Banneker recalled hearing of outrageous franknesses from his lips,
directed upon small and great, and, most amazingly, accepted without
offense, because of the translucent purity of the medium through which,
as it were, the inner prophet had spoken. Besides, he was usually right.
His first words to Banneker, after his greeting, were: "You are
exceedingly well tailored."
"Does it matter?" asked Banneker, smiling.
"I'm disappointed. I had read into your writing midnight toil and
respectable, if seedy, self-support."
"After the best Grub Street tradition? Park Row has outlived that."
"I know your tailor, but what's your college?" inquired this surprising
man.
Banneker shook his head.
"At least I was right in that. I surmised individual education. Who
taught you to think for yourself?"
"My father."
"It's an uncommon name. You're not a son of Christian Banneker,
perhaps?"
"Yes. Did you know him?"
"A mistaken man. Whoring after strange gods. Strange, sterile, and
disappointing. But a brave soul, nevertheless. Yes; I knew him well.
What did he teach you?"
"He tried to teach me to stand on my own feet and see with my own eyes
and think for myself."
"Ah, yes! With one's own eyes. So much depends upon whither one turns
them.
Pages:
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391