a mortal antipathy-第4章

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

Montaigne；　and　nothing　more。



After　finishing　this　Memoir；　which　has　but　just　left　my　hands；　I

would　gladly　have　let　my　brain　rest　for　a　while。　　The　wide　range　of

thought　which　belonged　to　the　subject　of　the　Memoir；　the　occasional

mysticism　and　the　frequent　tendency　toward　it；　the　sweep　of

imagination　and　the　sparkle　of　wit　which　kept　his　reader's　mind　on

the　stretch；　the　union　of　prevailing　good　sense　with　exceptional

extravagances；　the　modest　audacity　of　a　nature　that　showed　itself　in

its　naked　truthfulness　and　was　not　ashamed；　the　feeling　that　I　was　in

the　company　of　a　sibylline　intelligence　which　was　discounting　the

promises　of　the　remote　future　long　before　they　were　due；all　this

made　the　task　a　grave　one。　　But　when　I　found　myself　amidst　the

vortices　of　uncounted；　various；　bewildering　judgments；　Catholic　and

Protestant；　orthodox　and　liberal；　scholarly　from　under　the　tree　of

knowledge　and　instinctive　from　over　the　potato…hill；　the　passionate

enthusiasm　of　young　adorers　and　the　cool；　if　not　cynical；　estimate　of

hardened　critics；　all　intersecting　each　other　as　they　whirled；　each

around　its　own　centre；　I　felt　that　it　was　indeed　very　difficult　to

keep　the　faculties　clear　and　the　judgment　unbiassed。



It　is　a　great　privilege　to　have　lived　so　long　in　the　society　of　such

a　man。　　〃He　nothing　common〃　said；　〃or　mean。〃　　He　was　always　the　same

pure　and　high…souled　companion。　　After　being　with　him　virtue　seemed

as　natural　to　man　as　its　opposite　did　according　to　the　old

theologies。　　But　how　to　let　one's　self　down　from　the　high　level　of

such　a　character　to　one's　own　poor　standard？　　I　trust　that　the

influence　of　this　long　intellectual　and　spiritual　companionship　never

absolutely　leaves　one　who　has　lived　in　it。　　It　may　come　to　him　in　the

form　of　self…reproach　that　he　falls　so　far　short　of　the　superior

being　who　has　been　so　long　the　object　of　his　contemplation。　　But　it

also　carries　him　at　times　into　the　other's　personality；　so　that　he

finds　himself　thinking　thoughts　that　are　not　his　own；　using　phrases

which　he　has　unconsciously　borrowed；　writing；　it　may　be；　as　nearly

like　his　long…studied　original　as　Julio　Romano's　painting　was　like

Raphael's　；　and　all　this　with　the　unquestioning　conviction　that　he　is

talking　from　his　own　consciousness　in　his　own　natural　way。　　So　far　as

tones　and　expressions　and　habits　which　belonged　to　the　idiosyncrasy

of　the　original　are　borrowed　by　the　student　of　his　life；　it　is　a

misfortune　for　the　borrower。　　But　to　share　the　inmost　consciousness

of　a　noble　thinker；　to　scan　one's　self　in　the　white　light　of　a　pure

and　radiant　soul；this　is　indeed　the　highest　form　of　teaching　and

discipline。



I　have　written　these　few　memoirs；　and　I　am　grateful　for　all　that　they

have　taught　me。　　But　let　me　write　no　more。　　There　are　but　two

biographers　who　can　tell　the　story　of　a　man's　or　a　woman's　life。　　One

is　the　person　himself　or　herself；　the　other　is　the　Recording　Angel。

The　autobiographer　cannot　be　trusted　to　tell　the　whole　truth；　though

he　may　tell　nothing　but　the　truth；　and　the　Recording　Angel　never　lets

his　book　go　out　of　his　own　hands。　　As　for　myself；　I　would　say　to　my

friends；　in　the　Oriental　phrase；　〃Live　forever！〃　　Yes；　live　forever；

and　I；　at　least；　shall　not　have　to　wrong　your　memories　by　my

imperfect　record　and　unsatisfying　commentary。



In　connection　with　these　biographies；　or　memoirs；　more　properly；　in

which　I　have　written　of　my　departed　friends；　I　hope　my　readers　will

indulge　me　in　another　personal　reminiscence。　　I　have　just　lost　my

dear　and　honored　contemporary　of　the　last　century。　　A　hundred　years

