when we cannot ourselves."

His manner produced something answering to it in the cosmopolitan, who,
leaning over towards him, said sadly: "Though this is a theme on which
travelers seldom talk to each other, yet, to you, sir, I will say, that
I share something of your sense of security. I have moved much about the
world, and still keep at it; nevertheless, though in this land, and
especially in these parts of it, some stories are told about steamboats
and railroads fitted to make one a little apprehensive, yet, I may say
that, neither by land nor by water, am I ever seriously disquieted,
however, at times, transiently uneasy; since, with you, sir, I believe
in a Committee of Safety, holding silent sessions over all, in an
invisible patrol, most alert when we soundest sleep, and whose beat lies
as much through forests as towns, along rivers as streets. In short, I
never forget that passage of Scripture which says, 'Jehovah shall be thy
confidence.' The traveler who has not this trust, what miserable
misgivings must be his; or, what vain, short-sighted care must he take
of himself."

"Even so," said the old man, lowly.

"There is a chapter," continued the other, again taking the book,
"which, as not amiss, I must read you. But this lamp, solar-lamp as it
is, begins to burn dimly."

"So it does, so it does," said the old man with changed air, "dear me,
it must be very late. I must to bed, to bed! Let me see," rising and
looking wistfully all round, first on the stools and settees, and then
on the carpet, "let me see, let me see;--is there anything I have
forgot,--forgot? Something I a sort of dimly remember. Something, my
son--careful man--told me at starting this morning, this very morning.
Something about seeing to--something before I got into my berth. What
could it be? Something for safety. Oh, my poor old memory!"

"Let me give a little guess, sir. Life-preserver?"

"So it was. He told me not to omit seeing I had a life-preserver in my
state-room; said the boat supplied them, too. But where are they? I
don't see any. What are they like?"

"They are something like this, sir, I believe," lifting a brown stool
with a curved tin compartment underneath; "yes, this, I think, is a
life-preserver, sir; and a very good one, I should say, though I don't
pretend to know much about such things, never using them myself."

"Why, indeed, now! Who would have thought it? _that_ a life-preserver?
That's the very stool I was sitting on, ain't it?"

"It is. And that shows that one's life is looked out for, when he ain't
looking out for it himself. In fact, any of these stools here will float
you, sir, should the boat hit a snag, and go down in the dark. But,
since you want one in your room, pray take this one," handing it to him.
"I think I can recommend this one; the tin part," rapping it with his
knuckles, "seems so perfect--sounds so very hollow."

"Sure it's _quite_ perfect, though?" Then, anxiously putting on his
spectacles, he scrutinized it pretty closely--"well soldered? quite
tight?"

"I should say so, sir; though, indeed, as I said, I never use this sort
of thing, myself. Still, I think that in case of a wreck, barring
sharp-pointed timbers, you could have confidence in that stool for a
special providence."

"Then, good-night, good-night; and Providence have both of us in its
good keeping."

"Be sure it will," eying the old man with sympathy, as for the moment he
stood, money-belt in hand, and life-preserver under arm, "be sure it
will, sir, since in Providence, as in man, you and I equally put trust.
But, bless me, we are being left in the dark here. Pah! what a smell,
too."

"Ah, my way now," cried the old man, peering before him, "where lies my
way to my state-room?"

"I have indifferent eyes, and will show you; but, first, for the good of
all lungs, let me extinguish this lamp."

The next moment, the waning light expired, and with it the waning flames
of the horned altar, and the waning halo round the robed man's brow;
while in the darkness which ensued, the cosmopolitan kindly led the old
man away. Something further may follow of this Masquerade.

