Chapter: CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN WITH THE TRAVELING-CAP EVINCES MUCH HUMANITY, AND IN A WAY WHICH WOULD SEEM TO SHOW HIM TO BE ONE OF THE MOST LOGICAL OF OPTIMISTS.



Years ago, a grave American savant, being in London, observed at an
evening party there, a certain coxcombical fellow, as he thought, an
absurd ribbon in his lapel, and full of smart persiflage, whisking about
to the admiration of as many as were disposed to admire. Great was the
savan's disdain; but, chancing ere long to find himself in a corner with
the jackanapes, got into conversation with him, when he was somewhat
ill-prepared for the good sense of the jackanapes, but was altogether
thrown aback, upon subsequently being whispered by a friend that the
jackanapes was almost as great a savan as himself, being no less a
personage than Sir Humphrey Davy.

The above anecdote is given just here by way of an anticipative reminder
to such readers as, from the kind of jaunty levity, or what may have
passed for such, hitherto for the most part appearing in the man with
the traveling-cap, may have been tempted into a more or less hasty
estimate of him; that such readers, when they find the same person, as
they presently will, capable of philosophic and humanitarian
discourse--no mere casual sentence or two as heretofore at times, but
solidly sustained throughout an almost entire sitting; that they may
not, like the American savan, be thereupon betrayed into any surprise
incompatible with their own good opinion of their previous penetration.

The merchant's narration being ended, the other would not deny but that
it did in some degree affect him. He hoped he was not without proper
feeling for the unfortunate man. But he begged to know in what spirit he
bore his alleged calamities. Did he despond or have confidence?

The merchant did not, perhaps, take the exact import of the last member
of the question; but answered, that, if whether the unfortunate man was
becomingly resigned under his affliction or no, was the point, he could
say for him that resigned he was, and to an exemplary degree: for not
only, so far as known, did he refrain from any one-sided reflections
upon human goodness and human justice, but there was observable in him
an air of chastened reliance, and at times tempered cheerfulness.

Upon which the other observed, that since the unfortunate man's alleged
experience could not be deemed very conciliatory towards a view of human
nature better than human nature was, it largely redounded to his
fair-mindedness, as well as piety, that under the alleged dissuasives,
apparently so, from philanthropy, he had not, in a moment of excitement,
been warped over to the ranks of the misanthropes. He doubted not,
also, that with such a man his experience would, in the end, act by a
complete and beneficent inversion, and so far from shaking his
confidence in his kind, confirm it, and rivet it. Which would the more
surely be the case, did he (the unfortunate man) at last become
satisfied (as sooner or later he probably would be) that in the
distraction of his mind his Goneril had not in all respects had fair
play. At all events, the description of the lady, charity could not but
regard as more or less exaggerated, and so far unjust. The truth
probably was that she was a wife with some blemishes mixed with some
beauties. But when the blemishes were displayed, her husband, no adept
in the female nature, had tried to use reason with her, instead of
something far more persuasive. Hence his failure to convince and
convert. The act of withdrawing from her, seemed, under the
circumstances, abrupt. In brief, there were probably small faults on
both sides, more than balanced by large virtues; and one should not be
hasty in judging.

When the merchant, strange to say, opposed views so calm and impartial,
and again, with some warmth, deplored the case of the unfortunate man,
his companion, not without seriousness, checked him, saying, that this
would never do; that, though but in the most exceptional case, to admit
the existence of unmerited misery, more particularly if alleged to have
been brought about by unhindered arts of the wicked, such an admission
was, to say the least, not prudent; since, with some, it might
unfavorably bias their most important persuasions. Not that those
persuasions were legitimately servile to such influences. Because,
since the common occurrences of life could never, in the nature of
things, steadily look one way and tell one story, as flags in the
trade-wind; hence, if the conviction of a Providence, for instance, were
in any way made dependent upon such variabilities as everyday events,
the degree of that conviction would, in thinking minds, be subject to
fluctuations akin to those of the stock-exchange during a long and
uncertain war. Here he glanced aside at his transfer-book, and after a
moment's pause continued. It was of the essence of a right conviction of
the divine nature, as with a right conviction of the human, that, based
less on experience than intuition, it rose above the zones of weather.

