Evergreens
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Evergreens
by Jerome K. Jerome
Evergreens
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They look so dull and dowdy in the spring weather, when the snow
drops and the crocuses are putting on their dainty frocks of white and
mauve and yellow, and the baby-buds from every branch are peeping with
bright eyes out on the world, and stretching forth soft little leaves toward
the coming gladness of their lives. They stand apart, so cold and hard
amid the stirring hope and joy that are throbbing all around them.
And in the deep full summer-time, when all the rest of nature dons its
richest garb of green, and the roses clamber round the porch, and the grass
waves waist-high in the meadow, and the fields are gay with flowers--they
seem duller and dowdier than ever then, wearing their faded winter's dress,
looking so dingy and old and worn.
In the mellow days of autumn, when the trees, like dames no longer
young, seek to forget their aged looks under gorgeous bright-toned robes
of gold and brown and purple, and the grain is yellow in the fields, and the
ruddy fruit hangs clustering from the drooping boughs, and the wooded
hills in their thousand hues stretched like leafy rainbows above the vale--
ah! surely they look their dullest and dowdiest then. The gathered glory
of the dying year is all around them. They seem so out of place among it,
in their somber, everlasting green, like poor relations at a rich man's feast.
It is such a weather-beaten old green dress. So many summers' suns have
blistered it, so many winters' rains have beat upon it--such a shabby, mean,
old dress; it is the only one they have!
They do not look quite so bad when the weary winter weather is come,
when the flowers are dead, and the hedgerows are bare, and the trees stand
out leafless against the gray sky, and the birds are all silent, and the fields
are brown, and the vine clings round the cottages with skinny, fleshless
arms, and they alone of all things are unchanged, they alone of all the
forest are green, they alone of all the verdant host stand firm to front the
cruel winter.
They are not very beautiful, only strong and stanch and steadfast--the
same in all times, through all seasons--ever the same, ever green. The
spring cannot brighten them, the summer cannot scorch them, the autumn
cannot wither them, the winter cannot kill them.
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There are evergreen men and women in the world, praise be to God!
Not many of them, but a few. They are not the showy folk; they are not
the clever, attractive folk. (Nature is an old-fashioned shopkeeper; she
never puts her best goods in the window.) They are only the quiet, strong
folk; they are stronger than the world, stronger than life or death, stronger
than Fate. The storms of life sweep over them, and the rains beat down
upon them, and the biting frosts creep round them; but the winds and the
rains and the frosts pass away, and they are still standing, green and
straight. They love the sunshine of life in their undemonstrative way--its
pleasures, its joys. But calamity cannot bow them, sorrow and affliction
bring not despair to their serene faces, only a little tightening of the lips;
the sun of our prosperity makes the green of their friendship no brighter,
the frost of our adversity kills not the leaves of their affection.
Let us lay hold of such men and women; let us grapple them to us with
hooks of steel; let us cling to them as we would to rocks in a tossing sea.
We do not think very much of them in the summertime of life. They do not
flatter us or gush over us. They do not always agree with us. They are
not always the most delightful society, by any means. They are not good
talkers, nor--which would do just as well, perhaps better--do they make
enraptured listeners. They have awkward manners, and very little tact.
They do not shine to advantage beside our society friends. They do not
dress well; they look altogether somewhat dowdy and commonplace. We
almost hope they will not see us when we meet them just outside the club.
They are not the sort of people we want to ostentatiously greet in crowded
places. It is not till the days of our need that we learn to love and know
them. It is not till the winter that the birds see the wisdom of building
their nests in the evergreen trees.
And we, in our spring-time folly of youth, pass them by with a sneer,
the uninteresting, colorless evergreens, and, like silly children with
nothing but eyes in their heads, stretch out our hands and cry for the pretty
flowers. We will make our little garden of life such a charming, fairy-
like spot, the envy of every passer-by! There shall nothing grow in it but
lilies and roses, and the cottage we will cover all over with Virginia-
creeper. And, oh, how sweet it will look, under the dancing summer sun-
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light, when the soft west breeze is blowing!
And, oh, how we shall stand and shiver there when the rain and the
east wind come!
