a mortal antipathy-第3章

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

the　moment　the　loan　of　some　five　and　twenty　dollars　would　be　a

convenience　and　a　favor　for　which　his　heart　would　ache　with　gratitude

during　the　brief　interval　between　the　loan　and　its　repayment。



I　wish　to　say　a　few　words　in　my　own　person　relating　to　some　passages

in　my　own　history；　and　more　especially　to　some　of　the　recent

experiences　through　which　I　have　been　passing。



What　can　justify　one　in　addressing　himself　to　the　general　public　as

if　it　were　his　private　correspondent？　　There　are　at　least　three

sufficient　reasons：　first；　if　he　has　a　story　to　tell　that　everybody

wants　to　hear；if　be　has　been　shipwrecked；　or　has　been　in　a　battle；

or　has　witnessed　any　interesting　event；　and　can　tell　anything　new

about　it；　secondly；　if　he　can　put　in　fitting　words　any　common

experiences　not　already　well　told；　so　that　readers　will　say；　〃Why；

yes！　　I　have　had　that　sensation；　thought；　emotion；　a　hundred　times；

but　I　never　heard　it　spoken　of　before；　and　I　never　saw　any　mention　of

it　in　print；〃　and　thirdly；　anything　one　likes；　provided　he　can　so

tell　it　as　to　make　it　interesting。



I　have　no　story　to　tell　in　this　Introduction　which　can　of　itself

claim　any　general　attention。　　My　first　pages　relate　the　effect　of　a

certain　literary　experience　upon　myself；a　series　of　partial

metempsychoses　of　which　I　have　been　the　subject。　　Next　follows　a

brief　tribute　to　the　memory　of　a　very　dear　and　renowned　friend　from

whom　I　have　recently　been　parted。　　The　rest　of　the　Introduction　will

be　consecrated　to　the　memory　of　my　birthplace。



I　have　just　finished　a　Memoir；　which　will　appear　soon　after　this　page

is　written；　and　will　have　been　the　subject　of　criticism　long　before

it　is　in　the　reader's　hands。　　The　experience　of　thinking　another

man's　thoughts　continuously　for　a　long　time；　of　living　one's　self

into　another　man's　life　for　a　month；　or　a　year；　or　more；　is　a　very

curious　one。　　No　matter　how　much　superior　to　the　biographer　his

subject　may　be；　the　man　who　writes　the　life　feels　himself；　in　a

certain　sense；　on　the　level　of　the　person　whose　life　he　is　writing。

One　cannot　fight　over　the　battles　of　Marengo　or　Austerlitz　with

Napoleon　without　feeling　as　if　he　himself　had　a　fractional　claim　to

the　victory；　so　real　seems　the　transfer　of　his　personality　into　that

of　the　conqueror　while　he　reads。　　Still　more　must　this　identification

of　〃subject〃　and　〃object〃　take　place　when　one　is　writing　of　a　person

whose　studies　or　occupations　are　not　unlike　his　own。



Here　are　some　of　my　metempsychoses：

Ten　years　ago　I　wrote　what　I　called　A　Memorial　Outline　of　a

remarkable　student　of　nature。　　He　was　a　born　observer；　and　such　are

far　from　common。　　He　was　also　a　man　of　great　enthusiasm　and

unwearying　industry。　　His　quick　eye　detected　what　others　passed　by

without　notice：　the　Indian　relic；　where　another　would　see　only

pebbles　and　fragments；　the　rare　mollusk；　or　reptile；　which　his

companion　would　poke　with　his　cane；　never　suspecting　that　there　was　a

prize　at　the　end　of　it。　　Getting　his　single　facts　together　with

marvellous　sagacity　and　long…breathed　patience；　he　arranged　them；

classified　them；　described　them；　studied　them　in　their　relations；　and

before　those　around　him　were　aware　of　it　the　collector　was　an

accomplished　naturalist。　　Whenhe　died　his　collections　remained；　and

they　still　remain；　as　his　record　in　the　hieratic　language　of　science。

In　writing　this　memoir　the　spirit　of　his　quiet　pursuits；　the　even

temper　they　bred　in　him；　gained　possession　of　my　own　mind；　so　that　I

seemed　to　look　at　nature　through　his　gold…bowed　spectacles；　and　to

