‘WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS.’

I write these pages as a warning. I don’t suppose any one will profit by it. From the time of Cassandra downwards, nobody has ever paid attention to warnings. But that is not my affair.

A London newspaper, some years ago, gave up several columns of its valuable space to the question: ‘What shall we do with our Boys?’ I perused the correspondence with a strong personal interest, for I myself am the proprietor of a boy—several boys, in point of fact; but I refer more particularly to my eldest, aged nineteen, as to whom I felt that it was time something was settled. I have a great belief—partly derived from the before-mentioned correspondence, and partly from my own observation—in studying a boy’s natural bent, and finding him an occupation in accordance with it. Such being the case, I began to study Augustus with a view to finding out his special aptitude; but, unless a really remarkable faculty of outgrowing his trousers may be so regarded, I could not for some time discover that he had any. By dint, however, of careful observation and cross-examination of the household, I elicited that he was addicted to making extremely offensive smells in the back kitchen with chemicals, and that he had what he called a ‘collection’ of beetles and other unpleasant insects stuck on pins in a box in his bedroom. It appeared, therefore, that his proclivities were scientific, and I ultimately decided to make an analyst of him. Accordingly, after disposing of sundry painful but presumably necessary arrangements as to premium, Augustus was duly articled to a Public Analyst. I use capital letters, because I observed that Mr Scrutin himself always did so. Why, I cannot say. Possibly, a public analyst—without capitals—would not command the same amount of public confidence. On consideration, I don’t suppose he would.

Augustus’ first demand on taking up his new occupation was a microscope. ‘And while you’re about it,’ he suggested, ‘it had better be a good one.’ At first, I was inclined to suspect that this was an artful device for the further indulgence of his entomological vices, and that the implement would be devoted to post-mortem examinations of deceased caterpillars or other kindred abominations. He assured me, however, that such was not the case, and that the microscope was nowadays ‘the very sheet-anchor of analytical science.’ The ‘sheet-anchor’ completely took the wind out of my sails. (I feel that there is rather a confusion of metaphor here, but, not being a nautical person, I don’t feel competent to set it right.) I surrendered, humbly remarking that I supposed a five-pound note would cover it. The youthful analyst laughed me to scorn. The very least, he assured me, that a good working microscope could be got for would be ten or twelve pounds. Ultimately, I agreed to purchase one at ten guineas, and congratulated myself that at anyrate that was done with. On the contrary, it was only just begun. No sooner had my analyst secured his microscope, than he began to insist upon the purchase of a number of auxiliary appliances, which, it appeared, no respectable microscope would be seen without. He broke them to me by degrees. At first he only mentioned, if I remember right, an ‘achromatic condenser,’ at two guineas. Next came a ‘double nosepiece’ (why ‘double,’ I don’t know); then a polarising apparatus and a camera lucida (four pounds ten); then a micrometer and a microtome (three guineas more); then somebody’s prism, at one pound five; and somebody else’s microspectroscope, at I don’t know how much. Here, however, I put my foot down. I am compelled to regard the sordid consideration of price, though science doesn’t.

The microscope and its subsidiary apparatus were duly delivered; but my analyst appeared to be in no particular hurry to convey them to the laboratory where he was studying. On my making a remark to this effect, he replied: ‘Haven’t taken them to the laboratory? No; and I’m not going to. Mr Scrutin has got a precious sight better microscope than mine—cost sixty guineas without the little extra articles, and they were about thirty more. He’s got a microspectroscope, if you like!’

I refrained from arguing the point, and mildly remarked that in that case he might have used Mr Scrutin’s microscope, and saved me some twenty guineas. But he rejected the idea with scorn, and explained that his microscope was not for laboratory use, but for ‘private study.’

So far as my observation went, my analyst’s private study had hitherto been confined to a short pipe and the last number of some penny dreadful; but I did not think it wise to check his new-born ardour; I contented myself by observing that I only hoped he would ‘stick to it.’

‘No fear of that,’ he rejoined, as indignantly as a limpet might have done in answer to the same observation. ‘Why, microscopy is the most fascinating study out.—Just take a squint at that, now.’

I looked down the tube, but couldn’t see anything at all, and made a remark to that effect.

‘Oh, that’s because you haven’t got the focus.—Now, try again.’

I tried again, and saw a sort of network of red fibre.

‘I’ll bet sixpence you can’t tell me what that is!’ he exclaimed triumphantly.

I owned the soft impeachment.

‘That’s the maxillary gland of a rat.’

‘Dear me!’ I said.

