CHAPTER V.
Mop becomes a personage.--Much thought is bestowed on the verbal
dignities, without which a personage would become a mop.--The
importance of names is apparent in all history.--If Augustus had
called himself king, Rome would have risen against him as a Tarquin;
so he remained a simple equestrian, and modestly called himself
Imperator.--Mop chooses his own title in a most mysterious manner,
and ceases to be Mop.
"The first noticeable defect in your name of Mop," said Gentleman Waife,
"is, as you yourself denote, the want of elongation. Monosyllables are
not imposing, and in striking compositions their meaning is elevated by
periphrasis; that is to say, Sophy, that what before was a short truth,
an elegant author elaborates into a long stretch."
"Certainly," said Sophy, thoughtfully; "I don't think the name of Mop
would draw! Still he is very like a mop."
"For that reason the name degrades him the more, and lowers him from an
intellectual phenomenon to a physical attribute, which is vulgar. I hope
that that dog will enable us to rise in the scale of being. For whereas
we in acting could only command a threepenny audience--reserved seats a
shilling--he may aspire to half-crowns and dress-boxes; that is, if we
can hit on a name which inspires respect. Now, although the dog is big,
it is not by his size that he is to become famous, or we might call him
Hercules or Goliath; neither is it by his beauty, or Adonis would not be
unsuitable. It is by his superior sagacity and wisdom. And there I am
puzzled to find his prototype amongst mortals; for, perhaps, it may be my
ignorance of history--"
"You ignorant, indeed, Grandfather!"
"But considering the innumerable millions who have lived on the earth, it
is astonishing how few I can call to mind who have left behind them a
proverbial renown for wisdom. There is, indeed, Solomon, but he fell off
at the last; and as he belongs to sacred history, we must not take a
liberty with his name. Who is there very, very wise, besides Solomon?
Think, Sophy,--Profane History."
Sophy (after a musing pause).--"Puss in Boots."
"Well, he was wise; but then he was not human; he was a cat. Ha!
Socrates. Shall we call him Socrates, Socrates, Socrates?"
SOPHY.--"Socrates, Socrates!" Mop yawned.
WAIFE.--"He don't take to Socrates,--prosy!"
SOPHY.--"Ah, Mr. Merle's book about the Brazen Head, Friar Bacon! He
must have been very wise."
WAIFE.--"Not bad; mysterious, but not recondite; historical, yet
familiar. What does Mop say to it? Friar, Friar, Friar Bacon, sir,
--Friar!"
SOPHY (coaxingly).--"Friar!"
Mop, evidently conceiving that appeal is made to some other personage,
canine or human, not present, rouses up, walks to the door, smells at the
chink, returns, shakes his head, and rests on his haunches, eying his two
friends superciliously.
SOPHY.--"He does not take to that name."
WAIFE.--"He has his reasons for it; and indeed there are many worthy
persons who disapprove of anything that savours of magical practices.
Mop intimates that on entering public life one should beware of offending
the respectable prejudices of a class."
Mr. Waife then, once more resorting to the recesses of scholastic memory,
plucked therefrom, somewhat by the head and shoulders, sundry names
reverenced in a by-gone age. He thought of the seven wise men of Greece,
but could only recall the nomenclature of two out of the--even,--a sad
proof of the distinction between collegiate fame and popular renown. He
called Thales; he called Bion. Mop made no response. "Wonderful
intelligence!" said Waife; "he knows that Thales and Bion would not
draw!--obsolete."
Mop was equally mute to Aristotle. He pricked up his cars at Plato,
perhaps because the sound was not wholly dissimilar from that of Ponto,
--a name of which he might have had vague reminiscences. The Romans not
having cultivated an original philosophy, though they contrived to
produce great men without it, Waife passed by that perished people. He
crossed to China, and tried Confucius. Mop had evidently never heard of
him.
"I am at the end of my list, so far as the wise men are concerned," said
Waife, wiping his forehead. "If Mop were to distinguish himself by
valour, one would find heroes by the dozen,--Achilles, and Hector, and
Julius Caesar, and Pompey, and Bonaparte, and Alexander the Great, and
the Duke of Marlborough. Or, if he wrote poetry, we could fit him to a
hair. But wise men certainly are scarce, and when one has hit on a wise
man's name it is so little known to the vulgar that it would carry no
more weight with it than Spot or Toby. But necessarily some name the dog
must have, and take to sympathetically."
Sophy meanwhile had extracted the dominos from Waife's bundle, and with
the dominos an alphabet and a multiplication-table in printed capitals.
As the Comedian's one eye rested upon the last, he exclaimed, "But after
all, Mop's great strength will probably be in arithmetic, and the science
of numbers is the root of all wisdom. Besides, every man, high and low,
wants to make a fortune, and associations connected with addition and
multiplication are always pleasing. Who, then, is the sage at
computation most universally known? Unquestionably Cocker! He must take
to that, Cocker, Cocker" (commandingly),--"C-o-c-k-e-r" (with persuasive
sweetness).
Mop looked puzzled; he put his head first on one side, then on the other.
SOPHY (with mellifluous endearment).--"Cocker, good Cocker; Cocker dear!"
BOTH.--"Cocker, Cocker, Cocker!"
Excited and bewildered, Mop put up his head, and gave vent to his
perplexities in a long and lugubrious howl, to which certainly none who
heard it could have desired addition or multiplication.
"Stop this instant, sir,--stop; I shoot you! You are dead,--down!"