When now the merchant, with all his heart, coincided with this (as being
a sensible, as well as religious person, he could not but do), his
companion expressed satisfaction, that, in an age of some distrust on
such subjects, he could yet meet with one who shared with him, almost to
the full, so sound and sublime a confidence.

Still, he was far from the illiberality of denying that philosophy duly
bounded was not permissible. Only he deemed it at least desirable that,
when such a case as that alleged of the unfortunate man was made the
subject of philosophic discussion, it should be so philosophized upon,
as not to afford handles to those unblessed with the true light. For,
but to grant that there was so much as a mystery about such a case,
might by those persons be held for a tacit surrender of the question.
And as for the apparent license temporarily permitted sometimes, to the
bad over the good (as was by implication alleged with regard to Goneril
and the unfortunate man), it might be injudicious there to lay too much
polemic stress upon the doctrine of future retribution as the
vindication of present impunity. For though, indeed, to the right-minded
that doctrine was true, and of sufficient solace, yet with the perverse
the polemic mention of it might but provoke the shallow, though
mischievous conceit, that such a doctrine was but tantamount to the one
which should affirm that Providence was not now, but was going to be. In
short, with all sorts of cavilers, it was best, both for them and
everybody, that whoever had the true light should stick behind the
secure Malakoff of confidence, nor be tempted forth to hazardous
skirmishes on the open ground of reason. Therefore, he deemed it
unadvisable in the good man, even in the privacy of his own mind, or in
communion with a congenial one, to indulge in too much latitude of
philosophizing, or, indeed, of compassionating, since this might, beget
an indiscreet habit of thinking and feeling which might unexpectedly
betray him upon unsuitable occasions. Indeed, whether in private or
public, there was nothing which a good man was more bound to guard
himself against than, on some topics, the emotional unreserve of his
natural heart; for, that the natural heart, in certain points, was not
what it might be, men had been authoritatively admonished.

But he thought he might be getting dry.

The merchant, in his good-nature, thought otherwise, and said that he
would be glad to refresh himself with such fruit all day. It was sitting
under a ripe pulpit, and better such a seat than under a ripe
peach-tree.

The other was pleased to find that he had not, as he feared, been
prosing; but would rather not be considered in the formal light of a
preacher; he preferred being still received in that of the equal and
genial companion. To which end, throwing still more of sociability into
his manner, he again reverted to the unfortunate man. Take the very
worst view of that case; admit that his Goneril was, indeed, a Goneril;
how fortunate to be at last rid of this Goneril, both by nature and by
law? If he were acquainted with the unfortunate man, instead of
condoling with him, he would congratulate him. Great good fortune had
this unfortunate man. Lucky dog, he dared say, after all.

To which the merchant replied, that he earnestly hoped it might be so,
and at any rate he tried his best to comfort himself with the persuasion
that, if the unfortunate man was not happy in this world, he would, at
least, be so in another.

His companion made no question of the unfortunate man's happiness in
both worlds; and, presently calling for some champagne, invited the
merchant to partake, upon the playful plea that, whatever notions other
than felicitous ones he might associate with the unfortunate man, a
little champagne would readily bubble away.

At intervals they slowly quaffed several glasses in silence and
thoughtfulness. At last the merchant's expressive face flushed, his eye
moistly beamed, his lips trembled with an imaginative and feminine
sensibility. Without sending a single fume to his head, the wine seemed
to shoot to his heart, and begin soothsaying there. "Ah," he cried,
pushing his glass from him, "Ah, wine is good, and confidence is good;
but can wine or confidence percolate down through all the stony strata
of hard considerations, and drop warmly and ruddily into the cold cave
of truth? Truth will _not_ be comforted. Led by dear charity, lured by
sweet hope, fond fancy essays this feat; but in vain; mere dreams and
ideals, they explode in your hand, leaving naught but the scorching
behind!"