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

completion: In the cabin rooms, there's only one lamp still burning. The steward has told people not to let it go out until daylight for safety--you could trip; people could try to rob or kill you; you know, the usual. The lamp's design is a death metal band cover knock-off of a glowing horned altar surrounded by flames with a dark hooded figure graced with a halo. Sitting beneath the lamp is a wholesome-looking old man. He gives off the well-to-do farmer vibe, so he's got money but none of the baggage of being a rich dude . The old dude is reading the Bible when Frank walks in. Frank wants to read the Bible really badly, but he doesn't mean to rush the old man. Old man: It's not a thing. Here, knock yourself out. Frank reads. He starts to look like someone kicked his dog. The old man wants to know: Why so sad, panda bear? Frank tells the old man about the line from the Bible that the barber mentioned. He's upset that there are lines in the Bible that shake one's confidence in one's fellow man. The old man gets it. If you don't have confidence in your fellow man, then it's like not having confidence in the creator of man. Frank: Yes. Exactly. The old man tells Frank not to fret, since the part he was reading was from the Apocrypha, a section of the Bible not officially part of the canon selected by church leaders and considered to the word of God. Frank: Phew, really dodged an existential bullet there. Thanks. Suddenly, a young boy appears in the room. He surprises the dudes because, um, creepy much, you quiet little sneak? The boy wears rags, but he's noted for his sharp mind and world-wise expressions. The boy's got things to sell. Boy: Do either of you want a lock attachment for your private cabins? Old man: Super yes. Frank loves and trusts his fellow man. Boy: Do either of you want a money-belt for the safekeeping of your cash? Old man: Super yes. Frank loves and trusts his fellow man. The boy teases Frank for his trust and gives the old man a free gift with his purchase: a how-to guide for detecting counterfeit bills. The boy leaves. The old man starts checking his money. He gets stressed out: the directions are complicated, and he's got serious doubts about his money. Frank tries to convince the old man the money is fine. No dice. The old man gets up to go to bed, but he's looking for a life preserver. Frank says his seat is one. Grabbing his new lock, money belt, and life preserver, the old man gets ready to go. He's all, God will keep me safe, right? Frank: God will keep you safe. The lamp starts emitting smoke. Old man: Oh, it's getting hard to see. Frank: I'll help you. I'll just put out this dying flame completely. The light revealing the demonic image goes out.


prompt:
Chapter: The first ray of light which illumines the gloom, and converts into a
dazzling brilliancy that obscurity in which the earlier history of the
public career of the immortal Pickwick would appear to be involved, is
derived from the perusal of the following entry in the Transactions of
the Pickwick Club, which the editor of these papers feels the highest
pleasure in laying before his readers, as a proof of the careful
attention, indefatigable assiduity, and nice discrimination, with which
his search among the multifarious documents confided to him has been
conducted.

'May 12, 1827. Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C. [Perpetual Vice-
President--Member Pickwick Club], presiding. The following resolutions
unanimously agreed to:--

'That this Association has heard read, with feelings of unmingled
satisfaction, and unqualified approval, the paper communicated by Samuel
Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C. [General Chairman--Member Pickwick Club],
entitled "Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, with some
Observations on the Theory of Tittlebats;" and that this Association
does hereby return its warmest thanks to the said Samuel Pickwick, Esq.,
G.C.M.P.C., for the same.

'That while this Association is deeply sensible of the advantages which
must accrue to the cause of science, from the production to which they
have just adverted--no less than from the unwearied researches of Samuel
Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., in Hornsey, Highgate, Brixton, and
Camberwell--they cannot but entertain a lively sense of the inestimable
benefits which must inevitably result from carrying the speculations of
that learned man into a wider field, from extending his travels, and,
consequently, enlarging his sphere of observation, to the advancement of
knowledge, and the diffusion of learning.

'That, with the view just mentioned, this Association has taken into its
serious consideration a proposal, emanating from the aforesaid, Samuel
Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., and three other Pickwickians hereinafter
named, for forming a new branch of United Pickwickians, under the title
of The Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club.

'That the said proposal has received the sanction and approval of this
Association.

'That the Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club is therefore hereby
constituted; and that Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., Tracy Tupman,
Esq., M.P.C., Augustus Snodgrass, Esq., M.P.C., and Nathaniel Winkle,
Esq., M.P.C., are hereby nominated and appointed members of the same;
and that they be requested to forward, from time to time, authenticated
accounts of their journeys and investigations, of their observations of
character and manners, and of the whole of their adventures, together
with all tales and papers to which local scenery or associations may
give rise, to the Pickwick Club, stationed in London.

