a mortal antipathy-第7章

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too；　how　long　was　it　from　the　serious　sunrise　to　the　joyous　〃sun…

down〃　of　an　old…fashioned；　puritanical；　judaical　first　day　of　the

week；　which　a　pious　fraud　christened　〃the　Sabbath〃？　　Was　it　a

fortnight；　as　we　now　reckon　duration；　or　only　a　week？　　Curious

entities；　or　non…entities；　space　and　tithe？　　When　you　see　a

metaphysician　trying　to　wash　his　hands　of　them　and　get　rid　of　these

accidents；　so　as　to　lay　his　dry；　clean　palm　on　the　absolute；　does

it　not　remind　you　of　the　hopeless　task　of　changing　the　color　of　the

blackamoor　by　a　similar　proceeding？　　For　space　is　the　fluid　in　which

he　is　washing；　and　time　is　the　soap　which　he　is　using　up　in　the

process；　and　he　cannot　get　free　from　them　until　he　can　wash　himself

in　a　mental　vacuum。



In　my　reference　to　the　old　house　in　a　former　paper；　published　years

ago；　I　said；



〃By　and　by　the　stony　foot　of　the　great　University　will　plant　itself

on　this　whole　territory；　and　the　private　recollections　which　clung　so

tenaciously　to　the　place　and　its　habitations　will　have　died　with

those　who　cherished　them。〃



What　strides　the　great　University　has　taken　since　those　words　were

written！　　During　all　my　early　years　our　old　Harvard　Alma　Mater　sat

still　and　lifeless　as　the　colossi　in　the　Egyptian　desert。　　Then　all

at　once；　like　the　statue　in　Don　Giovanni；　she　moved　from　her

pedestal。　　The　fall　of　that　〃stony　foot〃　has　effected　a　miracle　like

the　harp　that　Orpheus　played；　like　the　teeth　which　Cadmus　sowed。　　The

plain　where　the　moose　and　the　bear　were　wandering　while　Shakespeare

was　writing　Hamlet；　where　a　few　plain　dormitories　and　other　needed

buildings　were　scattered　about　in　my　school…boy　days；　groans　under

the　weight　of　the　massive　edifices　which　have　sprung　up　all　around

them；　crowned　by　the　tower　of　that　noble　structure　which　stands　in

full　view　before　me　as　I　lift　my　eyes　from　the　portfolio　on　the　back

of　which　I　am　now　writing。



For　I　must　be　permitted　to　remind　you　that　I　have　not　yet　opened　it。

I　have　told　you　that　I　have　just　finished　a　long　memoir；　and　that　it

has　cost　me　no　little　labor　to　overcome　some　of　its　difficulties；if

I　have　overcome　them；　which　others　must　decide。　　And　I　feel　exactly

as　honest　Dobbin　feels　when　his　harness　is　slipped　off　after　a　long

journey　with　a　good　deal　of　up…hill　work。　　He　wants　to　rest　a　little；

then　to　feed　a　little；　then；　if　you　will　turn　him　loose　in　the

pasture；　he　wants　to　roll。　　I　have　left　my　starry　and　ethereal

companionship；not　for　a　long　time；　I　hope；　for　it　has　lifted　me

above　my　common　self；　but　for　a　while。　　And　now　I　want；　so　to　speak；

to　roll　in　the　grass　and　among　the　dandelions　with　the　other

pachyderms。　　So　I　have　kept　to　the　outside　of　the　portfolio　as　yet；

and　am　disporting　myself　in　reminiscences；　and　fancies；　and　vagaries；

and　parentheses。



How　well　I　understand　the　feeling　which　led　the　Pisans　to　load　their

vessels　with　earth　from　the　Holy　Land；　and　fill　the　area　of　the　Campo

Santo　with　that　sacred　soil！　　The　old　house　stood　upon　about　as

perverse　a　little　patch　of　the　planet　as　ever　harbored　a　half…starved

earth…worm。　　It　was　as　sandy　as　Sahara　and　as　thirsty　as　Tantalus。

The　rustic　aid…de…camps　of　the　household　used　to　aver　that　all

fertilizing　matters　〃leached〃　through　it。　　I　tried　to　disprove　their

assertion　by　gorging　it　with　the　best　of　terrestrial　nourishment；

until　I　became　convinced　that　I　was　feeding　the　tea…plants　of　China；

and　then　I　gave　over　the　attempt。　　And　yet　I　did　love；　and　do　love；

that　arid　patch　of　ground。　　I　wonder　if　a　single　flower　could　not　be

made　to　grow　in　a　pot　of　earth　from　that　Campo　Santo　of　my　childhood！

One　noble　product　of　nature　did　not　refuse　to　flourish　there；the

tall；　stately；　beautiful；　soft…haired；　many…jointed；　generous　maize

or　Indian　corn；　which　thrives　on　sand　and　defies　the　blaze　of　our

shrivelling　summer。　　What　child　but　loves　to　wander　in　its　forest…

like　depths；　amidst　the　rustling　leaves　and　with　the　lofty　tassels