Oh, you foolish, foolish little maidens, with your dainty heads so full
of unwisdom! how often--oh! how often, are you to be warned that it is
not always the sweetest thing in lovers that is the best material to make a
good-wearing husband out of? "The lover sighing like a furnace" will
not go on sighing like a furnace forever. That furnace will go out. He
will become the husband, "full of strange oaths--jealous in honor, sudden
and quick in quarrel," and grow "into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon."
How will he wear? There will be no changing him if he does not suit, no
sending him back to be altered, no having him let out a bit where he is too
tight and hurts you, no having him taken in where he is too loose, no
laying him by when the cold comes, to wrap yourself up in something
warmer. As he is when you select him, so he will have to last you all
your life--through all changes, through all seasons.
Yes, he looks very pretty now--handsome pattern, if the colors are fast
and it does not fade--feels soft and warm to the touch. How will he stand
the world's rough weather? How will he stand life's wear and tear?
He looks so manly and brave. His hair curls so divinely. He dresses
so well (I wonder if the tailor's bill is paid?) He kisses your hand so
gracefully. He calls you such pretty names. His arm feels so strong a
round you. His fine eyes are so full of tenderness as they gaze down into
yours.
Will he kiss your hand when it is wrinkled and old? Will he call you
pretty names when the baby is crying in the night, and you cannot keep it
quiet--or, better still, will he sit up and take a turn with it? Will his arm be
strong around you in the days of trouble? Will his eyes shine above you
full of tenderness when yours are growing dim?
And you boys, you silly boys! what materials for a wife do you think
you will get out of the empty-headed coquettes you are raving and tearing
your hair about. Oh! yes, she is very handsome, and she dresses with
exquisite taste (the result of devoting the whole of her heart, mind and soul
to the subject, and never allowing her thoughts to be distracted from it by
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any other mundane or celestial object whatsoever); and she is very
agreeable and entertaining and fascinating; and she will go on looking
handsome, and dressing exquisitely, and being agreeable and entertaining
and fascinating just as much after you have married her as before--more so,
if anything.
But _you_ will not get the benefit of it. Husbands will be charmed
and fascinated by her in plenty, but _you_ will not be among them. You
will run the show, you will pay all the expenses, do all the work. Your
performing lady will be most affable and enchanting to the crowd. They
will stare at her, and admire her, and talk to her, and flirt with her. And
you will be able to feel that you are quite a benefactor to your fellow-men
and women--to your fellow-men especially--in providing such delightful
amusement for them, free. But _you_ will not get any of the fun yourself.
You will not get the handsome looks. _You_ will get the jaded face,
and the dull, lusterless eyes, and the untidy hair with the dye showing on it.
You will not get the exquisite dresses. _You_ will get dirty, shabby
frocks and slommicking dressing-gowns, such as your cook would be
ashamed to wear. _You_ will not get the charm and fascination. _You_
will get the after-headaches, the complainings and grumblings, the silence
and sulkiness, the weariness and lassitude and ill-temper that comes as
such a relief after working hard all day at being pleasant!
It is not the people who shine in society, but the people who brighten
up the back parlor; not the people who are charming when they are out,
but the people who are charming when they are in, that are good to _live_
with. It is not the brilliant men and women, but the simple, strong,
restful men and women, that make the best traveling companions for the
road of life. The men and women who will only laugh as they put up the
umbrella when the rain begins to fall, who will trudge along cheerfully
through the mud and over the stony places--the comrades who will lay
their firm hand on ours and strengthen us when the way is dark and we are
growing weak--the evergreen men and women, who, like the holly, are at
their brightest and best when the blast blows chilliest--the stanch men and
women!
It is a grand thing this stanchness. It is the difference between a dog
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and a sheep--between a man and an oyster.
Women, as a rule, are stancher than men. There are women that you
feel you could rely upon to the death. But very few men indeed have this
dog-like virtue. Men, taking them generally, are more like cats. You may
live with them and call them yours for twenty years, but you can never
feel _quite_ sure of them. You never know exactly what they are
thinking of. You never feel easy in your mind as to the result of the next-
door neighbor's laying down a Brussels carpet in his kitchen.