'That this Association cordially recognises the principle of every
member of the Corresponding Society defraying his own travelling
expenses; and that it sees no objection whatever to the members of the
said society pursuing their inquiries for any length of time they
please, upon the same terms.

'That the members of the aforesaid Corresponding Society be, and are
hereby informed, that their proposal to pay the postage of their
letters, and the carriage of their parcels, has been deliberated upon by
this Association: that this Association considers such proposal worthy
of the great minds from which it emanated, and that it hereby signifies
its perfect acquiescence therein.'

A casual observer, adds the secretary, to whose notes we are indebted
for the following account--a casual observer might possibly have
remarked nothing extraordinary in the bald head, and circular
spectacles, which were intently turned towards his (the secretary's)
face, during the reading of the above resolutions: to those who knew
that the gigantic brain of Pickwick was working beneath that forehead,
and that the beaming eyes of Pickwick were twinkling behind those
glasses, the sight was indeed an interesting one. There sat the man who
had traced to their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated
the scientific world with his Theory of Tittlebats, as calm and unmoved
as the deep waters of the one on a frosty day, or as a solitary specimen
of the other in the inmost recesses of an earthen jar. And how much more
interesting did the spectacle become, when, starting into full life and
animation, as a simultaneous call for 'Pickwick' burst from his
followers, that illustrious man slowly mounted into the Windsor chair,
on which he had been previously seated, and addressed the club himself
had founded. What a study for an artist did that exciting scene present!
The eloquent Pickwick, with one hand gracefully concealed behind his
coat tails, and the other waving in air to assist his glowing
declamation; his elevated position revealing those tights and gaiters,
which, had they clothed an ordinary man, might have passed without
observation, but which, when Pickwick clothed them--if we may use the
expression--inspired involuntary awe and respect; surrounded by the men
who had volunteered to share the perils of his travels, and who were
destined to participate in the glories of his discoveries. On his right
sat Mr. Tracy Tupman--the too susceptible Tupman, who to the wisdom and
experience of maturer years superadded the enthusiasm and ardour of a
boy in the most interesting and pardonable of human weaknesses--love.
Time and feeding had expanded that once romantic form; the black silk
waistcoat had become more and more developed; inch by inch had the gold
watch-chain beneath it disappeared from within the range of Tupman's
vision; and gradually had the capacious chin encroached upon the borders
of the white cravat: but the soul of Tupman had known no change--
admiration of the fair sex was still its ruling passion. On the left of
his great leader sat the poetic Snodgrass, and near him again the
sporting Winkle; the former poetically enveloped in a mysterious blue
cloak with a canine-skin collar, and the latter communicating additional
lustre to a new green shooting-coat, plaid neckerchief, and closely-
fitted drabs.

Mr. Pickwick's oration upon this occasion, together with the debate
thereon, is entered on the Transactions of the Club. Both bear a strong
affinity to the discussions of other celebrated bodies; and, as it is
always interesting to trace a resemblance between the proceedings of
great men, we transfer the entry to these pages.

