a mortal antipathy-第5章

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while　he　was　here　in　living　form　and　feature。　　I　did　not　know　how

difficult　a　task　I　had　undertaken　in　venturing　upon　a　memoir　of　a　man

whom　all；　or　almost　all；　agree　upon　as　one　of　the　great　lights　of　the

New　World；　and　whom　very　many　regard　as　an　unpredicted　Messiah。

Never　before　was　I　so　forcibly　reminded　of　Carlyle's　description　of

the　work　of　a　newspaper　editor；that　threshing　of　straw　already

thrice　beaten　by　the　flails　of　other　laborers　in　the　same　field。

What　could　be　said　that　had　not　been　said　of　〃transcendentalism〃　and

of　him　who　was　regarded　as　its　prophet；　of　the　poet　whom　some　admired

without　understanding；　a　few　understood；　or　thought　they　did；　without

admiring；　and　many　both　understood　and　admired；among　these　there

being　not　a　small　number　who　went　far　beyond　admiration；　and　lost

themselves　in　devout　worship？　　While　one　exalted　him　as　〃the　greatest

man　that　ever　lived；〃　another；　a　friend；　famous　in　the　world　of

letters；　wrote　expressly　to　caution　me　against　the　danger　of

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