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- text
- but once heard applause, or endured contempt, a very different man would
your Hautboy be. Acquiescent and calm from the cradle to the grave, he
obviously slides through the crowd.’
‘Ah?’
‘Why do you say _ah_ to me so strangely whenever I speak?’
‘Did you ever hear of Master Betty?’
‘The great English prodigy, who long ago ousted the Siddons and the
Kembles from Drury Lane, and made the whole town run mad with
acclamation?’
‘The same,’ said Standard, once more inaudibly drumming on the slab.
I looked at him perplexed. He seemed to be holding the master-key of our
theme in mysterious reserve; seemed to be throwing out his Master Betty,
too, to puzzle me only the more.
‘What under heaven can Master Betty, the great genius and prodigy, an
English boy twelve years old, have to do with the poor, commonplace
plodder Hautboy, an American of forty?’
‘Oh, nothing in the least. I don’t imagine that they ever saw each
other. Besides, Master Betty must be dead and buried long ere this.’
‘Then why cross the ocean, and rifle the grave to drag his remains into
this living discussion?’
‘Absent-mindedness, I suppose. I humbly beg pardon. Proceed with your
observations on Hautboy. You think he never had genius, quite too
contented and happy, and fat for that--ah? You think him no pattern for
men in general? affording no lesson of value to neglected merit, genius
ignored, or impotent presumption rebuked?--all of which three amount to
much the same thing. You admire his cheerfulness, while scorning his
commonplace soul. Poor Hautboy, how sad that your very cheerfulness
should, by a by-blow, bring you despite!’
‘I don’t say I scorn him; you are unjust. I simply declare that he is no
pattern for me.’
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