the poet at the breakfast table-第3部分

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myself　that　I　had　lived　to　see　the　peaceable　establishment　of　the　Red
Republic　of　Letters。

Many　of　the　things　I　shall　put　down　I　have　no　doubt　told　before　in　a
fragmentary　way；　how　many　I　cannot　be　quite　sure；　as　I　do　not　very
often　read　my　own　prose　works。　　But　when　a　man　dies　a　great　deal　is
said　of　him　which　has　often　been　said　in　other　forms；　and　now　this
dear　old　house　is　dead　to　me　in　one　sense；　and　I　want　to　gather　up　my
recollections　and　wind　a　string　of　narrative　round　them；　tying　them
up　like　a　nosegay　for　the　last　tribute：　the　same　blossoms　in　it　I
have　often　laid　on　its　threshold　while　it　was　still　living　for　me。

We　Americans　are　all　cuckoos；we　make　our　homes　in　the　nests　of
other　birds。　　I　have　read　somewhere　that　the　lineal　descendants　of
the　man　who　carted　off　the　body　of　William　Rufus；　with　Walter
Tyrrel's　arrow　sticking　in　it；　have　driven　a　cart　（not　absolutely　the
same　one；　I　suppose）　in　the　New　Forest；　from　that　day　to　this。　　I
don't　quite　understand　Mr。　Ruskin's　saying　（if　he　said　it）　that　he
couldn't　get　along　in　a　country　where　there　were　no　castles；　but　I　do
think　we　lose　a　great　deal　in　living　where　there　are　so　few　permanent
homes。　　You　will　see　how　much　I　parted　with　which　was　not　reckoned　in
the　price　paid　for　the　old　homestead。

I　shall　say　many　things　which　an　uncharitable　reader　might　find　fault
with　as　personal。　　I　should　not　dare　to　call　myself　a　poet　if　I　did
not；　for　if　there　is　anything　that　gives　one　a　title　to　that　name；　it
is　that　his　inner　nature　is　naked　and　is　not　ashamed。　　But　there　are
many　such　things　I　shall　put　in　words；　not　because　they　are　personal；
but　because　they　are　human；　and　are　born　of　just　such　experiences　as
those　who　hear　or　read　what　I　say　are　like　to　have　had　in　greater　or
less　measure。　　I　find　myself　so　much　like　other　people　that　I　often
wonder　at　the　coincidence。　　It　was　only　the　other　day　that　I　sent　out
a　copy　of　verses　about　my　great…grandmother's　picture；　and　I　was
surprised　to　find　how　many　other　people　had　portraits　of　their　great…
grandmothers　or　other　progenitors；　about　which　they　felt　as　I　did
about　mine；　and　for　whom　I　had　spoken；　thinking　I　was　speaking　for
myself　only。　　And　so　I　am　not　afraid　to　talk　very　freely　with　you；　my
precious　reader　or　listener。　　You　too；　Beloved；　were　born　somewhere
and　remember　your　birthplace　or　your　early　home；　for　you　some　house
is　haunted　by　recollections；　to　some　roof　you　have　bid　farewell。
Your　hand　is　upon　mine；　then；　as　I　guide　my　pen。　　Your　heart　frames
the　responses　to　the　litany　of　my　remembrance。　　For　myself　it　is　a
tribute　of　affection　I　am　rendering；　and　I　should　put　it　on　record
for　my　own　satisfaction；　were　there　none　to　read　or　to　listen。

