the poet at the breakfast table-第32章

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I　confess　that　I　smiled　internally　to　hear　him　say　that。　　The　old
Master　thinks　he　is　open　to　conviction　on　all　subjects；　but　if　you
meddle　with　some　of　his　notions　and　don't　get　tossed　on　his　horns　as
if　a　bull　had　hold　of　you；　I　should　call　you　lucky。

You　don't　mean　you　doubt　everything？I　said。

What　do　you　think　I　question　everything　for；　the　Master　replied；
if　I　never　get　any　answers？　　You've　seen　a　blind　man　with　a　stick；
feeling　his　way　along？　　Well；　I　am　a　blind　man　with　a　stick；　and　I
find　the　world　pretty　full　of　men　just　as　blind　as　I　am；　but　without
any　stick。　　I　try　the　ground　to　find　out　whether　it　is　firm　or　not
before　I　rest　my　weight　on　it；　but　after　it　has　borne　my　weight；　that
question　at　least　is　answered。　　It　very　certainly　was　strong　enough
once；　the　presumption　is　that　it　is　strong　enough　now。　　Still　the
soil　may　have　been　undermined；　or　I　may　have　grown　heavier。　　Make　as
much　of　that　as　you　will。　　I　say　I　question　everything；　but　if　I　find
Bunker　Hill　Monument　standing　as　straight　as　when　I　leaned　against　it
a　year　or　ten　years　ago；　I　am　not　very　much　afraid　that　Bunker　Hill
will　cave　in　if　I　trust　myself　again　on　the　soil　of　it。

I　glanced　off；　as　one　often　does　in　talk。

The　Monument　is　an　awful　place　to　visit；I　said。…The　waves　of　time
are　like　the　waves　of　the　ocean；　the　only　thing　they　beat　against
without　destroying　it　is　a　rock；　and　they　destroy　that　at　last。　　But
it　takes　a　good　while。　　There　is　a　stone　now　standing　in　very　good
order　that　was　as　old　as　a　monument　of　Louis　XIV。　and　Queen　Anne's
day　is　now　when　Joseph　went　down　into　Egypt。　　Think　of　the　shaft　on
Bunker　Hill　standing　in　the　sunshine　on　the　morning　of　January　1st　in
the　year　5872！

It　won't　be　standing；the　Master　said。…We　are　poor　bunglers
compared　to　those　old　Egyptians。　　There　are　no　joints　in　one　of　their
obelisks。　　They　are　our　masters　in　more　ways　than　we　know　of；　and　in
more　ways　than　some　of　us　are　willing　to　know。　　That　old　Lawgiver
wasn't　learned　in　all　the　wisdom　of　the　Egyptians　for　nothing。　　It
scared　people　well　a　couple　of　hundred　years　ago　when　Sir　John
Marsham　and　Dr。　John　Spencer　ventured　to　tell　their　stories　about　the
sacred　ceremonies　of　the　Egyptian　priesthood。　　People　are　beginning
to　find　out　now　that　you　can't　study　any　religion　by　itself　to　any
good　purpose。　　You　must　have　comparative　theology　as　you　have
comparative　anatomy。　　What　would　you　make　of　a　cat's　foolish　little
good…for…nothing　collar…bone；　if　you　did　not　know　how　the　same　bone
means　a　good　deal　in　other　creatures；in　yourself；　for　instance；　as
you　'll　find　out　if　you　break　it？　　You　can't　know　too　much　of　your
race　and　its　beliefs；　if　you　want　to　know　anything　about　your　Maker。
I　never　found　but　one　sect　large　enough　to　hold　the　whole　of　me。

And　may　I　ask　what　that　was？I　said。

The　Human　sect；the　Master　answered。　　That　has　about　room　enough
for　me；at　present；　I　mean　to　say。

Including　cannibals　and　all？said　I。

…Oh；　as　to　that；　the　eating　of　one's　kind　is　a　matter　of　taste；　but
the　roasting　of　them　has　been　rather　more　a　specialty　of　our　own
particular　belief　than　of　any　other　I　am　acquainted　with。　　If　you
broil　a　saint；　I　don't　see　why；　if　you　have　a　mind；　you　shouldn't
serve　him　up　at　your

Pop！　　went　the　little　piece　of　artillery。　　Don't　tell　me　it　was
accident。　　I　know　better。　　You　can't　suppose　for　one　minute　that　a
boy　like　that　one　would　time　his　interruptions　so　cleverly。　　Now　it
so　happened　that　at　that　particular　moment　Dr。　B。　Franklin　was　not　at
the　table。　　You　may　draw　your　own　conclusions。　　I　say　nothing；　but　I
think　a　good　deal。

I　came　back　to　the　Bunker　Hill　Monument。…I　often　thinkI　said
of　the　dynasty　which　is　to　reign　in　its　shadow　for　some　thousands　of
years；　it　may　be。

The　〃Man　of　Letters；〃　so　called；　asked　me；　in　a　tone　I　did　not
exactly　like；　whether　I　expected　to　live　long　enough　to　see　a
monarchy　take　the　place　of　a　republic　in　this　country。