move　about　his　beautifully　ordered　museum　as　if　I　had　myself　prepared

and　arranged　its　specimens。　　I　felt　wise　with　his　wisdom；　fair…minded

with　his　calm　impartiality；　it　seemed　as　if　for　the　time　his　placid；

observant；　inquiring；　keen…sighted　nature　〃slid　into　my　soul；〃　and　if

I　had　looked　at　myself　in　the　glass　I　should　almost　have　expected　to

see　the　image　of　the　Hersey　professor　whose　life　and　character　I　was

sketching。



A　few　years　hater　I　lived　over　the　life　of　another　friend　in　writing

a　Memoir　of　which　he　was　the　subject。　　I　saw　him；　the　beautiful；

bright…eyed　boy；　with　dark；　waving　hair；　the　youthful　scholar；　first

at　Harvard；　then　at　Gottingen　and　Berlin；　the　friend　and　companion　of

Bismarck；　the　young　author；　making　a　dash　for　renown　as　a　novelist；

and　showing　the　elements　which　made　his　failures　the　promise　of

success　in　a　larger　field　of　literary　labor；　the　delving　historian；

burying　his　fresh　young　manhood　in　the　dusty　alcoves　of　silent

libraries；　to　come　forth　in　the　face　of　Europe　and　America　as　one　of

the　leading　historians　of　the　time；　the　diplomatist；　accomplished；　of

captivating　presence　and　manners；　an　ardent　American；　and　in　the　time

of　trial　an　impassioned　and　eloquent　advocate　of　the　cause　of

freedom；　reaching　at　last　the　summit　of　his　ambition　as　minister　at

the　Court　of　Saint　James。　　All　this　I　seemed　to　share　with　him　as　I

tracked　his　career　from　his　birthplace　in　Dorchester；　and　the　house

in　Walnut　Street　where　he　passed　his　boyhood；　to　the　palaces　of

Vienna　and　London。　　And　then　the　cruel　blow　which　struck　him　from　the

place　he　adorned；　the　great　sorrow　that　darkened　his　later　years；　the

invasion　of　illness；　a　threat　that　warned　of　danger；　and　after　a

period　of　invalidism；　during　a　part　of　which　I　shared　his　most

intimate　daily　life；　the　sudden；　hardly　unwelcome；　final　summons。

Did　not　my　own　consciousness　migrate；　or　seem；　at　least；　to　transfer

itself　into　this　brilliant　life　history；　as　I　traced　its　glowing

record？　　I；　too；　seemed　to　feel　the　delight　of　carrying　with　me；　as

if　they　were　my　own；　the　charms　of　a　presence　which　made　its　own

welcome　everywhere。　　I　shared　his　heroic　toils；　I　partook　of　his

literary　and　social　triumphs；　I　was　honored　by　the　marks　of

distinction　which　gathered　about　him；　I　was　wronged　by　the　indignity

from　which　he　suffered；　mourned　with　him　in　his　sorrow；　and　thus；

after　I　had　been　living　for　months　with　his　memory；　I　felt　as　if　I

should　carry　a　part　of　his　being　with　me　so　long　as　my　self…

consciousness　might　remain　imprisoned　in　the　ponderable　elements。



The　years　passed　away；　and　the　influences　derived　from　the

companionships　I　have　spoken　of　had　blended　intimately　with　my　own

current　of　being。　　Then　there　came　to　me　a　new　experience　in　my

relations　with　an　eminent　member　of　the　medical　profession；　whom　I

met　habitually　for　a　long　period；　and　to　whose　memory　I　consecrated　a

few　pages　as　a　prelude　to　a　work　of　his　own；　written　under　very

peculiar　circumstances。　　He　was　the　subject　of　a　slow；　torturing；

malignant；　and　almost　necessarily　fatal　disease。　　Knowing　well　that

the　mind　would　feed　upon　itself　if　it　were　not　supplied　with　food

from　without；　he　determined　to　write　a　treatise　on　a　subject　which

had　greatly　interested　him；　and　which　would　oblige　him　to　bestow　much

of　his　time　and　thought　upon　it；　if　indeed　he　could　hold　out　to

finish　the　work。　　During　the　period　while　he　was　engaged　in　writing

it；　his　wife；　who　had　seemed　in　perfect　health；　died　suddenly　of

pneumonia。　　Physical　suffering；　mental　distress；　the　prospect　of

death　at　a　near；　if　uncertain；　time　always　before　him；　it　was　hard　to