ago　this　day；　December　13；　1784；　died　the　admirable　and　ever　to　be

remembered　Dr。　Samuel　Johnson。　　The　year　1709　was　made　ponderous　and

illustrious　in　English　biography　by　his　birth。　　My　own　humble　advent

to　the　world　of　protoplasm　was　in　the　year　1809　of　the　present

century。　　Summer　was　just　ending　when　those　four　letters；　〃son　b。〃

were　written　under　the　date　of　my　birth；　August　29th。　　Autumn　had

just　begun　when　my　great　pre…contemporary　entered　this　un…Christian

universe　and　was　made　a　member　of　the　Christian　church　on　the　same

day；　for　he　was　born　and　baptized　on　the　18th　of　September。



Thus　there　was　established　a　close　bond　of　relationship　between　the

great　English　scholar　and　writer　and　myself。　　Year　by　year；　and

almost　month　by　month；　my　life　has　kept　pace　in　this　century　with　his

life　in　the　last　century。　　I　had　only　to　open　my　Boswell　at　any　time；

and　I　knew　just　what　Johnson　at　my　age；　twenty　or　fifty　or　seventy；

was　thinking　and　doing；　what　were　his　feelings　about　life；　what

changes　the　years　had　wrought　in　his　body；　his　mind；　his　feelings；

his　companionships；　his　reputation。　　It　was　for　me　a　kind　of　unison

between　two　instruments；　both　playing　that　old　familiar　air；　〃Life；〃

one　a　bassoon；　if　you　will；　and　the　other　an　oaten　pipe；　if　you

care　to　find　an　image　for　it；　but　still　keeping　pace　with　each　other

until　the　players　both　grew　old　and　gray。　　At　last　the　thinner　thread

of　sound　is　heard　by　itself；　and　its　deep　accompaniment　rolls　out　its

thunder　no　more。



I　feel　lonely　now　that　my　great　companion　and　friend　of　so　many　years

has　left　me。　　I　felt　more　intimately　acquainted　with　him　than　I　do

with　many　of　my　living　friends。　　I　can　hardly　remember　when　I　did　not

know　him。　　I　can　see　him　in　his　bushy　wig；　exactly　like　that　of　the

Reverend　Dr。　Samuel　Cooper　（who　died　in　December；　1783）　as　Copley

painted　him；he　hangs　there　on　my　wall；　over　the　revolving　bookcase。

His　ample　coat；　too；　I　see；　with　its　broad　flaps　and　many　buttons　and

generous　cuffs；　and　beneath　it　the　long；　still　more　copiously

buttoned　waistcoat；　arching　in　front　of　the　fine　crescentic；　almost

semi…lunar　Falstaffian　prominence；　involving　no　less　than　a　dozen　of

the　above…mentioned　buttons；　and　the　strong　legs　with　their　sturdy

calves；　fitting　columns　of　support　to　the　massive　body　and　solid；

capacious　brain　enthroned　over　it。　　I　can　hear　him　with　his　heavy

tread　as　he　comes　in　to　the　Club；　and　a　gap　is　widened　to　make　room

for　his　portly　figure。　　〃A　fine　day；〃　says　Sir　Joshua。　　〃Sir；〃　he

answers；　〃it　seems　propitious；　but　the　atmosphere　is　humid　and　the

skies　are　nebulous；〃　at　which　the　great　painter　smiles；　shifts　his

trumpet；　and　takes　a　pinch　of　snuff。



Dear　old　massive；　deep…voiced　dogmatist　and　hypochondriac　of　the

eighteenth　century；　how　one　would　like　to　sit　at　some　ghastly　Club；

between　you　and　the　bony；　〃mighty…mouthed；〃　harsh…toned　termagant　and

dyspeptic　of　the　nineteenth！　　The　growl　of　the　English　mastiff　and

the　snarl　of　the　Scotch　terrier　would　make　a　duet　which　would　enliven

the　shores　of　Lethe。　　I　wish　I　could　find　our　〃spiritualist's〃　paper

in　the　Portfolio；　in　which　the　two　are　brought　together；　but　I　hardly

know　what　I　shall　find　when　it　is　opened。



Yes；　my　life　is　a　little　less　precious　to　me　since　I　have　lost　that

dear　old　friend；　and　when　the　funeral　train　moves　to　Westminster

Abbey　next　Saturday；　for　I　feel　as　if　this　were　1784；　and　not　1884；

I　seem　to　find　myself　following　the　hearse；　one　of　the　silent

mourners。



Among　the　events　which　have　rendered　the　past　year　memorable　to　me

has　been　the　demolition　of　that　venerable　and　interesting　old

