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- 2518
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:47:57.722Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
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- 2420
- text
- CHAPTER X.
IN THE CABIN.
Stools, settees, sofas, divans, ottomans; occupying them are clusters of
men, old and young, wise and simple; in their hands are cards spotted
with diamonds, spades, clubs, hearts; the favorite games are whist,
cribbage, and brag. Lounging in arm-chairs or sauntering among the
marble-topped tables, amused with the scene, are the comparatively few,
who, instead of having hands in the games, for the most part keep their
hands in their pockets. These may be the philosophes. But here and
there, with a curious expression, one is reading a small sort of
handbill of anonymous poetry, rather wordily entitled:--
"ODE
ON THE INTIMATIONS
OF
DISTRUST IN MAN,
UNWILLINGLY INFERRED FROM REPEATED REPULSES,
IN DISINTERESTED ENDEAVORS
TO PROCURE HIS
CONFIDENCE."
On the floor are many copies, looking as if fluttered down from a
balloon. The way they came there was this: A somewhat elderly person, in
the quaker dress, had quietly passed through the cabin, and, much in
the manner of those railway book-peddlers who precede their proffers of
sale by a distribution of puffs, direct or indirect, of the volumes to
follow, had, without speaking, handed about the odes, which, for the
most part, after a cursory glance, had been disrespectfully tossed
aside, as no doubt, the moonstruck production of some wandering
rhapsodist.
In due time, book under arm, in trips the ruddy man with the
traveling-cap, who, lightly moving to and fro, looks animatedly about
him, with a yearning sort of gratulatory affinity and longing,
expressive of the very soul of sociality; as much as to say, "Oh, boys,
would that I were personally acquainted with each mother's son of you,
since what a sweet world, to make sweet acquaintance in, is ours, my
brothers; yea, and what dear, happy dogs are we all!"
And just as if he had really warbled it forth, he makes fraternally up
to one lounging stranger or another, exchanging with him some pleasant
remark.
"Pray, what have you there?" he asked of one newly accosted, a little,
dried-up man, who looked as if he never dined.
"A little ode, rather queer, too," was the reply, "of the same sort you
see strewn on the floor here."
"I did not observe them. Let me see;" picking one up and looking it
over. "Well now, this is pretty; plaintive, especially the opening:--
'Alas for man, he hath small sense
Of genial trust and confidence.'
--If it be so, alas for him, indeed. Runs off very smoothly, sir.
Beautiful pathos. But do you think the sentiment just?"
"As to that," said the little dried-up man, "I think it a kind of queer
thing altogether, and yet I am almost ashamed to add, it really has set
me to thinking; yes and to feeling. Just now, somehow, I feel as it were
trustful and genial. I don't know that ever I felt so much so before. I
am naturally numb in my sensibilities; but this ode, in its way, works
on my numbness not unlike a sermon, which, by lamenting over my lying
dead in trespasses and sins, thereby stirs me up to be all alive in
well-doing."
"Glad to hear it, and hope you will do well, as the doctors say. But who
snowed the odes about here?"
"I cannot say; I have not been here long."
"Wasn't an angel, was it? Come, you say you feel genial, let us do as
the rest, and have cards."
"Thank you, I never play cards."
"A bottle of wine?"
"Thank you, I never drink wine."
"Cigars?"
"Thank you, I never smoke cigars."
"Tell stories?"
"To speak truly, I hardly think I know one worth telling."
"Seems to me, then, this geniality you say you feel waked in you, is as
water-power in a land without mills. Come, you had better take a genial
hand at the cards. To begin, we will play for as small a sum as you
please; just enough to make it interesting."
"Indeed, you must excuse me. Somehow I distrust cards."
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