We have no school for the turning-out of stanch men in this nineteenth
century. In the old, earnest times, war made men stanch and true to each
other. We have learned up a good many glib phrases about the
wickedness of war, and we thank God that we live in these peaceful,
trading times, wherein we can--and do--devote the whole of our thoughts
and energies to robbing and cheating and swindling one another--to
"doing" our friends, and overcoming our enemies by trickery and lies--
wherein, undisturbed by the wicked ways of fighting-men, we can
cultivate to better perfection the "smartness," the craft, and the cunning,
and all the other "business-like" virtues on which we so pride ourselves,
and which were so neglected and treated with so little respect in the bad
old age of violence, when men chose lions and eagles for their symbols
rather than foxes.
There is a good deal to be said against war. I am not prepared to
maintain that war did not bring with it disadvantages, but there can be no
doubt that, for the noblest work of Nature--the making of men--it was a
splendid manufactory. It taught men courage. It trained them in
promptness and determination, in strength of brain and strength of hand.
From its stern lessons they learned fortitude in suffering, coolness in
danger, cheerfulness under reverses. Chivalry, Reverence, and Loyalty
are the beautiful children of ugly War. But, above all gifts, the greatest
gift it gave to men was stanchness.
It first taught men to be true to one another; to be true to their duty,
true to their post; to be in all things faithful, even unto death.
The martyrs that died at the stake; the explorers that fought with
Nature and opened up the world for us; the reformers (they had to do
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something more than talk in those days) who won for us our liberties; the
men who gave their lives to science and art, when science and art brought,
not as now, fame and fortune, but shame and penury--they sprang from the
loins of the rugged men who had learned, on many a grim battlefield, to
laugh at pain and death, who had had it hammered into them, with many a
hard blow, that the whole duty of a man in this world is to be true to his
trust, and fear not.
Do you remember the story of the old Viking who had been converted
to Christianity, and who, just as they were about, with much joy, to baptize
him, paused and asked: "But what--if this, as you tell me, is the only
way to the true Valhalla--what has become of my comrades, my friends
who are dead, who died in the old faith--where are they?"
The priests, confused, replied there could be no doubt those
unfortunate folk had gone to a place they would rather not mention.
"Then," said the old warrior, stepping back, "I will not be baptized. I
will go along with my own people."
He had lived with them, fought beside them; they were his people.
He would stand by them to the end--of eternity. Most assuredly, a very
shocking old Viking! But I think it might be worth while giving up our
civilization and our culture to get back to the days when they made men
like that.
The only reminder of such times that we have left us now, is the bull-
dog; and he is fast dying out--the pity of it! What a splendid old dog he
is! so grim, so silent, so stanch; so terrible, when he has got his idea, of his
duty clear before him; so absurdly meek, when it is only himself that is
concerned.
He is the gentlest, too, and the most lovable of all dogs. He does not
look it. The sweetness of his disposition would not strike the casual
observer at first glance. He resembles the gentleman spoken of in the
oft-quoted stanza:
'E's all right when yer knows 'im. But yer've got to know
'im fust. The first time I ever met a bull-dog--to speak to, that is--
was many years ago. We were lodging down in the country, an orphan
friend of mine named George, and myself, and one night, coming home
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late from some dissolving views we found the family had gone to bed.
They had left a light in our room, however, and we went in and sat down,
and began to take off our boots.
And then, for the first time, we noticed on the hearthrug a bull-dog. A
dog with a more thoughtfully ferocious expression--a dog with, apparently,
a heart more dead to all ennobling and civilizing sentiments--I have never
seen. As George said, he looked more like some heathen idol than a
happy English dog.
He appeared to have been waiting for us; and he rose up and greeted
us with a ghastly grin, and got between us and the door.
We smiled at him--a sickly, propitiatory smile. We said, "Good dog--
poor fellow!" and we asked him, in tones implying that the question could
admit of no negative, if he was not a "nice old chap." We did not really
think so. We had our own private opinion concerning him, and it was
unfavorable. But we did not express it. We would not have hurt his
feelings for the world. He was a visitor, our guest, so to speak--and, as
well-brought-up young men, we felt that the right thing to do was for us to
prevent his gaining any hint that we were not glad to see him, and to make
him feel as little as possible the awkwardness of his position.