dwelling…house；　precious　for　its　intimate　association　with　the

earliest　stages　of　the　war　of　the　Revolution；　and　sacred　to　me　as　my

birthplace　and　the　home　of　my　boyhood。



The　〃Old　Gambrel…roofed　House〃　exists　no　longer。　　I　remember　saying

something；　in　one　of　a　series　of　papers　published　long　ago；　about　the

experience　of　dying　out　of　a　house；of　leaving　it　forever；　as　the

soul　dies　out　of　the　body。　　We　may　die　out　of　many　houses；　but　the

house　itself　can　die　but　once；　and　so　real　is　the　life　of　a　house　to

one　who　has　dwelt　in　it；　more　especially　the　life　of　the　house　which

held　him　in　dreamy　infancy；　in　restless　boyhood；　in　passionate

youth；so　real；　I　say；　is　its　life；　that　it　seems　as　if　something

like　a　soul　of　it　must　outlast　its　perishing　frame。



The　slaughter　of　the　Old　Gambrel…roofed　House　was；　I　am　ready　to

admit；　a　case　of　justifiable　domicide。　　Not　the　less　was　it　to　be

deplored　by　all　who　love　the　memories　of　the　past。　　With　its

destruction　are　obliterated　some　of　the　footprints　of　the　heroes　and

martyrs　who　took　the　first　steps　in　the　long　and　bloody　march　which

led　us　through　the　wilderness　to　the　promised　land　of　independent

nationality。　　Personally；　I　have　a　right　to　mourn　for　it　as　a　part　of

my　life　gone　from　me。　　My　private　grief　for　its　loss　would　be　a

matter　for　my　solitary　digestion；　were　it　not　that　the　experience

through　which　I　have　just　passed　is　one　so　familiar　to　my　fellow…

countrymen　that；　in　telling　my　own　reflections　and　feelings；　I　am

repeating　those　of　great　numbers　of　men　and　women　who　have　had　the

misfortune　to　outlive　their　birthplace。



It　is　a　great　blessing　to　be　born　surrounded　by　a　natural　horizon。

The　Old　Gambrel…roofed　House　could　not　boast　an　unbroken　ring　of

natural　objects　encircling　it。　　Northerly　it　looked　upon　its　own

outbuildings　and　some　unpretending　two…story　houses　which　had　been

its　neighbors　for　a　century　and　more。　　To　the　south　of　it　the　square

brick　dormitories　and　the　belfried　hall　of　the　university　helped　to

shut　out　the　distant　view。　　But　the　west　windows　gave　a　broad　outlook

across　the　common；　beyond　which　the　historical　〃Washington　elm〃　and

two　companions　in　line　with　it；　spread　their　leaves　in　summer　and

their　networks　in　winter。　　And　far　away　rose　the　hills　that　bounded

the　view；　with　the　glimmer　here　and　there　of　the　white　walls　or　the

illuminated　casements　of　some　embowered；　half…hidden　villa。

Eastwardly　also；　the　prospect　was；　in　my　earlier　remembrance；　widely

open；　and　I　have　frequently　seen　the　sunlit　sails　gliding　along　as　if

through　the　level　fields；　for　no　water　was　visible。　　So　there　were

broad　expanses　on　two　sides　at　least；　for　my　imagination　to　wander

over。



I　cannot　help　thinking　that　we　carry　our　childhood's　horizon　with　us

all　our　days。　　Among　these　western　wooded　hills　my　day…dreams　built

their　fairy　palaces；　and　even　now；　as　I　look　at　them　from　my　library

window；　across　the　estuary　of　the　Charles；　I　find　myself　in　the

familiar　home　of　my　early　visions。　　The　〃clouds　of　glory〃　which　we

trail　with　us　in　after　life　need　not　be　traced　to　a　pre…natal　state。

There　is　enough　to　account　for　them　in　that　unconsciously　remembered

period　of　existence　before　we　have　learned　the　hard　limitations　of

real　life。　　Those　earliest　months　in　which　we　lived　in　sensations

without　words；　and　ideas　not　fettered　in　sentences；　have　all　the

freshness　of　proofs　of　an　engraving　〃before　the　letter。〃　　I　am　very

thankful　that　the　first　part　of　my　life　was　not　passed　shut　in

between　high　walls　and　treading　the　unimpressible　and　unsympathetic

pavement。



Our　university　town