memories and portraits-第6章

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I　came　to　be　unhappy。　　Pleasant　incidents　are　woven　with　my　memory　

of　the　place。　　I　here　made　friends　with　a　plain　old　gentleman；　a　

visitor　on　sunny　mornings；　gravely　cheerful；　who；　with　one　eye　upon　

the　place　that　awaited　him；　chirped　about　his　youth　like　winter　

sparrows；　a　beautiful　housemaid　of　the　hotel　once；　for　some　days　

together；　dumbly　flirted　with　me　from　a　window　and　kept　my　wild　

heart　flying；　and　once　…　she　possibly　remembers　…　the　wise　Eugenia　

followed　me　to　that　austere　inclosure。　　Her　hair　came　down；　and　in　

the　shelter　of　the　tomb　my　trembling　fingers　helped　her　to　repair　

the　braid。　　But　for　the　most　part　I　went　there　solitary　and；　with　

irrevocable　emotion；　pored　on　the　names　of　the　forgotten。　　Name　

after　name；　and　to　each　the　conventional　attributions　and　the　idle　

dates：　a　regiment　of　the　unknown　that　had　been　the　joy　of　mothers；　

and　had　thrilled　with　the　illusions　of　youth；　and　at　last；　in　the　

dim　sick…room；　wrestled　with　the　pangs　of　old　mortality。　　In　that　

whole　crew　of　the　silenced　there　was　but　one　of　whom　my　fancy　had　

received　a　picture；　and　he；　with　his　comely；　florid　countenance；　

bewigged　and　habited　in　scarlet；　and　in　his　day　combining　fame　and　

popularity；　stood　forth；　like　a　taunt；　among　that　company　of　

phantom　appellations。　　It　was　then　possible　to　leave　behind　us　

something　more　explicit　than　these　severe；　monotonous　and　lying　

epitaphs；　and　the　thing　left；　the　memory　of　a　painted　picture　and　

what　we　call　the　immortality　of　a　name；　was　hardly　more　desirable　

than　mere　oblivion。　　Even　David　Hume；　as　he　lay　composed　beneath　

that　〃circular　idea；〃　was　fainter　than　a　dream；　and　when　the　

housemaid；　broom　in　hand；　smiled　and　beckoned　from　the　open　window；　

the　fame　of　that　bewigged　philosopher　melted　like　a　raindrop　in　the　

sea。



And　yet　in　soberness　I　cared　as　little　for　the　housemaid　as　for　

David　Hume。　　The　interests　of　youth　are　rarely　frank；　his　passions；　

like　Noah's　dove；　come　home　to　roost。　　The　fire；　sensibility；　and　

volume　of　his　own　nature；　that　is　all　that　he　has　learned　to　

recognise。　　The　tumultuary　and　gray　tide　of　life；　the　empire　of　

routine；　the　unrejoicing　faces　of　his　elders；　fill　him　with　

contemptuous　surprise；　there　also　he　seems　to　walk　among　the　tombs　

of　spirits；　and　it　is　only　in　the　course　of　years；　and　after　much　

rubbing　with　his　fellow…men；　that　he　begins　by　glimpses　to　see　

himself　from　without　and　his　fellows　from　within：　to　know　his　own　

for　one　among　the　thousand　undenoted　countenances　of　the　city　

street；　and　to　divine　in　others　the　throb　of　human　agony　and　hope。　　

In　the　meantime　he　will　avoid　the　hospital　doors；　the　pale　faces；　

the　cripple；　the　sweet　whiff　of　chloroform　…　for　there；　on　the　most　

thoughtless；　the　pains　of　others　are　burned　home；　but　he　will　

continue　to　walk；　in　a　divine　self…pity；　the　aisles　of　the　

forgotten　graveyard。　　The　length　of　man's　life；　which　is　endless　to　

the　brave　and　busy；　is　scorned　by　his　ambitious　thought。　　He　cannot　

bear　to　have　come　for　so　little；　and　to　go　again　so　wholly。　　He　

cannot　bear；　above　all；　in　that　brief　scene；　to　be　still　idle；　and　

by　way　of　cure；　neglects　the　little　that　he　has　to　do。　　The　parable　

of　the　talent　is　the　brief　epitome　of　youth。　　To　believe　in　

immortality　is　one　thing；　but　it　is　first　needful　to　believe　in　

life。　　Denunciatory　preachers　seem　not　to　suspect　that　they　may　be　

taken　gravely　and　in　evil　part；　that　young　men　may　come　to　think　of　

time　as　of　a　moment；　and　with　the　pride　of　Satan　wave　back　the　

inadequate　gift。　　Yet　here　is　a　true　peril；　this　it　is　that　sets　

them　to　pace　the　graveyard　alleys　and　to　read；　with　strange　

extremes　of　pity　and　derision；　the　memorials　of　the　dead。



Books　were　the　proper　remedy：　books　of　vivid　human　import；　forcing　

upon　their　minds　the　issues；　pleasures；　busyness；　importance　and　

immediacy　of　that　life　in　which　they　stand；　books　of　smiling　or　

