38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE DISCIPLE UNBENDS, AND CONSENTS TO ACT A SOCIAL PART.
In the master's presence the disciple had stood as one
not ignorant of his place; modesty was in his expression,
with a sort of reverential depression. But the
presence of the superior withdrawn, he seemed lithely
to shoot up erect from beneath it, like one of those wire
men from a toy snuff-box.
He was, as before said, a young man of about thirty.
His countenance of that neuter sort, which, in repose,
is neither prepossessing nor disagreeable; so that it
seemed quite uncertain how he would turn out. His
dress was neat, with just enough of the mode to save it
from the reproach of originality; in which general
respect, though with a readjustment of details, his costume
seemed modeled upon his master's. But, upon the
whole, he was, to all appearances, the last person in the
world that one would take for the disciple of any transcendental
philosophy; though, indeed, something
about his sharp nose and shaved chin seemed to hint
that if mysticism, as a lesson, ever came in his way, he
might, with the characteristic knack of a true New-Englander,
turn even so profitless a thing to some profitable
account.
“Well,” said he, now familiarly seating himself in the
vacated chair, “what do you think of Mark? Sublime
fellow, ain't he?”
“That each member of the human guild is worthy
respect my friend,” rejoined the cosmopolitan, “is a
fact which no admirer of that guild will question; but
that, in view of higher natures, the word sublime, so frequently
applied to them, can, without confusion, be also
applied to man, is a point which man will decide for
himself; though, indeed, if he decide it in the affirmative,
it is not for me to object. But I am curious to
know more of that philosophy of which, at present, I
have but inklings. You, its first disciple among men,
it seems, are peculiarly qualified to expound it. Have
you any objections to begin now?”
“None at all,” squaring himself to the table. “Where
shall I begin? At first principles?”
“You remember that it was in a practical way that
you were represented as being fitted for the clear exposition.
Now, what you call first principles, I have, in
some things, found to be more or less vague. Permit
me, then, in a plain way, to suppose some common case
in real life, and that done, I would like you to tell me
how you, the practical disciple of the philosophy I wish
to know about, would, in that case, conduct.”
“A business-like view. Propose the case.”
“Not only the case, but the persons. The case is
this: There are two friends, friends from childhood,
bosom-friends; one of whom, for the first time, being in
need, for the first time seeks a loan from the other, who,
so far as fortune goes, is more than competent to grant
it. And the persons are to be you and I: you, the friend
from whom the loan is sought—I, the friend who seeks
it; you, the disciple of the philosophy in question—I,
a common man, with no more philosophy than to know
that when I am comfortably warm I don't feel cold,
and when I have the ague I shake. Mind, now, you
must work up your imagination, and, as much as possible,
talk and behave just as if the case supposed were
a fact. For brevity, you shall call me Frank, and I will
call you Charlie. Are you agreed?”
“Perfectly. You begin.”
The cosmopolitan paused a moment, then, assuming a
serious and care-worn air, suitable to the part to be
enacted, addressed his hypothesized freind.