'Mr. Pickwick observed (says the secretary) that fame was dear to the
heart of every man. Poetic fame was dear to the heart of his friend
Snodgrass; the fame of conquest was equally dear to his friend Tupman;
and the desire of earning fame in the sports of the field, the air, and
the water was uppermost in the breast of his friend Winkle. He (Mr.
Pickwick) would not deny that he was influenced by human passions and
human feelings (cheers)--possibly by human weaknesses (loud cries of
"No"); but this he would say, that if ever the fire of self-importance
broke out in his bosom, the desire to benefit the human race in
preference effectually quenched it. The praise of mankind was his swing;
philanthropy was his insurance office. (Vehement cheering.) He had felt
some pride--he acknowledged it freely, and let his enemies make the most
of it--he had felt some pride when he presented his Tittlebatian Theory
to the world; it might be celebrated or it might not. (A cry of "It is,"
and great cheering.) He would take the assertion of that honourable
Pickwickian whose voice he had just heard--it was celebrated; but if the
fame of that treatise were to extend to the farthest confines of the
known world, the pride with which he should reflect on the authorship of
that production would be as nothing compared with the pride with which
he looked around him, on this, the proudest moment of his existence.
(Cheers.) He was a humble individual. ("No, no.") Still he could not but
feel that they had selected him for a service of great honour, and of
some danger. Travelling was in a troubled state, and the minds of
coachmen were unsettled. Let them look abroad and contemplate the scenes
which were enacting around them. Stage-coaches were upsetting in all
directions, horses were bolting, boats were overturning, and boilers
were bursting. (Cheers--a voice "No.") No! (Cheers.) Let that honourable
Pickwickian who cried "No" so loudly come forward and deny it, if he
could. (Cheers.) Who was it that cried "No"? (Enthusiastic cheering.)
Was it some vain and disappointed man--he would not say haberdasher
(loud cheers)--who, jealous of the praise which had been--perhaps
undeservedly--bestowed on his (Mr. Pickwick's) researches, and smarting
under the censure which had been heaped upon his own feeble attempts at
rivalry, now took this vile and calumnious mode of--

'MR. BLOTTON (of Aldgate) rose to order. Did the honourable Pickwickian
allude to him? (Cries of "Order," "Chair," "Yes," "No," "Go on," "Leave
off," etc.)

'MR. PICKWICK would not put up to be put down by clamour. He had alluded
to the honourable gentleman. (Great excitement.)

'MR. BLOTTON would only say then, that he repelled the hon. gent.'s
false and scurrilous accusation, with profound contempt. (Great
cheering.) The hon. gent. was a humbug. (Immense confusion, and loud
cries of "Chair," and "Order.")

'Mr. A. SNODGRASS rose to order. He threw himself upon the chair.
(Hear.) He wished to know whether this disgraceful contest between two
members of that club should be allowed to continue. (Hear, hear.)

'The CHAIRMAN was quite sure the hon. Pickwickian would withdraw the
expression he had just made use of.

'MR. BLOTTON, with all possible respect for the chair, was quite sure he
would not.

'The CHAIRMAN felt it his imperative duty to demand of the honourable
gentleman, whether he had used the expression which had just escaped him
in a common sense.

'MR. BLOTTON had no hesitation in saying that he had not--he had used
the word in its Pickwickian sense. (Hear, hear.) He was bound to
acknowledge that, personally, he entertained the highest regard and
esteem for the honourable gentleman; he had merely considered him a
humbug in a Pickwickian point of view. (Hear, hear.)

'MR. PICKWICK felt much gratified by the fair, candid, and full
explanation of his honourable friend. He begged it to be at once
understood, that his own observations had been merely intended to bear a
Pickwickian construction. (Cheers.)'

Here the entry terminates, as we have no doubt the debate did also,
after arriving at such a highly satisfactory and intelligible point. We
have no official statement of the facts which the reader will find
recorded in the next chapter, but they have been carefully collated from
letters and other MS. authorities, so unquestionably genuine as to
justify their narration in a connected form.

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

completion: On May 12, 1827, the Pickwick Club of London listens to Mr. Pickwick's paper, "Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, with some Observations on the Theory of Tittlebats." In order to extend the field of Mr. Pickwick's knowledge, the club votes for a traveling society that will consist of Samuel Pickwick, Tracy Tupman, Augustus Snodgrass, and Nathaniel Winkle. Each will have to pay his own expenses and send reports back to the club. A fat, elderly, bald man, Mr. Pickwick is facetiously presented as a profound thinker. Tupman is a fat, middle-aged ladies' man, Snodgrass is a poet, and Winkle is a sportsman. The club chairman, Mr. Pickwick, climbs up on a chair to make a speech about his desire to benefit mankind through scientific knowledge and information about the danger of accidents in travel, to which a member called Blotton objects, telling him he is a humbug. Mr. Pickwick is angered by this insult and confusion ensues. At last things are straightened out when Pickwick and Blotton say they did not intend their remarks in the common sense but in the "Pickwickian sense."