From Superman to Man. J.A. Rogers
Martino Publishing P.O. Box373, Mansfield Centre, CT 06250 USA
ISBN 978-1-61427-905-1
© 2015 Martino Publishing
From the 1917 edition
All rights reserved. No new contribution to this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Publisher.
“ ‘Pardon’s the word to all.’ Whatever folly men commit, be their shortcomings or their vices what they may, let us exercise forbearance: remembering that when these faults appear in others: it is our follies and vices that we behold. They are the shortcomings of humanity, to which we belong; whose faults, one and all, we share; yes, even those very faults at which we now wax so very indignant, merely because they have not yet appeared in ourselves. They are faults that do not lie on the surface. But they exist down there in the depths of our nature; and should anything call them forth, they will come and show themselves, just as we now see them in others. One man, it is true, may have faults that are absent in his fellow; and it is undeniable that the sum total of bad qualities is in some cases very large; for the difference of individuality between man and man passes all measure.”—Schopenhauer.
FROM “SUPERMAN” TO MAN
FIRST DAY
“A moral, sensible and well-bred man
Will not affront me; and no other can.”
—Cowper.
THE limited was speeding to California over the snow-blanketed prairies of Iowa. On car “Bulwer” the passengers had all retired, and Dixon, the porter, his duties finished, sought the more comfortable warmth of the smoker, where he intended to resume the reading of the book he had brought with him, Finot’s “Race Prejudice.” He had been reading last of the Germans and their doctrine of the racial inferiority of the remainder of the white race. Having found the passage again, he began to read:—“The notion of superior and inferior peoples spread like wildfire through Germany. German literature, philosophy, and politics were profoundly influenced by it——”, when a passenger rushed into the room.
“Is this Boone we are coming into, porter?” he demanded excitedly and in a foreign accent, at the same time peering anxiously out of the window at the twinkling lights of the town toward which the train was rushing.
“No, sir,” reassured Dixon, “we’ll not be in Boone for twenty minutes yet. This is Ames.”
“Thank you,” said the passenger, relieved, “the porter on my car has gone to bed, and I feared I would be carried beyond my destination.” He then started to leave but when half-way, turned and asked, “May I ride here with you and get off when we get there?”
“Certainly, sir,” welcomed Dixon, cordially, “make yourself at home. Where are your grips?” and dropping his book on the seat, Dixon went for the grip.
When Dixon returned the passenger was reading the book.
“Thank you,” he said, as Dixon placed the grip in a corner. Then holding out the book he said, “I took the liberty to look at your book, and I find it’s an old favorite of mine.”
“Ah, is it?” exclaimed Dixon with heightened cordiality.
“This is the first English translation I have seen,” continued the passenger, “and I think it pretty good.”
“Yes, sir, very good. But I prefer it in the original.”
“In the original!” exclaimed the passenger. “Vous parlez français, alors?”
“Mais oui, Monsieur.”
“Where did you learn French,—in New Orleans?” continued the passenger, in French.
“I began it in college and learnt it in France,” responded the porter, in the same language.
“You have been in France! What part?”
“Bordeaux.”
“Bordeaux? How long were you there?”
“Two years and a half.”
“Studying?”
“No, sir. I was Spanish correspondent for Simon and Co., wine merchants.”
“You speak Spanish, too, eh? What are you, Cuban?”
“No, American, but I have been to Cuba. I learned Spanish in the Philippines.”
“You have travelled a great deal, I see.”
“Yes. It seems to be just my luck. I returned from the Philippines in time to get a position as valet to a gentleman about to tour South America, becoming six months later his private secretary. Together we also visited the principal countries of the world. Mr. Simpson died while we were in Bordeaux. That accounts for my stay there.”
“Didn’t you like it in France?”
“Oh, I like it better than anywhere else on earth, but Simon & Co. failed on account of the bad crops and I was thrown out of work. As I had been longing to see the folks at home I returned to America.”
“I should think with your knowledge of French and Spanish you ought to be able to get a better job than this.”
“Well, I have never been able to get one, and when one has a family he must get the wherewithal to live some way.”
“But have you tried to get something better?”
“I am trying continually. On my return from Europe I advertised for a position as French and Spanish correspondent. I received a good many replies, but when my prospective employers saw me, they all made various excuses. There was one, though, who, declaring he was broadminded, would have employed me, but his offer was so small that I refused it on principle.”
“Too bad for a man of your stamp and education. You said you went to college? Do you mind coming a little closer. I can’t hear for the noise.”
“I spent a semester and a half at Yale, then the war broke out and I enlisted,” said the porter, drawing nearer.
They then went on to speak about railroad life, the passenger telling Dixon about an incident that had occurred that afternoon between the porter on his car and a fussy passenger, and concluded by asking Dixon if he met many such persons.
“No,” was the reply. “Nearly all the persons I meet on the road are very pleasant. I am sure that if that wise old Greek who said, “Most men are bad!” had gained his knowledge of human nature on a sleeping car his verdict would have been altogether different. I never knew before that there were so many kind, agreeable persons until I had this position. One meets a grouchy person at such rare intervals that he can afford to be liberal then. I can recall an incident similar to the one you have just told me. Would you care to hear it?”
“Certainly.”
“One day while waiting on a drawing-room passenger I made a mistake. This man, who had got on the train with a grouch, having previously wrangled with the train- and the sleeping-car conductors, at once began to abuse me vociferously in spite of my earnest apology. I took it all calmly, at the same time racking my mind for some polite, but effective retort. As I noted the ludicrousness of his ruffled features an inspiration came to me, whereby I could bring his conduct effectively to his notice. In the room was a full-length mirror, made into the state-room door. Swinging this door around I brought it right in front of him, where he could get a full view of his distorted features, at the same time saying with good nature, ‘see, sir, the mirror does you a strange injustice, today.’ The ridicule was too much for him. He stopped immediately, then started to explode again, and, apparently at a loss for words, sat down. He later proved to be one of the finest passengers I have ever served.”
The two then began to exchange experiences of French life, reverting soon after to the subject of the book and its author.
“I