conceive　a　more　terrible　strain　than　that　which　he　had　to　endure。

When；　in　the　hour　of　his　greatest　need；　his　faithful　companion；　the

wife　of　many　years　of　happy　union；　whose　hand　had　smoothed　his

pillow；　whose　voice　had　consoled　and　cheered　him；　was　torn　from　him

after　a　few　days　of　illness；　I　felt　that　my；　friend's　trial　was　such

that　the　cry　of　the　man　of　many　afflictions　and　temptations　might

well　have　escaped　from　his　lips：　〃I　was　at　ease；　but　he　hath　broken

me　asunder；　he　hath　also　taken　me　by　my　neck　and　shaken　me　to　pieces；

and　set　me　up　for　his　mark。　　His　archers　compass　me　round　about；　he

cleaveth　my　reins　asunder；　and　doth　not　spare；　he　poureth　out　my　gall

upon　the　ground。〃



I　had　dreaded　meeting　him　for　the　first　time　after　this　crushing

blow。　　What　a　lesson　he　gave　me　of　patience　under　sufferings　which

the　fearful　description　of　the　Eastern　poet　does　not　picture　too

vividly！　　We　have　been　taught　to　admire　the　calm　philosophy　of

Haller；　watching　his　faltering　pulse　as　he　lay　dying；　we　have　heard

the　words　of　pious　resignation　said　to　have　been　uttered　with　his

last　breath　by　Addison：　but　here　was　a　trial；　not　of　hours；　or　days；

or　weeks；　but　of　months；　even　years；　of　cruel　pain；　and　in　the　midst

of　its　thick　darkness　the　light　of　love；　which　had　burned　steadily　at

his　bedside；　was　suddenly　extinguished。



There　were　times　in　which　the　thought　would　force　itself　upon　my

consciousness；　How　long　is　the　universe　to　look　upon　this　dreadful

experiment　of　a　malarious　planet；　with　its　unmeasurable　freight　of

suffering；　its　poisonous　atmosphere；　so　sweet　to　breathe；　so　sure　to

kill　in　a　few　scores　of　years　at　farthest；　and　its　heart…breaking

woes　which　make　even　that　brief　space　of　time　an　eternity？　　There　can

be　but　one　answer　that　will　meet　this　terrible　question；　which　must

arise　in　every　thinking　nature　that　would　fain　〃justify　the　ways　of

God　to　men。〃　　So　must　it　be　until　that



　　　　　　　　　〃one　far…off　divine　event

　　　　　　　　　　To　which　the　whole　creation　moves〃



has　become　a　reality；　and　the　anthem　in　which　there　is　no　discordant

note　shall　be　joined　by　a　voice　from　every　life　made　〃perfect　through

sufferings。〃



Such　was　the　lesson　into　which　I　lived　in　those　sad　yet　placid　years

of　companionship　with　my　suffering　and　sorrowing　friend；　in　retracing

which　I　seemed　to　find　another　existence　mingled　with　my　own。



And　now　for　many　months　I　have　been　living　in　daily　relations　of

intimacy　with　one　who　seems　nearer　to　me　since　he　has　left　us　than

while　he　was　here　in　living　form　and　feature。　　I　did　not　know　how

difficult　a　task　I　had　undertaken　in　venturing　upon　a　memoir　of　a　man

whom　all；　or　almost　all；　agree　upon　as　one　of　the　great　lights　of　the

New　World；　and　whom　very　many　regard　as　an　unpredicted　Messiah。

Never　before　was　I　so　forcibly　reminded　of　Carlyle's　description　of

the　work　of　a　newspaper　editor；that　threshing　of　straw　already

thrice　beaten　by　the　flails　of　other　laborers　in　the　same　field。

What　could　be　said　that　had　not　been　said　of　〃transcendentalism〃　and

of　him　who　was　regarded　as　its　prophet；　of　the　poet　whom　some　admired

without　understanding；　a　few　understood；　or　thought　they　did；　without

admiring；　and　many　both　understood　and　admired；among　these　there

being　not　a　small　number　who　went　far　beyond　admiration；　and　lost

themselves　in　devout　worship？　　While　one　exalted　him　as　〃the　greatest

man　that　ever　lived；〃　another；　a　friend；　famous　in　the　world　of

letters；　wrote　expressly　to　caution　me　against　the　danger　of

overrating　a　writer　whom　he　is　content　to　recognize　as　an　American

Montaigne；　and　nothing　more。



After　fini