I think we succeeded. He was singularly unembarrassed, and far
more at his ease than even we were. He took but little notice of our
flattering remarks, but was much drawn toward George's legs. George
used to be, I remember, rather proud of his legs. I could never see
enough in them myself to excuse George's vanity; indeed, they always
struck me as lumpy. It is only fair to acknowledge, however, that they
quite fascinated that bull-dog. He walked over and criticized them with
the air of a long-baffled connoisseur who had at last found his ideal. At
the termination of his inspection he distinctly smiled.
George, who at that time was modest and bashful, blushed and drew
them up on to the chair. On the dog's displaying a desire to follow them,
George moved up on to the table, and squatted there in the middle, nursing
his knees. George's legs being lost to him, the dog appeared inclined to
console himself with mine. I went and sat beside George on the table.
Sitting with your feet drawn up in front of you, on a small and rickety
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one-legged table, is a most trying exercise, especially if you are not used
to it. George and I both felt our position keenly. We did not like to call
out for help, and bring the family down. We were proud young men, and
we feared lest, to the unsympathetic eye of the comparative stranger, the
spectacle we should present might not prove imposing.
We sat on in silence for about half an hour, the dog keeping a
reproachful eye upon us from the nearest chair, and displaying elephantine
delight whenever we made any movement suggestive of climbing down.
At the end of the half hour we discussed the advisability of "chancing
it," but decided not to. "We should never," George said, "confound
foolhardiness with courage."
"Courage," he continued--George had quite a gift for maxims--
"courage is the wisdom of manhood; foolhardiness, the folly of youth."
He said that to get down from the table while that dog remained in the
room, would clearly prove us to be possessed of the latter quality; so we
restrained ourselves, and sat on.
We sat on for over an hour, by which time, having both grown careless
of life and indifferent to the voice of Wisdom, we did "chance it;" and
throwing the table-cloth over our would-be murderer, charged for the door
and got out.
The next morning we complained to our landlady of her carelessness
in leaving wild beasts about the place, and we gave her a brief if not
exactly truthful, history of the business.
Instead of the tender womanly sympathy we had expected, the old lady
sat down in the easy chair and burst out laughing.
"What! old Boozer," she exclaimed, "you was afraid of old Boozer!
Why, bless you, he wouldn't hurt a worm! He ain't got a tooth in his head,
he ain't; we has to feed him with a spoon; and I'm sure the way the cat
chivies him about must be enough to make his life a burden to him. I
expect he wanted you to nurse him; he's used to being nursed."
And that was the brute that had kept us sitting on a table, with our
boots off, for over an hour on a chilly night!
Another bull-dog exhibition that occurs to me was one given by my
uncle. He had had a bulldog--a young one--given to him by a friend. It
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was a grand dog, so his friend had told him; all it wanted was training--it
had not been properly trained. My uncle did not profess to know much
about the training of bull-dogs; but it seemed a simple enough matter, so
he thanked the man, and took his prize home at the end of a rope.
"Have we got to live in the house with _this?_" asked my aunt,
indignantly, coming in to the room about an hour after the dog's advent,
followed by the quadruped himself, wearing an idiotically self-satisfied
air.
"That!" exclaimed my uncle, in astonishment; "why, it's a splendid dog.
His father was honorably mentioned only last year at the Aquarium."
"Ah, well, all I can say is, that his son isn't going the way to get
honorably mentioned in this neighborhood," replied my aunt, with
bitterness; "he's just finished killing poor Mrs. McSlanger's cat, if you
want to know what he has been doing. And a pretty row there'll be about
it, too!"
"Can't we hush it up?" said my uncle.
"Hush it up?" retorted my aunt. "If you'd heard the row, you wouldn't
sit there and talk like a fool. And if you'll take my advice," added my
aunt, "you'll set to work on this 'training,' or whatever it is, that has got to
be done to the dog, before any human life is lost."
My uncle was too busy to devote any time to the dog for the next day
or so, and all that could be done was to keep the animal carefully confined
to the house.
And a nice time we had with him! It was not that the animal was
bad-hearted. He meant well--he tried to do his duty. What