I　hope　you　will　not　say　that　I　have　built　a　pillared　portico　of
introduction　to　a　humble　structure　of　narrative。　　For　when　you　look
at　the　old　gambrel…roofed　house；　you　will　see　an　unpretending
mansion；　such　as　very　possibly　you　were　born　in　yourself；　or　at　any
rate　such　a　place　of　residence　as　your　minister　or　some　of　your　well…
to…do　country　cousins　find　good　enough；　but　not　at　all　too　grand　for
them。　　We　have　stately　old　Colonial　palaces　in　our　ancient　village；
now　a　city；　and　a　thriving　one；square…fronted　edifices　that　stand
back　from　the　vulgar　highway；　with　folded　arms；　as　it　were；　social
fortresses　of　the　time　when　the　twilight　lustre　of　the　throne　reached
as　far　as　our　half…cleared　settlement；　with　a　glacis　before　them　in
the　shape　of　a　long　broad　gravel…walk；　so　that　in　King　George's　time
they　looked　as　formidably　to　any　but　the　silk…stocking　gentry　as
Gibraltar　or　Ehrenbreitstein　to　a　visitor　without　the　password。　　We
forget　all　this　in　the　kindly　welcome　they　give　us　to…day；　for　some
of　them　are　still　standing　and　doubly　famous；　as　we　all　know。　　But
the　gambrel…roofed　house；　though　stately　enough　for　college
dignitaries　and　scholarly　clergymen；　was　not　one　of　those　old　Tory；
Episcopal…church…goer's　strongholds。　　One　of　its　doors　opens　directly
upon　the　green；　always　called　the　Common；　the　other；　facing　the
south；　a　few　steps　from　it；　over　a　paved　foot…walk；　on　the　other　side
of　which　is　the　miniature　front　yard；　bordered　with　lilacs　and
syringas。　　The　honest　mansion　makes　no　pretensions。　　Accessible；
companionable；　holding　its　hand　out　to　all；　comfortable；　respectable；
and　even　in　its　way　dignified；　but　not　imposing；　not　a　house　for　his
Majesty's　Counsellor；　or　the　Right　Reverend　successor　of　Him　who　had
not　where　to　lay　his　head；　for　something　like　a　hundred　and　fifty
years　it　has　stood　in　its　lot；　and　seen　the　generations　of　men　come
and　go　like　the　leaves　of　the　forest。　　I　passed　some　pleasant　hours；
a　few　years　since；　in　the　Registry　of　Deeds　and　the　Town　Records；
looking　up　the　history　of　the　old　house。　　How　those　dear　friends　of
mine；　the　antiquarians；　for　whose　grave　councils　I　compose　my
features　on　the　too　rare　Thursdays　when　I　am　at　liberty　to　meet　them；
in　whose　human　herbarium　the　leaves　and　blossoms　of　past　generations
are　so　carefully　spread　out　and　pressed　and　laid　away；　would　listen
to　an　expansion　of　the　following　brief　details　into　an　Historical
Memoir！

The　estate　was　the　third　lot　of　the　eighth　〃Squadron〃　（whatever　that
might　be）；　and　in　the　year　1707　was　allotted　in　the　distribution　of
undivided　lands　to　〃Mr。　ffox；〃　the　Reverend　Jabez　Fox　of　Woburn；　it
may　be　supposed；　as　it　passed　from　his　heirs　to　the　first　Jonathan
Hastings；　from　him　to　his　son；　the　long　remembered　College　Steward；
from　him　in　the　year　1792　to　the　Reverend　Eliphalet　Pearson；
Professor　of　Hebrew　and　other　Oriental　languages　in　Harvard　College；
whose　large　personality　swam　into　my　ken　when　I　was　looking　forward
to　my　teens；　from　him　the　progenitors　of　my　unborn　self。

I　wonder　if　there　are　any　such　beings　nowadays　as　the　great
Eliphalet；　with　his　large　features　and　conversational　basso　profundo；
seemed　to　me。　　His　very　name　had　something　elephantine　about　it；　and
it　seemed　to　me　that　the　house　shook　from　cellar　to　garret　at　his
footfall。　　Some　have　pretended　that　he　had　Olympian　aspirations；　and
wanted　to　sit　in　the　seat　of　Jove　and　bear　the　academic　thunderbolt
and　the　aegis　inscribed　Christo　et　Ecclesiae。　　It　is　a　common
weakness　enough　to　wish　to　find　one's　self　in　an　empty　saddle；　Cotton
Mather　was　miserable　all　his　days；　I　am　afraid；　after　that　entry　in
his　Diary：　〃This　Day　Dr。　Sewall　was　chosen　President；　for　his　Piety。〃

