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      FROM “SUPERMAN” TO MAN

      “ ‘Pardon’s the word to all.’ Whatever folly men commit, be their shortcomings or their vices what they may, let us exercise forbearance: remembering that when these faults appear in others: it is our follies and vices that we behold. They are the shortcomings of humanity, to which we belong; whose faults, one and all, we share; yes, even those very faults at which we now wax so very indignant, merely because they have not yet appeared in ourselves. They are faults that do not lie on the surface. But they exist down there in the depths of our nature; and should anything call them forth, they will come and show themselves, just as we now see them in others. One man, it is true, may have faults that are absent in his fellow; and it is undeniable that the sum total of bad qualities is in some cases very large; for the difference of individuality between man and man passes all measure.”—Schopenhauer.

      FROM

      “SUPERMAN” TO MAN

      BY

      J. A. ROGERS

      Reprinted 2008

      HELGA M. ROGERS

      C/O Cahill Law Firm, P.A.

      5290 Seminole Blvd. Suite D

      St. Petersburg, FI. 33708

      Copyright 1968 © HELGA M. ROGERS

      ISBN 0-9602294-4-2

      CONTENTS

       FIRST DAY

       SECOND DAY

       THIRD DAY

       LAST DAY

       INDEX

      FROM “SUPERMAN” TO MAN

FIRST DAY

      “A moral, sensible and well-bred man

      Will not affront me; and no other can.”

      —Cowper.

      The limited was speeding on to California over the snow-blanketed prairies of Iowa. On car “Bulwer” the passengers had all gone to bed, and Dixon, the porter, his duties finished sought the more comfortable warmth of the smoker, a book—Finot’s “Race Prejudice”—under his arm.

      Settling himself in a corner of the long leather couch, he opened the book in search of the place he had been reading last. It was where the author spoke of the Germans and their doctrine of the racial inferiority of the remainder of the white race.

      Finding it, he began to read, “The notion of superior and inferior peoples spread like wild-fire through Germany. German literature, philosophy, and politics were profoundly influenced by it….” Then he looked up. A passenger, fully dressed, had rushed into the room.

      “Is this Boone we are coming into, porter?” he demanded excitedly in a foreign accent, at the same time peering anxiously out of the window at the twinkling lights of the town toward which the train was rushing.

      “No, sir,” reassured Dixon, “we’ll not be in Boone for twenty minutes yet. This is Ames.”

      “Thank you,” said the passenger, relieved, “the porter on my car has gone to bed, and I feared I would be carried by.” He started to leave but turned when half-way and asked. “May I ride here with you and get off when we get there?”

      “Certainly, sir,” welcomed Dixon, cordially, “make yourself at home. Where are your grips?” and dropping his book on the seat, Dixon went for his bags.

      Returning with them, he placed them in a corner. The passenger was reading the book.

      “Thank you,” said the passenger. Holding out the book, he said, “I took the liberty to look at this, and I find it’s an old favorite of mine.”

      “Ah, is it? exclaimed Dixon with heightened cordiality.

      “This is the first English translation I have seen,” continued the passenger, “and I think it pretty good.”

      “Yes, sir, very good. But I prefer it in the original.”

      “In the original! Vous parlez francais, alors?”

      “Mais oui, Monsieur.”

      “Where did you learn French,—in New Orleans?”

      “I began it in college and learnt it in France,” replied Dixon, in the same language.

      “You have been in France! What part?”

      “Bordeaux.”

      “Bordeaux? How long?”

      “Two years and a half.”

      “Studying?”

      “No, sir. I was Spanish correspondent for Simon and Co., wine merchants.”

      “You speak Spanish, too, eh? What are you, Cuban?”

      “No, American, but I have been to Cuba. I learned Spanish in the Philippines.”

      “You travelled a great deal.

      “Yes. It’s just my luck. I returned from the Philippines in time to get a job as valet to a gentleman about to tour South South America, becoming six months later his private secretary. Together we visited the principal countries of the world. Mr. Simpson died while we were in Bordeaux. That accounts for my stay there.”

      “Didn’t you like it in France?”

      “Oh, I liked it better than anywhere on earth, but along came the world war and I joined up with the American forces. After the war, with my job gone, I came back with the boys to America. And here I am.”

      “I think with your knowledge of French and Spanish you ought to be able to get a better job than this.”

      “Well, I have never been able to. And when one has a family he must get the wherewithal to live some way.”

      “But have you tried to get something better?”

      “I am trying continually. On my return from Europe I advertised for a job as French and Spanish correspondent. I received many replies, but when the employers saw me, they made various excuses. One, declaring he was broadminded, would have but me, but his offer was so small that I refused it on principle.”

      “Too bad. You said you went to college? Do you mind coming a little closer. I can’t hear for the noise.”

      Dixon came nearer. “I spent a semester and a half at Yale,” he said. “Then came the chance to travel that I spoke of.”

      The conversation drifted to railroad life. The passenger told Dixon about a clash between the porter on his car and a fussy passenger that afternoon. “Do you often meet people like that,” he asked.

      “No, sir. Nearly everyone I meet on the road is very pleasant. I am sure that if that wise old Greek who said, “Most men are bad!” had gained his knowledge of human nature on a sleeping car his verdict would have been altogether different. I never knew before that there were so many kind, agreeable persons until I had this position. One meets a grouchy person at such rare intervals that he can afford to be liberal then. I can recall an incident similar to the one you have just told me. Would you care to hear it?”

      “Certainly.”

      “One day while waiting on a drawing-room passenger I made a mistake. This man, who had got on the train with a grouch, having previously wrangled with the train- and the sleeping-car conductors, at once began to abuse me vociferously in spite of my earnest apology. I took it all calmly, at the same time racking my mind for some polite, but effective retort. As I noted the ludicrousness of his ruffled features an inspiration came to me, whereby I could bring his conduct effectively to his notice. In the room was a full-length mirror, made into the state-room door. Swinging this door around I brought it right in front of him, where he could get a full view of his distorted

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