tossing　their　heads　high　above　him！　　There　are　two　aspects　of　the

cornfield　which　always　impress　my　imagination：　the　first　when　it　has

reached　its　full　growth；　and　its　ordered　ranks　look　like　an　army　on

the　march　with　its　plumed　and　bannered　battalions；　the　second　when；

after　the　battle　of　the　harvest；　the　girdled　stacks　stand　on　the

field　of　slaughter　like　so　many　ragged　Niobes；say　rather　like　the

crazy　widows　and　daughters　of　the　dead　soldiery。



Once　more　let　us　come　back　to　the　old　house。　　It　was　far　along　in　its

second　century　when　the　edict　went　forth　that　it　must　stand　no

longer。



The　natural　death　of　a　house　is　very　much　like　that　of　one　of　its

human　tenants。　　The　roof　is　the　first　part　to　show　the　distinct　signs

of　age。　　Slates　and　tiles　loosen　and　at　last　slide　off；　and　leave

bald　the　boards　that　supported　them；　shingles　darken　and　decay；　and

soon　the　garret　or　the　attic　lets　in　the　rain　and　the　snow；　by　and　by

the　beams　sag；　the　floors　warp；　the　walls　crack；　the　paper　peels

away；　the　ceilings　scale　off　and　fall；　the　windows　are　crusted　with

clinging　dust；　the　doors　drop　from　their　rusted　hinges；　the　winds

come　in　without　knocking　and　howl　their　cruel　death…songs　through　the

empty　rooms　and　passages；　and　at　last　there　comes　a　crash；　a　great

cloud　of　dust　rises；　and　the　home　that　had　been　the　shelter　of

generation　after　generation　finds　its　grave　in　its　own　cellar。　　Only

the　chimney　remains　as　its　monument。　　Slowly；　little　by　little；　the

patient　solvents　that　find　nothing　too　hard　for　their　chemistry　pick

out　the　mortar　from　between　the　bricks；　at　last　a　mighty　wind　roars

around　it　and　rushes　against　it；　and　the　monumental　relic　crashes

down　among　the　wrecks　it　has　long　survived。　　So　dies　a　human

habitation　left　to　natural　decay；　all　that　was　seen　above　the　surface

of　the　soil　sinking　gradually　below　it；



　　　　　Till　naught　remains　the　saddening　tale　to　tell

　　　　　Save　home's　last　wrecks；　the　cellar　and　the　well。



But　if　this　sight　is　saddening；　what　is　it　to　see　a　human　dwelling

fall　by　the　hand　of　violence！　　The　ripping　off　of　the　shelter　that

has　kept　out　a　thousand　storms；　the　tearing　off　of　the　once

ornamental　woodwork；　the　wrench　of　the　inexorable　crowbar；　the

murderous　blows　of　the　axe；　the　progressive　ruin；　which　ends　by

rending　all　the　joints　asunder　and　flinging　the　tenoned　and　mortised

timbers　into　heaps　that　will　be　sawed　and　split　to　warm　some　new

habitation　as　firewood；what　a　brutal　act　of　destruction　it　seems！



Why　should　I　go　over　the　old　house　again；　having　already　described　it

more　than　ten　years　ago？　　Alas！　　how　many　remember　anything　they　read

but　once；　and　so　long　ago　as　that？　　How　many　would　find　it　out　if　one

should　say　over　in　the　same　words　that　which　he　said　in　the　last

decade？　　But　there　is　really　no　need　of　telling　the　story　a　second

time；　for　it　can　be　found　by　those　who　are　curious　enough　to　look　it

up　in　a　volume　of　which　it　occupies　the　opening　chapter。



In　order；　however；　to　save　any　inquisitive　reader　that　trouble；　let

me　remind　him　that　the　old　house　was　General　Ward's　headquarters　at

the　breaking　out　of　the　Revolution；　that　the　plan　for　fortifying

Bunker's　Hill　was　laid；　as　commonly　believed；　in　the　southeast　lower

room；　the　floor　of　which　was　covered　with　dents；　made；　it　was

alleged；　by　the　butts　of　the　soldiers'　muskets。　　In　that　house；　too；

General　Warren　probably　passed　the　night　before　the　Bunker　Hill

battle；　and　over　its　threshold　must　the　stately　figure　of　Washington

have　often　cast　its　shadow。



But　the　house　in　which　one　drew　his　first　breath；　and　where　he　one

day　came　into　the　consciousness　that　he　was　a　personality；　an　ego；　a

little　universe　with　a　sky　over　him　all　his　own；　with　a　persistent

identity；　with　the　terrible　responsibility　of　a　separate；

independent；　inalienable　existence；that　house　does　not　ask　for　any

historical　associations　to　make　it　the　centre　of　the　earth　for　him。



If　there　is　any　person　in　the　world　to　be　envied；　it　i