the professor at the breakfast table- 第48部分

along　that　delicious　road　between　the　hills　and　the　sea；　when　we

passed　a　thicket　where　there　seemed　to　be　a　chance　of　finding　it。

In　five　minutes　I　had　fallen　on　the　trees　in　full　blossom；　and

filled　my　arms　with　the　sweet；　resplendent　flowers。　　I　could　not

believe　I　was　in　our　cold；　northern　Essex；　which；　in　the　dreary

season　when　I　pass　its　slate…colored；　unpainted　farm…houses；　and

huge；　square；　windy；　'squire…built　〃mansions；〃　looks　as　brown　and

unvegetating　as　an　old　rug　with　its　patterns　all　trodden　out　and　the

colored　fringe　worn　from　all　its　border。



If　the　magnolia　can　bloom　in　northern　New　England；　why　should　not　a

poet　or　a　painter　come　to　his　full　growth　here　just　as　well？　　Yes；

but　if　the　gorgeous　tree…flower　is　rare；　and　only　as　if　by　a　freak

of　Nature　springs　up　in　a　single　spot　among　the　beeches　and　alders；

is　there　not　as　much　reason　to　think　the　perfumed　flower　of

imaginative　genius　will　find　it　hard　to　be　born　and　harder　to　spread

its　leaves　in　the　clear；　cold　atmosphere　of　our　ultra…temperate　zone

of　humanity？



Take　the　poet。　　On　the　one　hand；　I　believe　that　a　person　with　the

poetical　faculty　finds　material　everywhere。　　The　grandest　objects　of

sense　and　thought　are　common　to　all　climates　and　civilizations。　　The

sky；　the　woods；　the　waters；　the　storms；　life；　death　love；　the　hope

and　vision　of　eternity；these　are　images　that　write　themselves　in

poetry　in　every　soul　which　has　anything　of　the　divine　gift。



On　the　other　hand；　there　is　such　a　thing　as　a　lean；　impoverished

life；　in　distinction　from　a　rich　and　suggestive　one。　　Which　our

common　New　England　life　might　be　considered；　I　will　not　decide。　　But

there　are　some　things　I　think　the　poet　misses　in　our　western　Eden。

I　trust　it　is　not　unpatriotic　to　mention　them　in　this　point　of　view

as　they　come　before　us　in　so　many　other　aspects。



There　is　no　sufficient　flavor　of　humanity　in　the　soil　out　of　which

we　grow。　　At　Cantabridge；　near　the　sea；　I　have　once　or　twice　picked

up　an　Indian　arrowhead　in　a　fresh　furrow。　　At　Canoe　Meadow；　in　the

Berkshire　Mountains；　I　have　found　Indian　arrowheads。　　So　everywhere

Indian　arrowheads。　　Whether　a　hundred　or　a　thousand　years　old；　who

knows？　who　cares？　　There　is　no　history　to　the　red　race；there　is

hardly　an　individual　in　it；a　few　instincts　on　legs　and　holding　a

tomahawkthere　is　the　Indian　of　all　time。　　The　story　of　one　red　ant

is　the　story　of　all　red　ants。　　So；　the　poet；　in　trying　to　wing　his

way　back　through　the　life　that　has　kindled；　flitted；　and　faded　along

our　watercourses　and　on　our　southern　hillsides　for　unknown

generations；　finds　nothing　to　breathe　or　fly　in；　he　meets



　　　　〃A　vast　vacuity！　　all　unawares；

　　　　　Fluttering　his　pennons　vain；　plumb　down　he　drops

　　　　　Ten　thousand　fathom　deep。〃



But　think　of　the　Old　World；that　part　of　it　which　is　the　seat　of

ancient　civilization！　　The　stakes　of　the　Britons'　stockades　are

still　standing　in　the　bed　of　the　Thames。　　The　ploughman　turns　up　an

old　Saxon's　bones；　and　beneath　them　is　a　tessellated　pavement　of　the

time　of　the　Caesars。　　In　Italy；　the　works　of　mediaeval　Art　seem　to

be　of　yesterday；Rome；　under　her　kings；　is　but　an　intruding

newcomer；　as　we　contemplate　her　in　the　shadow　of　the　Cyclopean　walls

of　Fiesole　or　Volterra。　　It　makes　a　man　human　to　live　on　these　old

humanized　soils。　　He　cannot　help　marching　in　step　with　his　kind　in

the　rear　of　such　a　procession。　　They　say　a　dead　man's　hand　cures

swellings；　if　laid　on　them。　　There　is　nothing　like　the　dead　cold

hand　of　the　Past　to　take　down　our　tumid　egotism　and　lead　us　into　the

solemn　flow　of　the　life　of　our　race。　　Rousseau　came　out　of　one　of

his　sad　self…torturing　fits；　as　he　cast　his　eye　on　the　arches　of　the

old　Roman　aqueduct；　the　Pont　du　Gard。



I　am　far　from　denying　that　there　is　an　attraction　in　a　thriving

railroad　village。　　The　new　〃depot；〃　the　smartly…painted　pine　houses；

the　spacious　brick　hotel；　the　white　meeting…house；　and　the　row　of

youthful　and　leggy　trees　before　it；　are　exhilarating。　　They　speak　of

progress；　and　the　time　when　there　shall　be　a　city；　with　a　His　Honor

the　Mayor；　in　the　place　of　their　trim　but　transient　architectural

growths。　　Pardon　me；　if　I　prefer　the　pyramids。　　They　seem　to　me

crystals　formed　from　a　stronger　solution　of　humanity　than　the

steeple　of　the　new　meeting…house。　　I　may　be　wrong；　but　the　Tiber　has

a　voice　for　me；　as　it　whispers　to　the　piers　of　the　Pons　Alius；　even

more　full　of　meaning　than　my　well…beloved　Charles　eddying　round　the

