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Updated: June 9, 2025
You would like to see, I don't doubt, how we sit at the table, and I will help you by means of a diagram which shows the present arrangement of our seats. The Poet. 2. The Master Of Arts. 3. The Lady. 5. The Landlady. 6. Dr. B. Franklin. 7. That Boy. 8. The Astronomer. 9. The Member of the Haouse. 10. The Register of Deeds. 11. The Salesman. 12. The Capitalist. 13. The Scarabee.
What good does it do to give 'em a name after they 've eat the binding off my folios? asked the Register of Deeds. The Scarabee had too much respect for science to answer such a question as that; and the book, having served its purposes, was passed back to the Lady.
We too, who mock at Israel's golden calf And scoff at Egypt's sacred scarabee, Would have our amulets to clasp and kiss, And flood with rapturous tears, and bear with us To be our dear companions in the dust, Such magic works an image in our souls!
On my left, beyond my next neighbor the Scarabee, at the end of the table, sits a person of whom we know little, except that he carries about him more palpable reminiscences of tobacco and the allied sources of comfort than a very sensitive organization might find acceptable.
Why, said I, you have got hold of one of my own working axioms. I should like to hear you develop it. The Member of the Haouse said he should be glad to listen to the debate. The gentleman had the floor. The Scarabee rose from his chair and departed; I thought his joints creaked as he straightened himself.
From one of the upper buttonholes dangled a thin gold chain, supporting a bunch of small charms against the evil eye, a little coral horn, a tiny silver hunchback, a miniature gilt bell, and two or three coins of gold and silver, besides an Egyptian scarabee in a gold setting. The woman remained standing before Bosio.
To be the supreme authority on anything is a satisfaction to self-love next door to the precious delusions of dementia. I have never pictured a character more contented with himself than the "Scarabee" of this story. BEVERLY FARMS, MASS., August 1, 1891. The idea of a man's "interviewing" himself is rather odd, to be sure. But then that is what we are all of us doing every day.
It is quite certain that both of us, the Master and myself, conceived on the instant a respect for the Scarabee which we had not before felt. He had grappled with one difficulty at any rate and mastered it. He had settled one thing, at least, so it appeared, in such a way that it was not to be brought up again.
He looked a mild surprise, but remained as quiet as one of his own beetles when you touch him and he makes believe he is dead. The blank silence became oppressive. Was the Scarabee crushed, as so many of his namesakes are crushed, under the heel of this trampling omniscient?
I would not give much to hear what the Scarabee says about the old Master, for he does not pretend to form a judgment of anything but beetles, but I should like to hear what the Master has to say about the Scarabee. I waited after breakfast until he had gone, and then asked the Master what he could make of our dried-up friend.
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