"Why, why, why!" in amaze, at the burst: "bless me, if _In vino veritas_
be a true saying, then, for all the fine confidence you professed with
me, just now, distrust, deep distrust, underlies it; and ten thousand
strong, like the Irish Rebellion, breaks out in you now. That wine, good
wine, should do it! Upon my soul," half seriously, half humorously,
securing the bottle, "you shall drink no more of it. Wine was meant to
gladden the heart, not grieve it; to heighten confidence, not depress
it."

Sobered, shamed, all but confounded, by this raillery, the most telling
rebuke under such circumstances, the merchant stared about him, and
then, with altered mien, stammeringly confessed, that he was almost as
much surprised as his companion, at what had escaped him. He did not
understand it; was quite at a loss to account for such a rhapsody
popping out of him unbidden. It could hardly be the champagne; he felt
his brain unaffected; in fact, if anything, the wine had acted upon it
something like white of egg in coffee, clarifying and brightening.

"Brightening? brightening it may be, but less like the white of egg in
coffee, than like stove-lustre on a stove--black, brightening seriously,
I repent calling for the champagne. To a temperament like yours,
champagne is not to be recommended. Pray, my dear sir, do you feel quite
yourself again? Confidence restored?"

"I hope so; I think I may say it is so. But we have had a long talk, and
I think I must retire now."

So saying, the merchant rose, and making his adieus, left the table with
the air of one, mortified at having been tempted by his own honest
goodness, accidentally stimulated into making mad disclosures--to
himself as to another--of the queer, unaccountable caprices of his
natural heart.

 We interrupt our narrator's regularly scheduled announcement with an announcement from...our narrator. He says: don't judge. Specifically, don't be like the American scholar in London who prejudged a dude for his fancy duds before he found out that the dude was also a great sage. How embarrassing. This is all to remind the reader not to judge Tassel for not being sympathetic earlier, because we'd then unfairly assume he's heartless. Apparently, Tassel's got boatloads of compassion for the predicament in which Weeds finds himself. Mr. Roberts and Tassel bond over their shared pity. Does Weeds still have faith in his fellow man? Tassel wants to know. Mr. Roberts misunderstands and says that Weeds is handling things well and is resigned to his life. Tassel's all, Very good, but I hope he doesn't lose confidence in his fellow man. While we're on the subject, it's probably not fair to take the unfortunate Weeds's word for it. After all, husband and wife probably both have their flaws and their good points. Mr. Roberts veritably flips out at this suggestion. How could anyone feel anything but sympathy? Tassel gets Mr. Roberts to cool off by making the argument that to distrust Goneril to such a degree is to lose faith in Providence and the goodness that stems from one's belief. Besides, Tassel adds, being too compassionate will train your head and your heart to be too easily swayed by emotion, and then you'll just be a fool in public. Oh, and another thing: wishing revenge on Goneril is another ding against Providence, because it shows you don't have faith in what God is doing now, but are hoping for something from God in the future. Doubting Providence, Tassel continues, is like putting your faith in the stock market during wartime. Translation: it's risky. At this point, Tassel looks sideways at his exchange book. Mr. Roberts is cowed and fully on board with Tassel's survey of things. Tassel hopes he wasn't being a bossy know-it-all. Mr. Roberts is all, No, I like it. You're better than a preacher. This makes Tassel uneasy, because he prefers to just chat like equals. To get back on the same level again, he pokes at Goneril: Weeds is better off without her, anyway--his misfortune is really cause for celebration. They men decide to drink to that. A lot, a lot. Once fully under the effects of champagne, Mr. Roberts gets weepy about how evil Goneril is all over again. Tassel is irritated as all get-out: Aha. The truth comes out. You, sir, have no faith in your fellow man. What's more, I'm cutting you off. So there. Mr. Roberts is embarrassed.

