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Updated: May 11, 2025
But, first of all, pray tell me if you know what is the meaning of the word philosophy? For though I use it, I do not know what the thing really is, only I guess that it is something good. Scip. I will tell you briefly. The word is compounded of two Greek words, philo, love, and sophia, wisdom; so that it means love of wisdom, and philosopher a lover of wisdom. Berg. What a deal you know, Scipio.
They are all good-for-nothing vagabonds, bread weevils and winesponges. Scip. No more of that, Berganza; let us not go over the same ground again. Continue your story, for the night is waning, and I should not like, when the sun rises, that we should be left in the shades of silence. Berg. Keep it and listen.
The doctor did not care to take a hand, and Scip, apparently tired out with his day's journey, had thrown himself on a buffalo-robe in a corner, and seemed fast asleep.
The Doctor, receiving a nod from Scip, leaned forward, his eyes fastened intently on Cummings and his voice sunk to a low whisper, replied: "And you may as well own up, too. We're all in the same boat. That is just what you are here for, and if you think I am fool enough to loaf around this hole a week for nothing, it shows you don't know me. I need you two and you need Scip and myself.
The negress, as I have told you, used to come to amuse herself with the negro, making sure of my silence on account of the pieces of meat, bread, or cheese she threw me. Gifts have much power, Scipio. Scip. Much. Don't digress: go on. Berg. I remember, when I was a student, to have heard from the master a Latin phrase or adage, as they call it, which ran thus: habet bovem in lingua. Scip.
"It was a painting of a man's face and by pressing the eye a spring was released and the whole picture swung back, showing a cavity back of it in which the old miser kept his valuables." Scip, who was always cutting some caper, here rose to his feet, saying "Dunno, but mebbe Massa Swanson keep he truck behind that chromiow.
"It wouldn't have been a great while," he said. "I wish you hadn't, Scip, but never mind!" He shook the negro gently off, as if he had been a child. There was nothing more to say. He would go back to his work. As he walked along, he suddenly said to himself: "She did not smile this morning! Nor the lady at the telegraph office, either. Nor a good many other folks.
He thought how much love and care suffering gave birth to, in human hearts. He began to think a little of his own suffering; then Scip called him, sobbing wretchedly. Scip was very sick. Hope had sent for Dr. Dare. She had not come. Scip was too sick to be left. The nurse found his duty with the negro. Scip was growing worse.
God is fair." "Yes," said the penitent convict, in a dull voice, "God is fair, and so he let 'em tell of me. I've got no fault to find with Him. So nigh as I can understand Almighty God, He means well.... I guess He'll pull me through some way.... But I wish Scip hadn't told just now. I can't help being sorry. It wasn't that I wanted to cheat, but" he choked "the sick folks used to like me.
Lord, a frost! Lord, a cool, white, clean frost, for these poor devils that have borne so much!" At midnight of that Saturday he dozed and dreamed. He dreamed of what he had thought while Scip was sick: of what it was like, to be holy; and, sadly waking, thought of holy people good women and honest men, who had never done a deadly deed.
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