Chapter 5

by Herman Melville

　　THE MAN WITH THE WEED MAKES IT AN EVEN QUESTION WHETHER HE BE A GREATSAGE OR A GREAT SIMPLETON."Well, there is sorrow in the world, but goodness too; and goodness thatis not greenness, either, no more than sorrow is. Dear good man. Poorbeating heart!"It was the man with the weed, not very long after quitting the merchant,murmuring to himself with his hand to his side like one with theheart-disease.Meditation over kindness received seemed to have softened him something,too, it may be, beyond what might, perhaps, have been looked for fromone whose unwonted self-respect in the hour of need, and in the act ofbeing aided, might have appeared to some not wholly unlike pride out ofplace; and pride, in any place, is seldom very feeling. But the truth,perhaps, is, that those who are least touched with that vice, besidesbeing not unsusceptible to goodness, are sometimes the ones whom aruling sense of propriety makes appear cold, if not thankless, under afavor. For, at such a time, to be full of warm, earnest words, andheart-felt protestations, is to create a scene; and well-bred peopledislike few things more than that; which would seem to look as if theworld did not relish earnestness; but, not so; because the world, beingearnest itself, likes an earnest scene, and an earnest man, very well,but only in their place--the stage. See what sad work they make of it,who, ignorant of this, flame out in Irish enthusiasm and with Irishsincerity, to a benefactor, who, if a man of sense and respectability,as well as kindliness, can but be more or less annoyed by it; and, if ofa nervously fastidious nature, as some are, may be led to think almostas much less favorably of the beneficiary paining him by his gratitude,as if he had been guilty of its contrary, instead only of anindiscretion. But, beneficiaries who know better, though they may feelas much, if not more, neither inflict such pain, nor are inclined to runany risk of so doing. And these, being wise, are the majority. By whichone sees how inconsiderate those persons are, who, from the absence ofits officious manifestations in the world, complain that there is notmuch gratitude extant; when the truth is, that there is as much of it asthere is of modesty; but, both being for the most part votarists of theshade, for the most part keep out of sight.What started this was, to account, if necessary, for the changed air ofthe man with the weed, who, throwing off in private the cold garb ofdecorum, and so giving warmly loose to his genuine heart, seemed almosttransformed into another being. This subdued air of softness, too, wastoned with melancholy, melancholy unreserved; a thing which, however atvariance with propriety, still the more attested his earnestness; forone knows not how it is, but it sometimes happens that, whereearnestness is, there, also, is melancholy.At the time, he was leaning over the rail at the boat's side, in hispensiveness, unmindful of another pensive figure near--a young gentlemanwith a swan-neck, wearing a lady-like open shirt collar, thrown back,and tied with a black ribbon. From a square, tableted-broach, curiouslyengraved with Greek characters, he seemed a collegian--not improbably, asophomore--on his travels; possibly, his first. A small book bound inRoman vellum was in his hand.Overhearing his murmuring neighbor, the youth regarded him with somesurprise, not to say interest. But, singularly for a collegian, beingapparently of a retiring nature, he did not speak; when the other stillmore increased his diffidence by changing from soliloquy to colloquy, ina manner strangely mixed of familiarity and pathos."Ah, who is this? You did not hear me, my young friend, did you? Why,you, too, look sad. My melancholy is not catching!""Sir, sir," stammered the other."Pray, now," with a sort of sociable sorrowfulness, slowly sliding alongthe rail, "Pray, now, my young friend, what volume have you there? Giveme leave," gently drawing it from him. "Tacitus!" Then opening it atrandom, read: "In general a black and shameful period lies before me.""Dear young sir," touching his arm alarmedly, "don't read this book. Itis poison, moral poison. Even were there truth in Tacitus, such truthwould have the operation of falsity, and so still be poison, moralpoison. Too well I know this Tacitus. In my college-days he came nearsouring me into cynicism. Yes, I began to turn down my collar, and goabout with a disdainfully