POTATOES

By means of certain noises, such as hisses and grunts, producing in combination various sounds, created by manipulations of the muscles of mouth, jaws, lips, throat, and tongue, thoughts are communicated among mankind. Before language was well developed there must have occurred many oddities of expression. Doubtless numerous misunderstandings resulted by reason of different words being used for names of one and the same object. But as the tailless varieties of bipeds adopted lingual methods of communication, certain sound-tags have at last come to stand for definite material objects, thoughts, and feelings. Thus words have meaning. Vocal labels which express whole ideas are not easily misunderstood. When I use the word potato, I make a mental image of a succulent tuber, white inside, and with a surface of brown, red, or gray; a most convenient adjunct to roast beef. I convey to the listener a conception in all respects similar to my own, he knowing that I refer to a certain food product which grows underground. Thus, without further description, a potato is known as a potato.

Acts are likewise named. We speak of a robber, a thief, a genius, and a prostitute, and a whole idea is conveyed by each of these terms, and quite a definite one. But the irregular tags which we attach to many things—tags which convey an uncertain, double, or shifting meaning—are most puzzling, and therefore remain quite outside of my comprehension. The brain-fagging puzzle is the irregular label which stands for effect, and carries an equivocal meaning with it;—own cousin to the vessel that has a false bottom.

When I use the word thief I do not have in mind a general term which applies to all persons that secretly appropriate property belonging to another, for if one steals an overcoat and people know that he has an overcoat at home and so has no need of another (and also that he has the price to get himself an overcoat if he wishes), he cannot then be called a thief; he is a kleptomaniac, which is a joke on stealing. The word thief is used and applied only to the person who steals an overcoat because he is sorely in need of one, or he needs the money which the overcoat would bring him in the pawnshop. This man is a thief!

The term “thief,” besides explaining the act, carries with it also a certain reproach. On the other hand, when I say “he made a good bargain,” I mean that, while the fellow took the property of another like the thief did, his act is deserving of praise; and a thief is not a thief. When I call a man a robber, I am thinking of one who takes property by brute force—a term which carries with it an odor of ill-repute; a man to be avoided. But when I speak of some robbers I call them soldiers. They are patriots who save the country—whose career is one of conquest; and robbers are not robbers. The term murder signifies the taking of the life of one human being by another or others, and there is conveyed an idea of violence, cruelty, and disgrace. But the infliction of capital punishment, which is also taking the life of another may elicit my approval; and thus murder is not murder.

The term prostitution implies a temporary, loveless, but pecuniary relationship between man and woman, and it has disgraceful implications; but I justify the pride of a woman who has made a good catch; her act is like the other, but meets with my approval; and a prostitute is not a prostitute. A fight is looked upon as an unmanly and disgraceful proceeding, and one who will strike another with his fists is described as being low; but let a thousand men fight with another thousand, the act is called war, and I justify and praise it; for a fight is no longer a fight. When a stronger person hits a weaker we call it a cowardly act, and it is condemned; still a judge on the bench said that should a man whip his wife, a mother her daughter, a teacher her pupil, it is called discipline. Thus it is easy to be seen that a potato is not always a potato after all, no matter how clearly the word potato signifies the staying powers of the Irish stomach; no matter how plainly the word calls to mind the irregular-shaped and various-sized murphies which the farmer digs, sacks, and takes to market.

Being what I am, I do not pretend to know when a potato is not a potato, but I do know when a potato is a potato, and I know that I know it. As an ignoramus then, I should like to be informed why it is that an untruth is sometimes in plain English called a lie, and at other times a piece of diplomacy; why should scandal passing from mouth to mouth be called harmful gossip, and immediately it appears in a daily paper is dignified by the name of news; why playing upon green cloth is called gambling, while playing upon the susceptibilities of financial lambs, who bleat on the floor of a chamber of commerce, is called speculation. I am waiting for a man to arise who can explain to me the difference between a libertine and a devil; who can tell me why a beer-soaked laborer is described as being drunk, and a champagne-saturated baron is spoken of as being exhilarated. Again, who can make as plain as day the difference between hypocrisy and the keeping up of appearances; or between a stuck-up woman and one having a proud, haughty bearing. The latter I am sure could make clear to me when a potato is not a potato. It is a fool’s privilege to ask questions, and the wise may answer them in terms the scoffer cannot understand.

Mary goes into symbolical gustatory raptures over beef steak and green onions, while she does not care a single kitchen whiff for the names with which these solid dainties have been labeled. The real joy lies in the juicy steak and the succulent green onions which she masticates so vigorously. Had our ape-like progenitors of the long ago named the juicy steak and green onions loneliness and barrenness respectively, Mary would have gone into raptures just as readily. She would have ruminated the loneliness and barrenness of it all, while “darning” all thoughts of steak and onions!

If “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” is there any explanation to be had of the case in hand? Though if a rose, called a skunk-cabbage, would smell as sweet, would a skunk-cabbage, though called a rose, cease to present its pungent challenge to our olfactories? If we were all skunk-cabbages would we delight in enjoying our own odors? Of one thing only am I sure in this connection, that a potato is a potato—sometimes.