No；said　I；I　was　thinking　of　something　very　different。　　I　was
indulging　a　fancy　of　mine　about　the　Man　who　is　to　sit　at　the　foot　of
the　monument　for　one；　or　it　may　be　two　or　three　thousand　years。　　As
long　as　the　monument　stands　and　there　is　a　city　near　it；　there　will
always　be　a　man　to　take　the　names　of　visitors　and　extract　some　small
tribute　from　their　pockets；　I　suppose。　　I　sometimes　get　thinking　of
the　long；　unbroken　succession　of　these　men；　until　they　come　to　look
like　one　Man；　continuous　in　being；　unchanging　as　the　stone　he
watches；　looking　upon　the　successive　generations　of　human　beings　as
they　come　and　go；　and　outliving　all　the　dynasties　of　the　world　in　all
probability。　　It　has　come　to　such　a　pass　that　I　never　speak　to　the
Man　of　the　Monument　without　wanting　to　take　my　hat　off　and　feeling　as
if　I　were　looking　down　a　vista　of　twenty　or　thirty　centuries。

The　〃Man　of　Letters；〃　so　called；　said；　in　a　rather　contemptuous　way；
I　thought；　that　he　had　n't　got　so　far　as　that。　　He　was　n't　quite　up
to　moral　reflections　on　toll…men　and　ticket…takers。　　Sentiment　was
n't　his　tap。

He　looked　round　triumphantly　for　a　response：　but　the　Capitalist　was　a
little　hard　of　hearing　just　then；　the　Register　of　Deeds　was　browsing
on　his　food　in　the　calm　bovine　abstraction　of　a　quadruped；　and　paid
no　attention；　the　Salesman　had　bolted　his　breakfast；　and　whisked
himself　away　with　that　peculiar　alacrity　which　belongs　to　the　retail
dealer's　assistant；　and　the　Member　of　the　Haouse；　who　had　sometimes
seemed　to　be　impressed　with　his　〃tahlented　mahn's〃　air　of　superiority
to　the　rest　of　us；　looked　as　if　he　thought　the　speaker　was　not
exactly　parliamentary。　　So　he　failed　to　make　his　point；　and　reddened
a　little；　and　was　not　in　the　best　humor；　I　thought；　when　he　left　the
table。　　I　hope　he　will　not　let　off　any　of　his　irritation　on　our　poor
little　Scheherezade；　but　the　truth　is；　the　first　person　a　man　of　this
sort　（if　he　is　what　I　think　him）　meets；　when　he　is　out　of　humor；　has
to　be　made　a　victim　of；　and　I　only　hope　our　Young　Girl　will　not　have
to　play　Jephthah's　daughter。

And　that　leads　me　to　say；　I　cannot　help　thinking　that　the　kind　of
criticism　to　which　this　Young　Girl　has　been　subjected　from　some
person　or　other；　who　is　willing　to　be　smart　at　her　expense；　is
hurtful　and　not　wholesome。　　The　question　is　a　delicate　one。　　So　many
foolish　persons　are　rushing　into　print；　that　it　requires　a　kind　of
literary　police　to　hold　them　back　and　keep　them　in　order。　　Where
there　are　mice　there　must　be　cats；　and　where　there　are　rats　we　may
think　it　worth　our　while　to　keep　a　terrier；　who　will　give　them　a
shake　and　let　them　drop；　with　all　the　mischief　taken　out　of　them。
But　the　process　is　a　rude　and　cruel　one　at　best；　and　it　too　often
breeds　a　love　of　destructiveness　for　its　own　sake　in　those　who　get
their　living　by　it。　　A　poor　poem　or　essay　does　not　do　much　harm　after
all；　nobody　reads　it　who　is　like　to　be　seriously　hurt　by　it。　　But　a
sharp　criticism　with　a　drop　of　witty　venom　in　it　stings　a　young
author　almost　to　death；　and　makes　an　old　one　uncomfortable　to　no
purpose。　　If　it　were　my　business　to　sit　in　judgment　on　my　neighbors；
I　would　try　to　be　courteous；　at　least；　to　those　who　had　done　any　good
service；　but；　above　all；　I　would　handle　tenderly　those　young　authors
who　are　coming　before　the　public　in　the　flutter　of　their　first　or
early　appearance；　and　are　in　the　trembling　delirium　of　stage…fright
already。　　Before　you　write　that　brilliant　notice　of　some　alliterative
Angelina's　book　of　verses；　I　wish　you　would　try　this　experiment。

Take　half　a　sheet　of　paper　and　copy　upon　it　any　of　Angelina's
stanzas；the　ones　you　were　going　to　make　fun　of；　if　you　will。　　Now
go　to　your　window；　if　it　is　a　still　day；　open　it；　and　let　the　half…
sheet　of　paper　drop　on　the　outside。　　How　gently　it　falls　through　the
soft　air；　always　tending　downwards；　but　sliding　softly；　from　side　to
side；　wavering；　hesitating；　balancing；　until　it　settles　as
noiselessly　as　a　snow…flake　upon　the　all…receiving　bosom　of　the
earth！　　Just　such　would　have　been　the　fate　of　poor　Angelina's
fluttering　effort；　if　you　had　left　it　to　itself。　　It　would　have
slanted　downward　into　oblivion　so　sweetly　and　softly　that　she　would
have　never　known　when　it　reac