joyless expression.""Sir, sir, I--I--""Trust me. Now, young friend, perhaps you think that Tacitus, like me,is only melancholy; but he's more--he's ugly. A vast difference, youngsir, between the melancholy view and the ugly. The one may show theworld still beautiful, not so the other. The one may be compatible withbenevolence, the other not. The one may deepen insight, the othershallows it. Drop Tacitus. Phrenologically, my young friend, you wouldseem to have a well-developed head, and large; but cribbed within theugly view, the Tacitus view, your large brain, like your large ox in thecontracted field, will but starve the more. And don't dream, as some ofyou students may, that, by taking this same ugly view, the deepermeanings of the deeper books will so alone become revealed to you. DropTacitus. His subtlety is falsity, To him, in his double-refined anatomyof human nature, is well applied the Scripture saying--'There is asubtle man, and the same is deceived.' Drop Tacitus. Come, now, let methrow the book overboard.""Sir, I--I--""Not a word; I know just what is in your mind, and that is just what Iam speaking to. Yes, learn from me that, though the sorrows of the worldare great, its wickedness--that is, its ugliness--is small. Much causeto pity man, little to distrust him. I myself have known adversity, andknow it still. But for that, do I turn cynic? No, no: it is small beerthat sours. To my fellow-creatures I owe alleviations. So, whatever Imay have undergone, it but deepens my confidence in my kind. Now, then"(winningly), "this book--will you let me drown it for you?""Really, sir--I--""I see, I see. But of course you read Tacitus in order to aid you inunderstanding human nature--as if truth was ever got at by libel. Myyoung friend, if to know human nature is your object, drop Tacitus andgo north to the cemeteries of Auburn and Greenwood.""Upon my word, I--I--""Nay, I foresee all that. But you carry Tacitus, that shallow Tacitus.What do I carry? See"--producing a pocket-volume--"Akenside--his'Pleasures of Imagination.' One of these days you will know it. Whateverour lot, we should read serene and cheery books, fitted to inspire loveand trust. But Tacitus! I have long been of opinion that these classicsare the bane of colleges; for--not to hint of the immorality of Ovid,Horace, Anacreon, and the rest, and the dangerous theology of Eschylusand others--where will one find views so injurious to human nature as inThucydides, Juvenal, Lucian, but more particularly Tacitus? When Iconsider that, ever since the revival of learning, these classics havebeen the favorites of successive generations of students and studiousmen, I tremble to think of that mass of unsuspected heresy on everyvital topic which for centuries must have simmered unsurmised in theheart of Christendom. But Tacitus--he is the most extraordinary exampleof a heretic; not one iota of confidence in his kind. What a mockerythat such an one should be reputed wise, and Thucydides be esteemed thestatesman's manual! But Tacitus--I hate Tacitus; not, though, I trust,with the hate that sins, but a righteous hate. Without confidencehimself, Tacitus destroys it in all his readers. Destroys confidence,paternal confidence, of which God knows that there is in this world noneto spare. For, comparatively inexperienced as you are, my dear youngfriend, did you never observe how little, very little, confidence, thereis? I mean between man and man--more particularly between stranger andstranger. In a sad world it is the saddest fact. Confidence! I havesometimes almost thought that confidence is fled; that confidence is theNew Astrea--emigrated--vanished--gone." Then softly sliding nearer, withthe softest air, quivering down and looking up, "could you now, my dearyoung sir, under such circumstances, by way of experiment, simply haveconfidence in me?"From the outset, the sophomore, as has been seen, had struggled with anever-increasing embarrassment, arising, perhaps, from such strangeremarks coming from a stranger--such persistent and prolonged remarks,too. In vain had he more than once sought to break the spell byventuring a deprecatory or leave-taking word. In vain. Somehow, thestranger fascinated him. Little wonder, then, that, when the appealcame, he could hardly speak, but, as before intimated, being apparentlyof a retiring nature, abruptly retired from the spot, leaving thechagrined stranger to wander away in the opposite direction.