heroic　temper；　to　excite　or　to　console；　books　of　a　large　design；　

shadowing　the　complexity　of　that　game　of　consequences　to　which　we　

all　sit　down；　the　hanger…back　not　least。　　But　the　average　sermon　

flees　the　point；　disporting　itself　in　that　eternity　of　which　we　

know；　and　need　to　know；　so　little；　avoiding　the　bright；　crowded；　

and　momentous　fields　of　life　where　destiny　awaits　us。　　Upon　the　

average　book　a　writer　may　be　silent；　he　may　set　it　down　to　his　ill…

hap　that　when　his　own　youth　was　in　the　acrid　fermentation；　he　

should　have　fallen　and　fed　upon　the　cheerless　fields　of　Obermann。　　

Yet　to　Mr。　Arnold；　who　led　him　to　these　pastures；　he　still　bears　a　

grudge。　　The　day　is　perhaps　not　far　oft　when　people　will　begin　to　

count　MOLL　FLANDERS；　ay；　or　THE　COUNTRY　WIFE；　more　wholesome　and　

more　pious　diet　than　these　guide…books　to　consistent　egoism。



But　the　most　inhuman　of　boys　soon　wearies　of　the　inhumanity　of　

Obermann。　　And　even　while　I　still　continued　to　be　a　haunter　of　the　

graveyard；　I　began　insensibly　to　turn　my　attention　to　the　grave…

diggers；　and　was　weaned　out　of　myself　to　observe　the　conduct　of　

visitors。　　This　was　dayspring；　indeed；　to　a　lad　in　such　great　

darkness。　　Not　that　I　began　to　see　men；　or　to　try　to　see　them；　from　

within；　nor　to　learn　charity　and　modesty　and　justice　from　the　

sight；　but　still　stared　at　them　externally　from　the　prison　windows　

of　my　affectation。　　Once　I　remember　to　have　observed　two　working…

women　with　a　baby　halting　by　a　grave；　there　was　something　

monumental　in　the　grouping；　one　upright　carrying　the　child；　the　

other　with　bowed　face　crouching　by　her　side。　　A　wreath　of　

immortelles　under　a　glass　dome　had　thus　attracted　them；　and；　

drawing　near；　I　overheard　their　judgment　on　that　wonder。　　〃Eh！　what　

extravagance！〃



To　a　youth　afflicted　with　the　callosity　of　sentiment；　this　quaint　

and　pregnant　saying　appeared　merely　base。



My　acquaintance　with　grave…diggers；　considering　its　length；　was　

unremarkable。　　One；　indeed；　whom　I　found　plying　his　spade　in　the　

red　evening；　high　above　Allan　Water　and　in　the　shadow　of　Dunblane　

Cathedral；　told　me　of　his　acquaintance　with　the　birds　that　still　

attended　on　his　labours；　how　some　would　even　perch　about　him；　

waiting　for　their　prey；　and　in　a　true　Sexton's　Calendar；　how　the　

species　varied　with　the　season　of　the　year。　　But　this　was　the　very　

poetry　of　the　profession。　　The　others　whom　I　knew　were　somewhat　

dry。　　A　faint　flavour　of　the　gardener　hung　about　them；　but　

sophisticated　and　dis…bloomed。　　They　had　engagements　to　keep；　not　

alone　with　the　deliberate　series　of　the　seasons；　but　with　man…

kind's　clocks　and　hour…long　measurement　of　time。　　And　thus　there　

was　no　leisure　for　the　relishing　pinch；　or　the　hour…long　gossip；　

foot　on　spade。　　They　were　men　wrapped　up　in　their　grim　business；　

they　liked　well　to　open　long…closed　family　vaults；　blowing　in　the　

key　and　throwing　wide　the　grating；　and　they　carried　in　their　minds　

a　calendar　of　names　and　dates。　　It　would　be　〃in　fifty…twa〃　that　

such　a　tomb　was　last　opened　for　〃Miss　Jemimy。〃　　It　was　thus　they　

spoke　of　their　past　patients　…familiarly　but　not　without　respect；　

like　old　family　servants。　　Here　is　indeed　a　servant；　whom　we　forget　

that　we　possess；　who　does　not　wait　at　the　bright　table；　or　run　at　

the　bell's　summons；　but　patiently　smokes　his　pipe　beside　the　

mortuary　fire；　and　in　his　faithful　memory　notches　the　burials　of　

our　race。　　To　suspect　Shakespeare　in　his　maturity　of　a　superficial　

touch　savours　of　paradox；　yet　he　was　surely　in　error　when　he　

attributed　insensibility　to　the　digger　of　the　grave。　　But　perhaps　

it　is　on　Hamlet　that　the　charge　should　lie；　or　perhaps　the　English　

sexton　differs　from　the　Scotch。　　The　〃goodman　delver；〃　reckoning　up　

his　years　of　office；　might　have　at　least　suggested　other　thoughts。　　

It　is　a　pride　common　among　sextons。　　A　cabinet…maker　does　not　count　

his　cabinets；　nor　even　an　author　his　volumes；　save　when　they　stare　

upon　him　from　the　shelves；　but　the　grave…digger　numbers　his　graves。