piles　of　West　Boston　Bridge。



Then；　again；　we　Yankees　are　a　kind　of　gypsies；a　mechanical　and

migratory　race。　　A　poet　wants　a　home。　　He　can　dispense　with　an

apple…parer　and　a　reaping…machine。　　I　feel　this　more　for　others　than

for　myself；　for　the　home　of　my　birth　and　childhood　has　been　as　yet

exempted　from　the　change　which　has　invaded　almost　everything　around

it。



Pardon　me　a　short　digression。　　To　what　small　things　our　memory　and

our　affections　attach　themselves！　　I　remember；　when　I　was　a　child；

that　one　of　the　girls　planted　some　Star…of…Bethlehem　bulbs　in　the

southwest　gorner　of　our　front…yard。　　Well；　I　left　the　paternal　roof

and　wandered　in　other　lands；　and　learned　to　think　in　the　words　of

strange　people。　　But　after　many　years；　as　I　looked　on　the　little

front…yard　again；　it　occurred　to　me　that　there　used　to　be　some　Star…

of…Bethlehems　in　the　southwest　corner。　　The　grass　was　tall　there；

and　the　blade　of　the　plant　is　very　much　like　grass；　only　thicker　and

glossier。　　Even　as　Tully　parted　the　briers　and　brambles　when　he

hunted　for　the　sphere…containing　cylinder　that　marked　the　grave　of

Archimedes；　so　did　I　comb　the　grass　with　my　fingers　for　my

monumental　memorial…flower。　　Nature　had　stored　my　keepsake　tenderly

in　her　bosom；　the　glossy；　faintly　streaked　blades　were　there；　they

are　there　still；　though　they　never　flower；　darkened　as　they　are　by

the　shade　of　the　elms　and　rooted　in　the　matted　turf。



Our　hearts　are　held　down　to　our　homes　by　innumerable　fibres；　trivial

as　that　I　have　just　recalled；　but　Gulliver　was　fixed　to　the　soil；

you　remember；　by　pinning　his　head　a　hair　at　a　time。　　Even　a　stone

with　a　whitish　band　crossing　it；　belonging　to　the　pavement　of　the

back…yard；　insisted　on　becoming　one　of　the　talismans　of　memory。

This　intussusception　of　the　ideas　of　inanimate　objects；　and　their

faithful　storing　away　among　the　sentiments；　are　curiously　prefigured

in　the　material　structure　of　the　thinking　centre　itself。　　In　the

very　core　of　the　brain；　in　the　part　where　Des　Cartes　placed　the

soul；　is　a　small　mineral　deposit；　consisting；　as　I　have　seen　it　in

the　microscope；　of　grape…like　masses　of　crystalline　matter。



But　the　plants　that　come　up　every　year　in　the　same　place；　like　the

Star…of…Bethlehems；　of　all　the　lesser　objects；　give　me　the　liveliest

home…feeling。　　Close　to　our　ancient　gambrel…roofed　house　is　the

dwelling　of　pleasant　old　Neighbor　Walrus。　　I　remember　the　sweet

honeysuckle　that　I　saw　in　flower　against　the　wall　of　his　house　a　few

months　ago；　as　long　as　I　remember　the　sky　and　stars。　　That　clump　of

peonies；　butting　their　purple　heads　through　the　soil　every　spring　in

just　the　same　circle；　and　by…and…by　unpacking　their　hard　balls　of

buds　in　flowers　big　enough　to　make　a　double　handful　of　leaves；　has

come　up　in　just　that　place；　Neighbor　Walrus　tells　me；　for　more　years

than　I　have　passed　on　this　planet。　　It　is　a　rare　privilege　in　our

nomadic　state　to　find　the　home　of　one's　childhood　and　its　immediate

neighborhood　thus　unchanged。　　Many　born　poets；　I　am　afraid；　flower

poorly　in　song；　or　not　at　all；　because　they　have　been　too　often

transplanted。



Then　a　good　many　of　our　race　are　very　hard　and　unimaginative；their

voices　have　nothing　caressing；　their　movements　are　as　of　machinery

without　elasticity　or　oil。　　I　wish　it　were　fair　to　print　a　letter　a

young　girl；　about　the　age　of　our　Iris；　wrote　a　short　time　since。　　〃I

am　***　***　***；〃　she　says；　and　tells　her　whole　name　outright。　　Ah！

said　I；　when　I　read　that　first　frank　declaration；you　are　one　of

the　right　sort！She　was。　　A　winged　creature　among　close…clipped

barn　door　fowl。　　How　tired　the　poor　girl　was　of　the　dull　life　about

her；the　old　woman's　〃skeleton　hand　〃　at　the　window　opposite；

drawing　her　curtains；〃Ma'am　shooing　away　the　hens；〃the　vacuous

country　eyes　staring　at　her　as　only　country　eyes　can　stare；a

routine　of　mechanical　duties；　and　the　soul's　half…articulated　cry

for　sympathy；　without　an　answer！　Yes；pray　for　her；　and　for　all

such！　　Faith　often　cures　their　longings；　but　it　is　so　hard　to　give　a

soul　to　heaven　that　has　not　first　been　trained　in　the　fullest　and

sweetest　human　affections！　　Too　often　they　fling　their　hearts　away

on　unworthy　objects。　　Too　often　they　pine　in　a　secret　discontent；

which　spreads　its　leaden　cloud　over　the　morning　of　their　youth。　　The

immeasurable　distance　between　one　of　these　delicate　natures　and　the

average　youths　among　whom　is　like　to　be　her　only　choice　makes　one's

heart　ache。　　Ho