a mortal antipathy-第2章

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pour　over　the　sands　in　which　they　still　are　legible。



About　this　time；　in　the　year　1832；　came　out　a　small　volume　entitled

〃Truth；　a　Gift　for　Scribblers；〃　which　made　some　talk　for　a　while；　and

is　now　chiefly　valuable　as　a　kind　of　literary　tombstone　on　which　may

be　read　the　names　of　many　whose　renown　has　been　buried　with　their

bones。　　The　〃London　Athenaeum〃　spoke　of　it　as　having　been　described

as　a　〃tomahawk　sort　of　satire。〃　　As　the　author　had　been　a　trapper　in

Missouri；　he　was　familiarly　acquainted　with　that　weapon　and　the

warfare　of　its　owners。　　Born　in　Boston；　in　1804；　the　son　of　an　army

officer；　educated　at　West　Point；　he　came　back　to　his　native　city

about　the　year　1830。　　He　wrote　an　article　on　Bryant's　Poems　for　the

〃North　American　Review；〃　and　another　on　the　famous　Indian　chief；

Black　Hawk。　　In　this　last…mentioned　article　he　tells　this　story　as

the　great　warrior　told　it　himself。　　It　was　an　incident　of　a　fight

with　the　Osages。



〃Standing　by　my　father's　side；　I　saw　him　kill　his　antagonist　and　tear

the　scalp　from　his　head。　　Fired　with　valor　and　ambition；　I　rushed

furiously　upon　another；　smote　him　to　the　earth　with　my　tomahawk；　ran

my　lance　through　his　body；　took　off　his　scalp；　and　returned　in

triumph　to　my　father。　　He　said　nothing；　but　looked　pleased。〃



This　little　red　story　describes　very　well　Spelling's　style　of

literary　warfare。　　His　handling　of　his　most　conspicuous　victim；

Willis；　was　very　much　like　Black　Hawk's　way　of　dealing　with　the

Osage。　　He　tomahawked　him　in　heroics；　ran　him　through　in　prose；　and

scalped　him　in　barbarous　epigrams。　　Bryant　and　Halleck　were

abundantly　praised；　hardly　any　one　else　escaped。



If　the　reader　wishes　to　see　the　bubbles　of　reputation　that　were

floating；　some　of　them　gay　with　prismatic　colors；　half　a　century　ago；

he　will　find　in　the　pages　of　〃Truth〃　a　long　catalogue　of　celebrities

he　never　heard　of。　　I　recognize　only　three　names；　of　all　which　are

mentioned　in　the　little　book；　as　belonging　to　persons　still　living；

but　as　I　have　not　read　the　obituaries　of　all　the　others；　some　of　them

may　be　still　flourishing　in　spite　of　Mr。　Spelling's　exterminating

onslaught。　　Time　dealt　as　hardly　with　poor　Spelling；　who　was　not

without　talent　and　instruction；　as　he　had　dealt　with　our　authors。　　I

think　he　found　shelter　at　last　under　a　roof　which　held　numerous

inmates；　some　of　whom　had　seen　better　and　many　of　whom　had　known

worse　days　than　those　which　they　were　passing　within　its　friendly　and

not　exclusive　precincts。　　Such；　at　least；　was　the　story　I　heard　after

he　disappeared　from　general　observation。



That　was　the　day　of　Souvenirs；　Tokens；　Forget…me…nots；　Bijous；　and

all　that　class　of　showy　annuals。　　Short　stories；　slender　poems；　steel

engravings；　on　a　level　with　the　common　fashion…plates　of　advertising

establishments；　gilt　edges；　resplendent　binding；to　manifestations

of　this　sort　our　lighter　literature　had　very　largely　run　for　some

years。　　The　〃Scarlet　Letter〃　was　an　unhinted　possibility。　　The

〃Voices　of　the　Night　〃　had　not　stirred　the　brooding　silence；　the

Concord　seer　was　still　in　the　lonely　desert；　most　of　the　contributors

to　those　yearly　volumes；　which　took　up　such　pretentious　positions　on

the　centre　table；　have　shrunk　into　entire　oblivion；　or；　at　best；　hold

their　place　in　literature　by　a　scrap　or　two　in　some　omnivorous

collection。



What　dreadful　work　Spelling　made　among　those　slight　reputations；

floating　in　swollen　tenuity　on　the　surface　of　the　stream；　and

mirroring　each　other　in　reciprocal　reflections！　　Violent；　abusive　as

he　was；　unjust　to　any　against　whom　he　happened　to　have　a　prejudice；