There　is　no　doubt　that　the　men　of　the　older　generation　look　bigger
and　more　formidable　to　the　boys　whose　eyes　are　turned　up　at　their
venerable　countenances　than　the　race　which　succeeds　them；　to　the　same
boys　grown　older。　　Everything　is　twice　as　large；　measured　on　a　three…
year…olds　three…foot　scale　as　on　a　thirty…year…olds　six…foot　scale；
but　age　magnifies　and　aggravates　persons　out　of　due　proportion。　　Old
people　are　a　kind　of　monsters　to　little　folks；　mild　manifestations　of
the　terrible；　it　may　be；　but　still；　with　their　white　locks　and　ridged
and　grooved　features；　which　those　horrid　little　eyes　exhaust　of　their
details；　like　so　many　microscopes　not　exactly　what　human　beings　ought
to　be。　　The　middle…aged　and　young　men　have　left　comparatively　faint
impressions　in　my　memory；　but　how　grandly　the　procession　of　the　old
clergymen　who　filled　our　pulpit　from　time　to　time；　and　passed　the　day
under　our　roof；　marches　before　my　closed　eyes！　　At　their　head　the
most　venerable　David　Osgood；　the　majestic　minister　of　Medford；　with
massive　front　and　shaggy　over…shadowing　eyebrows；　following　in　the
train；　mild…eyed　John　Foster　of　Brighton；　with　the　lambent　aurora　of
a　smile　about　his　pleasant　mouth；　which　not　even　the　〃Sabbath〃　could
subdue　to　the　true　Levitical　aspect；　and　bulky　Charles　Steams　of
Lincoln；　author　of　〃The　Ladies'　Philosophy　of　Love。　　A　Poem。　　1797〃
（how　I　stared　at　him！　he　was　the　first　living　person　ever　pointed　out
to　me　as　a　poet）；　and　Thaddeus　Mason　Harris　of　Dorchester　（the　same
who；　a　poor　youth；　trudging　along；　staff　in　hand；　being　then　in　a
stress　of　sore　need；　found　all　at　once　that　somewhat　was　adhering　to
the　end　of　his　stick；　which　somewhat　proved　to　be　a　gold　ring　of
price；　bearing　the　words；　〃God　speed　thee；　Friend！〃）；　already　in
decadence　as　I　remember　him；　with　head　slanting　forward　and　downward
as　if　looking　for　a　place　to　rest　in　after　his　learned　labors；　and
that　other　Thaddeus；　the　old　man　of　West　Cambridge；　who　outwatched
the　rest　so　long　after　they　had　gone　to　sleep　in　their　own
churchyards；　that　it　almost　seemed　as　if　he　meant　to　sit　up　until　the
morning　of　the　resurrection；　and　bringing　up　the　rear；　attenuated　but
vivacious　little　Jonathan　Homer　of　Newton；　who　was；　to　look　upon；　a
kind　of　expurgated；　reduced　and　Americanized　copy　of　Voltaire；　but
very　unlike　him　in　wickedness　or　wit。　　The　good…humored　junior　member
of　our　family　always　loved　to　make　him　happy　by　setting　him
chirruping　about　Miles　Coverdale's　Version；　and　the　Bishop's　Bible；
and　how　he　wrote　to　his　friend　Sir　Isaac　（Coffin）　about　something　or
other；　and　how　Sir　Isaac　wrote　back　that　he　was　very　much　pleased
with　the　contents　of　his　letter；　and　so　on　about　Sir　Isaac；　ad
libitum；for　the　admiral　was　his　old　friend；　and　he　was　proud　of
him。　　The　kindly　little　old　gentleman　was　a　collector　of　Bibles；　and
made　himself　believe　he　thought　he　should　publish　a　learned
Commentary　some　day　or　other；　but　his　friends　looked　for　it　only　in
the　Greek　Calends；say　on　the　31st　of　April；　when　that　should　come
round；　if　you　would　modernize　the　phrase。　　I　recall　also　one　or　two
exceptional　and　infrequent　visitors　with　perfect　distinctness：
cheerful　Elijah　Kellogg；　a　lively　missionary　from　the　region　of　the
Quoddy　Indians；　with　much　hopeful　talk　about　Sock　Bason　and　his
tribe；　also　poor　old　Poor…house…Parson　Isaac　Smith；　his　head　going
like　a　China　mandarin；　as　he　discussed　the　possibilities　of　the
escape　of　that　distinguished　captive　whom　he　spoke　of　under　the　name；
if　I　can　reproduce　phonetically　its　vibrating　nasalities　of　〃General
Mmbongaparty；〃a　name　suggestive　to　my　young　imagination　of　a
dangerous；　loose…jointed　skeleton；　threatening　us　all　like　the　armed
figure　of　Death　in　my　little　New　England　Primer。

I　have　mentioned　only　the　names　o