‘Yes. Isn’t it lovely? Here’s another.—Now, just look at that.’ (A queer granular-looking object.) ‘You don’t know what that is?’

‘Give it up,’ I said.

‘That’s a section of the epidermis of the great toe.’

‘Great toe!’ I exclaimed in disgust. ‘What on earth have analysts got to do with great toes?’

‘Oh, nothing particular,’ he said airily. ‘But we like to have as much variety as possible. I should like to have a section of everything, if I could get it.—Here’s another pretty slide; that is the section of a diseased potato; and this one is a bit of a frog’s leg.’

‘Very instructive, I daresay,’ I remarked; ‘but I hope you haven’t made me spend twenty pounds merely to improve your acquaintance with frogs’ legs and diseased potatoes. Mr Scrutin surely doesn’t analyse such things as these?’

‘I can’t say we do much in frogs’ legs,’ he said; ‘but there are lots of things adulterated with potato. Flour and arrowroot, and butter, and cocoa, and—and—a heap of things. And the potato’s just as likely to be diseased as not. It may be, anyhow, and there you are! If you don’t know what diseased potato looks like, you’re done.’

‘A pleasant lookout,’ I replied, ‘if half-a-dozen of the commonest articles of food are habitually adulterated.’

‘Bless you, that’s nothing,’ he replied. ‘If that was all, there wouldn’t be much harm done. There are a jolly sight worse adulterations than that. In fact, pretty nearly everything’s adulterated, and some of ’em with rank poisons.’

‘Rank poisons! That’s manslaughter!’

‘O no; it isn’t,’ he calmly rejoined. ‘Of course, they don’t put in enough to kill you right off. And if you find something disagreeing with you, you can’t swear what it is. It may be the nux vomica in the beer; but it’s just as likely to be entozoa in the water, or copper in the last bottle of pickles. However, you’re all right now. With an analyst in the family, at anyrate you shan’t be poisoned without knowing it. I’ll let you know what you are eating and drinking.—This fellow’—and he patted the microscope affectionately—‘will tell you all about that.’

And it did. From that day forth I have never enjoyed a meal, and I never expect to do so again. I have always been particular to deal at respectable establishments, and to pay a fair price, in the hope of insuring a good article. I have, or had, a very tolerable appetite, and till that dreadful microscope came into the house, I used to get a good deal of enjoyment out of life. But now all is changed. My analyst began by undermining my faith in our baker. Now, if there was one of our tradesmen in whom, more than another, I had confidence, it was the baker, who supplied what seemed to me a good, solid, satisfying article, with no nonsense about it. But one day, shortly after the conversation I have recorded, my analyst remarked at breakfast-time: ‘We had a turn at bread yesterday at the laboratory—examined five samples; and found three of ’em adulterated. And do you know’—holding up a piece of our own bread and smelling it critically—‘I rather fancy this of ours is rather dicky.’

‘Nonsense!’ I cried. ‘It’s very good bread—capital bread!’

‘You may think so,’ he continued calmly; ‘but you’re not an analyst. I shall take a sample of this to the laboratory, and you shall have my report upon it.’

‘Take it, by all means. But if you find anything wrong about that bread, I’ll eat my hat!’

‘Better not make rash promises. I’ll take a good big sample, and you shall have my report on it to-night.’

On his return home in the evening, he began: ‘I’ve been having a go-in at your bread. It’s not pure, of course; but there isn’t very much the matter with it. There’s a little potato, and a little rice, and a little alum; and with those additions, it takes up a good deal more water than it ought, so you don’t get your proper weight.’

‘Ahem!’ I said, ‘if that’s the case, we’ll change our baker. I’m not going to pay for a mixture of potatoes and water, and call it bread. But as for alum, that’s all nonsense. If they put that in, we should taste it.’

‘O no; you wouldn’t. When alum is put in bread, it decomposes and forms sulphate of potash, an aperient salt. It disagrees with you, of course, but you don’t taste it. As for changing your baker, the next fellow you tried might be a jolly sight worse; he might put in bone-dust, or plaster of Paris, or sulphate of copper. And besides, half the adulterations are in the flour already, before it reaches the baker. Of course, that doesn’t prevent his doing a little more on his own account.’

And with that the matter dropped, so far as the bread was concerned; but my confidence was rudely shaken.

A few days later, my analyst remarked: ‘I don’t think much of this milk;’ and he forthwith appropriated a sample for analytical purposes; but, happily, was compelled to own that it wasn’t quite so bad as he expected. It had more than its proper proportion of water; but that might arise—he charitably suggested—from the cow being unwell. To make up the deficiency, it had been fortified with treacle and coloured with arnatto, but these my analyst appeared to regard as quite every-day falsifications.