his　castigation　of　the　small　litterateurs　of　that　day　was　not

harmful；　but　rather　of　use。　　His　attack　on　Willis　very　probably　did

him　good；　he　needed　a　little　discipline；　and　though　he　got　it　too

unsparingly；　some　cautions　came　with　it　which　were　worth　the　stripes

he　had　to　smart　under。　　One　noble　writer　Spelling　treated　with

rudeness；　probably　from　some　accidental　pique；　or　equally

insignificant　reason。　　I　myself；　one　of　the　three　survivors　before

referred　to；　escaped　with　a　love…pat；　as　the　youngest　son　of　the

Muse。　　Longfellow　gets　a　brief　nod　of　acknowledgment。　　Bailey；　an

American　writer；　〃who　made　long　since　a　happy　snatch　at　fame；〃　which

must　have　been　snatched　away　from　him　by　envious　time；　for　I　cannot

identify　him；　Thatcher；　who　died　early；　leaving　one　poem；　The　Last

Request；　not　wholly　unremembered；　Miss　Hannah　F。　　Gould；　a　very

bright　and　agreeable　writer　of　light　verse；all　these　are　commended

to　the　keeping　of　that　venerable　public　carrier；　who　finds　his　scythe

and　hour…glass　such　a　load　that　he　generally　drops　the　burdens

committed　to　his　charge；　after　making　a　show　of　paying　every　possible

attention　to　them　so　long　as　he　is　kept　in　sight。



It　was　a　good　time　to　open　a　portfolio。　　But　my　old　one　had　boyhood

written　on　every　page。　　A　single　passionate　outcry　when　the　old

warship　I　had　read　about　in　the　broadsides　that　were　a　part　of　our

kitchen　literature；　and　in　the　〃　Naval　Monument；〃　was　threatened　with

demolition；　a　few　verses　suggested　by　the　sight　of　old　Major　Melville

in　his　cocked　hat　and　breeches；　were　the　best　scraps　that　came　out　of

that　first　Portfolio；　which　was　soon　closed　that　it　should　not

interfere　with　the　duties　of　a　profession　authorized　to　claim　all　the

time　and　thought　which　would　have　been　otherwise　expended　in　filling

it。



During　a　quarter　of　a　century　the　first　Portfolio　remained　closed　for

the　greater　part　of　the　time。　　Only　now　and　then　it　would　be　taken　up

and　opened；　and　something　drawn　from　it　for　a　special　occasion；　more

particularly　for　the　annual　reunions　of　a　certain　class　of　which　I

was　a　member。



In　the　year　1857；　towards　its　close；　the　〃Atlantic　Monthly；〃　which　I

had　the　honor　of　naming；　was　started　by　the　enterprising　firm　of

Phillips　&　Sampson；　under　the　editorship　of　Mr。　James　Russell　Lowell。

He　thought　that　I　might　bring　something　out　of　my　old　Portfolio　which

would　be　not　unacceptable　in　the　new　magazine。　　I　looked　at　the　poor

old　receptacle；　which；　partly　from　use　and　partly　from　neglect；　had

lost　its　freshness；　and　seemed　hardly　presentable　to　the　new　company

expected　to　welcome　the　new…comer　in　the　literary　world　of　Boston；

the　least　provincial　of　American　centres　of　learning　and　letters。

The　gilded　covering　where　the　emblems　of　hope　and　aspiration　had

looked　so　bright　had　faded；　not　wholly；　perhaps；　but　how　was　the　gold

become　dim！…how　was　the　most　fine　gold　changed！　　Long　devotion　to

other　pursuits　had　left　little　time　for　literature；　and　the　waifs　and

strays　gathered　from　the　old　Portfolio　had　done　little　more　than　keep

alive　the　memory　that　such　a　source　of　supply　was　still　in　existence。

I　looked　at　the　old　Portfolio；　and　said　to　myself；　〃Too　late！　　too

late。　　This　tarnished　gold　will　never　brighten；　these　battered　covers

will　stand　no　more　wear　and　tear；　close　them；　and　leave　them　to　the

spider　and　the　book…worm。〃



In　the　mean　time　the　nebula　of　the　first　quarter　of　the　century　had

condensed　into　the　constellation　of　the　middle　of　the　same　period。

When；　a　little　while　after　the　establishment　of　the　new　magazine；　the

〃Saturday　Club〃　gathered　about　the　long　table　at　〃Parker's；〃　such　a

