Here,
listen, and I will give you a lesson in the Myriad-Minded whom
Stratford-upon-Avon blessed our little earth with."
Therewith, Mac began to read from the first act of "The Tempest." Now chum
was a Shakspeare enthusiast, and, withal, a very fine reader, as well as,
from long study, quite pervaded with the Master's diction and style of
thought. As he read on, he commented, in his brief, pointed way, upon the
text, contrasting the Boatswain's practical usefulness with the shivering
helplessness of the Courtiers. "Now this is your proper somatology," he
added. "What our Bo's'un says to Gonzalo, the world will say to you,
Clarian, when you propose to it any of your panaceas: Are you able to do
better than we? If so, save us from the shipwreck that threatens. If not,
go to your prayers. Anyhow, 'out of our way, I say!'"
"Bravo!" cried I, when the homily came to an end, "Mac is preaching
Carlylism, as I'm a sinner. The next utterance will be something about
roofing Hell over, or the Everlasting Yea, or Morrison's Pills! Proceed:
'lay on,' Mac! none of us will cry, 'Hold, enough!' save under risible
compulsion."
Mac sulked awhile, but soon resumed his reading,--sparing us further
comment, however. Thus was Clarian led over the threshold, and introduced
into Shakspeare's magic world. When Mac closed his book at the end of the
act, Clarian's face glowed with a flattering something that must have
pleased my chum, for he _was_ proud of his reading,--and the moisture
glittering in the lad's eye, his flushed cheek, and the tremor of his voice
as he asked to hear more, spoke volumes.
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