Waife adjusted his staff to his shoulder gun-wise; and at the word of
command, "Down," Mop was on his side, stiff and lifeless. "Still," said
Waife, "a name connected with profound calculation would be the most
appropriate; for instance, Sir Isaac--"
Before the. Comedian could get out the word Newton, Mop had sprung to
his four feet, and, with wagging tail and wriggling back, evinced a sense
of beatified recognition.
"Astounding!" said Waife, rather awed. "Can it be the name?
Impossible. Sir Isaac, Sir Isaac!"
"Bow-wow!" answered Mop, joyously.
"If there be any truth in the doctrine of metempsychosis," faltered
Gentleman Waife, "if the great Newton could have transmigrated into that
incomparable animal! Newton, Newton!" To that name Mop made no
obeisance, but, evidently still restless, walked round the room, smelling
at every corner, and turning to look back with inquisitive earnestness at
his new master.
"He does not seem to catch at the name of Newton," said Waife, trying it
thrice again, and vainly, "and yet he seems extremely well versed in the
principle of gravity. Sir Isaac!" The dog bounded towards him, put his
paws on his shoulder, and licked his face. "Just cut out those figures
carefully, my dear, and see if we can get him to tell us how much twice
ten are--I mean by addressing him as Sir Isaac."
Sophy cut the figures from the multiplication table, and arranged them,
at Waife's instruction, in a circle on the floor. "Now, Sir Isaac." Mop
lifted a paw, and walked deliberately round the letters. "Now, Sir
Isaac, how much are ten times two?" Mop deliberately made his survey and
calculation, and, pausing at twenty, stooped, and took the letters in his
mouth.
"It is not natural," cried Sophy, much alarmed. "It must be wicked, and
I'd rather have nothing to do with it, please."
"Silly child! He was but obeying my sign. He had been taught that trick
already under the name of Mop. The only strange thing is, that he should
do it also under the name of Sir Isaac, and much more cheerfully too.
However, whether he has been the great Newton or not, a live dog is
better than a dead lion. But it is clear that, in acknowledging the name
of Sir Isaac, he does not encourage us to take that of Newton; and he is
right: for it might be thought unbecoming to apply to an animal, however
extraordinary, who by the severity of fortune is compelled to exhibit his
talents for a small pecuniary reward, the family name of so great a
philosopher. Sir Isaac, after all, is a vague appellation; any dog has a
right to be Sir Isaac--Newton may be left conjectural. Let us see if we
can add to our arithmetical information. Look at me, Sir Isaac." Sir
Isaac looked and grinned affectionately; and under that title learned a
new combination with a facility that might have relieved Sophy's mind of
all superstitious belief that the philosopher was resuscitated in the
dog, had she known that in life that great master of calculations the
most abstruse could not accurately cast up a simple sum in addition.
Nothing brought him to the end of his majestic tether like dot and carry
one. Notable type of our human incompleteness, where men might deem our
studies had made us most complete! Notable type, too, of that grandest
order of all human genius which seems to arrive at results by intuition,
which a child might pose by a row of figures on a slate, while it is
solving the laws that link the stars to infinity! But /revenons a nos
moutons/, what was the astral attraction that incontestably bound the
reminiscences of Mop to the cognominal distinction of Sir Isaac? I had
prepared a very erudite and subtle treatise upon this query, enlivened by
quotations from the ancient Mystics,--such as Iamblicus and Proclus,--as
well as by a copious reference to the doctrine of the more modern
Spiritualists, from Sir Kenelm Digby and Swedenborg, to Monsieur Cahagnet
and Judge Edwards. It was to be called Inquiry into the Law of
Affinities, by Philomopsos: when, unluckily for my treatise, I arrived at
the knowledge of a fact which, though it did not render the treatise less
curious, knocked on the head the theory upon which it was based. The
baptismal name of the old soldier, Mop's first proprietor and earliest
preceptor, was Isaac; and his master being called in the homely household
by that Christian name, the sound had entered into Mop's youngest and
most endeared associations. His canine affections had done much towards
ripening his scholastic education. "Where is Isaac?" "Call Isaac!"
"Fetch Isaac his hat," etc. Stilled was that name when the old soldier
died; but when heard again, Mop's heart was moved, and in missing the old
master, he felt more at home with the new. As for the title, "Sir," it
was a mere expletive in his ears. Such was the fact, and such the
deduction to be drawn from it. Not that it will satisfy every one. I
know that philosophers who deny all that they have not witnessed, and
refuse to witness what they resolve to deny, will reject the story in
toto; and will prove, by reference to their own dogs, that a dog never
recognizes the name of his master,--never yet could be taught arithmetic.
I know also that there are Mystics who will prefer to believe that Mop
was in direct spiritual communication with unseen Isaacs, or in a state
of clairvoyance, or under the influence of the odic fluid. But did we
ever yet find in human reason a question with only one side to it? Is
not truth a polygon? Have not sages arisen in our day to deny even the
principle of gravity, for which we bad been so long contentedly taking
the word of the great Sir Isaac? It is that blessed spirit of
controversy which keeps the world going; and it is that which, perhaps,
explains why Mr. Waife, when his memory was fairly put to it, could
remember, out of the history of the myriads who have occupied our planet
from the date of Adam to that in which I now write, so very few men whom
the world will agree to call wise, and out of that very few so scant a
percentage with names sufficiently known to make them more popularly
significant of pre-eminent sagacity than if they had been called--Mops.