‘It’s a rascally shame,’ I said. ‘If one can’t put faith in the milk-jug, it’s a bad lookout for the Blue Ribbon gentlemen. However, let us hope that the tea and coffee are all right.’

‘Not likely!’ he rejoined. ‘Nearly all tea is “faced,” as they call it, more or less, and the facing is itself an adulteration. As for coffee, you don’t expect to get that pure, do you? It’s sure to be mixed with chicory, anyhow, and very probably with roasted acorns, beans, mahogany sawdust, or old tan. Baked horse-liver occasionally; but that’s an extreme case. If by any remote chance there wasn’t anything wrong in the original coffee, you get it in the chicory; and very often there are adulterations in both; so you get ’em twice over.’

‘If that’s the case, no more ground coffee for me. We’ll grind our own, and then we are sure to be safe.’

‘You mustn’t make too cocksure of that. Some years ago, an ingenious firm took out a patent for a machine to mould chicory into the shape of coffee-berries. Smart chaps those! And of course they can put anything they like into the chicory before they work it up.’

‘That’s pleasant, certainly. Then how is one to secure pure coffee?’

‘You can’t secure it, except by sending a sample to us, or some other shop of the same sort, to have it analysed; and if it’s wrong, prosecute your grocer for adulteration. After doing that a few times, he might find it didn’t pay, and give it up.’

‘And how much would that cost?’

‘Analysis of a sample of coffee, one guinea; analysis of butter, five guineas; analysis of milk, one guinea; analysis of tea, one guinea. Those are the regular charges for private analyses.’

‘Rather expensive, it seems.—And how much would it cost to prosecute?’

‘Ah, that I can’t tell you,’ said my analyst. ‘Another fiver, or more, I daresay.—But look at the satisfaction.’

I did look at it, but ultimately decided to give my grocer the benefit of the doubt, and cherish a fond hope that he was better than his fellows. The subject dropped. But a few days later, there chanced to be apple-pudding on the table. With the dish in question my analyst had always been in the habit of consuming brown sugar, and a good deal of it. Now, however, on the sugar-basin—best Demerara—being offered to him, he put on an expression as if he had been invited to partake of black draught.

‘Raw sugar! No, thank you.’

‘Hillo, what’s wrong with the sugar? Is that adulterated too?’

‘Very probably,’ he loftily replied. ‘But that’s a small matter. The genuine article is bad enough.’

‘Bad enough!’ indignantly interposed my analyst’s mamma. ‘That’s Mr Grittles’s very best moist—threepence-three-farthings a pound!’

‘I daresay it is. If it was fourpence, it wouldn’t make any difference.—Did you ever hear of the sugar-mite, Acarus sacchari’——

‘No; I can’t say I ever did,’ I said, ‘and I don’t want to, either. We have had enough of this sort of thing, and I am not going to have any more agonies over every article we eat.’

I had again put my foot down. But it was too late. I had even forbidden my analyst, under penalty of forfeiture of his pocket-money for several months to come, telling us anything whatever about the food we eat or the drink we imbibe; but the mischief was done. I have lost my confidence in my fellow-man, and still more in my fellow-man’s productions. I may try in an imperfect way to protect our household. I may give the strictest orders that none but the refinedest of sugar shall be admitted into our store-cupboard; but who is to answer for the man who makes the jam and the marmalade, or the other man who makes the Madeira cakes and the three-cornered tarts? And how much is there that we have not heard? I have silenced my analyst’s lips, it is true; but there is also a language of the eyes, and still more a language of the nose, and when, with a scornful tip-tilt of the latter, he says, ‘No, thank you,’ to anything, my appetite is destroyed for that meal. I can’t take a pill or a black draught without my disordered imagination picturing my chemist ‘pestling a poisoned poison’ behind his counter. I can’t even eat a new-laid egg or crack a nut without wondering what it is adulterated with. This is morbid, no doubt. I am quite aware that it is morbid, but I can’t help it. I am like Governor Sancho in the island of Barataria: my choicest dishes are whisked away from me—or rendered nauseous, which is as bad—at the bidding of a grim being who calls himself Analytical Science. He may not know anything about it, or he may be lying; but meanwhile he has spoilt my appetite, and the dish may go away untasted for me.

Truly, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. The moral of my painful story is obvious. I intend to bring up the rest of my family, if possible, to occupations involving no knowledge whatever.