representation　of　all　that　was　best　in　American　literature　had　never

been　collected　within　so　small　a　compass。　　Most　of　the　Americans　whom

educated　foreigners　cared　to　see…leaving　out　of　consideration

official　dignitaries；　whose　temporary　importance　makes　them　objects

of　curiositywere　seated　at　that　board。　　But　the　club　did　not　yet

exist；　and　the　〃Atlantic　Monthly〃　was　an　experiment。　　There　had

already　been　several　monthly　periodicals；　more　or　less　successful　and

permanent；　among　which　〃Putnam's　Magazine〃　was　conspicuous；　owing　its

success　largely　to　the　contributions　of　that　very　accomplished　and

delightful　writer；　Mr。　George　William　Curtis。　　That　magazine；　after　a

somewhat　prolonged　and　very　honorable　existence；　had　gone　where　all

periodicals　go　when　they　die；　into　the　archives　of　the　deaf；　dumb；

and　blind　recording　angel　whose　name　is　Oblivion。　　It　had　so　well

deserved　to　live　that　its　death　was　a　surprise　and　a　source　of

regret。　　Could　another　monthly　take　its　place　and　keep　it　when　that；

with　all　its　attractions　and　excellences；　had　died　out；　and　left　a

blank　in　our　periodical　literature　which　it　would　be　very　hard　to

fill　as　well　as　that　had　filled　it？



This　was　the　experiment　which　the　enterprising　publishers　ventured

upon；　and　I；　who　felt　myself　outside　of　the　charmed　circle　drawn

around　the　scholars　and　poets　of　Cambridge　and　Concord；　having　given

myself　to　other　studies　and　duties；　wondered　somewhat　when　Mr。　Lowell

insisted　upon　my　becoming　a　contributor。　　And　so；　yielding　to　a

pressure　which　I　could　not　understand；　and　yet　found　myself　unable　to

resist；　I　promised　to　take　a　part　in　the　new　venture；　as　an

occasional　writer　in　the　columns　of　the　new　magazine。



That　was　the　way　in　which　the　second　Portfolio　found　its　way　to　my

table；　and　was　there　opened　in　the　autumn　of　the　year　1857。　　I　was

already　at　least



　　　　　　　　　　Nel　mezzo　del　cammin　di　mia；　vita；



when　I　risked　myself；　with　many　misgivings；　in　little…tried　paths　of

what　looked　at　first　like　a　wilderness；　a　selva　oscura；　where；　if　I

did　not　meet　the　lion　or　the　wolf；　I　should　be　sure　to　find　the

critic；　the　most　dangerous　of　the　carnivores；　waiting　to　welcome　me

after　his　own　fashion。



The　second　Portfolio　is　closed　and　laid　away。　　Perhaps　it　was　hardly

worth　while　to　provide　and　open　a　new　one；　but　here　it　lies　before

me；　and　I　hope　I　may　find　something　between　its　covers　which　will

justify　me　in　coming　once　more　before　my　old　friends。　　But　before　I

open　it　I　want　to　claim　a　little　further　indulgence。



There　is　a　subject　of　profound　interest　to　almost　every　writer；　I

might　say　to　almost　every　human　being。　　No　matter　what　his　culture　or

ignorance；　no　matter　what　his　pursuit；　no　matter　what　his　character；

the　subject　I　refer　to　is　one　of　which　he　rarely　ceases　to　think；

and；　if　opportunity　is　offered；　to　talk。　　On　this　he　is　eloquent；　if

on　nothing　else。　　The　slow　of　speech　becomes　fluent；　the　torpid

listener　becomes　electric　with　vivacity；　and　alive　all　over　with

interest。



The　sagacious　reader　knows　well　what　is　coming　after　this　prelude。

He　is　accustomed　to　the　phrases　with　which　the　plausible　visitor；　who

has　a　subscription　book　in　his　pocket；　prepares　his　victim　for　the

depressing　disclosure　of　his　real　errand。　　He　is　not　unacquainted

with　the　conversational　amenities　of　the　cordial　and　interesting

stranger；　who；　having　had　the　misfortune　of　leaving　his　carpet…bag　in

the　cars；　or　of　having　his　pocket　picked　at　the　station；　finds

himself　without　the　means　of　reaching　that　distant　home　where

affluence　waits　for　him　with　its　luxurious　welcome；　but　to　whom　for

the　moment　the　loan　of　som