the professor at the breakfast table-第62部分

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youthful　and　leggy　trees　before　it；　are　exhilarating。　　They　speak　of

progress；　and　the　time　when　there　shall　be　a　city；　with　a　His　Honor

the　Mayor；　in　the　place　of　their　trim　but　transient　architectural

growths。　　Pardon　me；　if　I　prefer　the　pyramids。　　They　seem　to　me

crystals　formed　from　a　stronger　solution　of　humanity　than　the

steeple　of　the　new　meeting…house。　　I　may　be　wrong；　but　the　Tiber　has

a　voice　for　me；　as　it　whispers　to　the　piers　of　the　Pons　Alius；　even

more　full　of　meaning　than　my　well…beloved　Charles　eddying　round　the

piles　of　West　Boston　Bridge。



Then；　again；　we　Yankees　are　a　kind　of　gypsies；a　mechanical　and

migratory　race。　　A　poet　wants　a　home。　　He　can　dispense　with　an

apple…parer　and　a　reaping…machine。　　I　feel　this　more　for　others　than

for　myself；　for　the　home　of　my　birth　and　childhood　has　been　as　yet

exempted　from　the　change　which　has　invaded　almost　everything　around

it。



Pardon　me　a　short　digression。　　To　what　small　things　our　memory　and

our　affections　attach　themselves！　　I　remember；　when　I　was　a　child；

that　one　of　the　girls　planted　some　Star…of…Bethlehem　bulbs　in　the

southwest　gorner　of　our　front…yard。　　Well；　I　left　the　paternal　roof

and　wandered　in　other　lands；　and　learned　to　think　in　the　words　of

strange　people。　　But　after　many　years；　as　I　looked　on　the　little

front…yard　again；　it　occurred　to　me　that　there　used　to　be　some　Star…

of…Bethlehems　in　the　southwest　corner。　　The　grass　was　tall　there；

and　the　blade　of　the　plant　is　very　much　like　grass；　only　thicker　and

glossier。　　Even　as　Tully　parted　the　briers　and　brambles　when　he

hunted　for　the　sphere…containing　cylinder　that　marked　the　grave　of

Archimedes；　so　did　I　comb　the　grass　with　my　fingers　for　my

monumental　memorial…flower。　　Nature　had　stored　my　keepsake　tenderly

in　her　bosom；　the　glossy；　faintly　streaked　blades　were　there；　they

are　there　still；　though　they　never　flower；　darkened　as　they　are　by

the　shade　of　the　elms　and　rooted　in　the　matted　turf。



Our　hearts　are　held　down　to　our　homes　by　innumerable　fibres；　trivial

as　that　I　have　just　recalled；　but　Gulliver　was　fixed　to　the　soil；

you　remember；　by　pinning　his　head　a　hair　at　a　time。　　Even　a　stone

with　a　whitish　band　crossing　it；　belonging　to　the　pavement　of　the

back…yard；　insisted　on　becoming　one　of　the　talismans　of　memory。

This　intussusception　of　the　ideas　of　inanimate　objects；　and　their

faithful　storing　away　among　the　sentiments；　are　curiously　prefigured

in　the　material　structure　of　the　thinking　centre　itself。　　In　the

very　core　of　the　brain；　in　the　part　where　Des　Cartes　placed　the

soul；　is　a　small　mineral　deposit；　consisting；　as　I　have　seen　it　in

the　microscope；　of　grape…like　masses　of　crystalline　matter。



But　the　plants　that　come　up　every　year　in　the　same　place；　like　the

Star…of…Bethlehems；　of　all　the　lesser　objects；　give　me　the　liveliest

home…feeling。　　Close　to　our　ancient　gambrel…roofed　house　is　the

dwelling　of　pleasant　old　Neighbor　Walrus。　　I　remember　the　sweet

honeysuckle　that　I　saw　in　flower　against　the　wall　of　his　house　a　few

months　ago；　as　long　as　I　remember　the　sky　and　stars。　　That　clump　of

peonies；　butting　their　purple　heads　through　the　soil　every　spring　in

just　the　same　circle；　and　by…and…by　unpacking　their　hard　balls　of

buds　in　flowers　big　enough　to　make　a　double　handful　of　leaves；　has

come　up　in　just　that　place；　Neighbor　Walrus　tells　me；　for　more　years

than　I　have　passed　on　this　planet。　　It　is　a　rare　privilege　in　our

nomadic　state　to　find　the　home　of　one's　childhood　and　its　immediate

neighborhood　thus　unchanged。　　Many　born　poets；　I　am　afraid；　flower

poorly　in　song；　or　not　at　all；　because　they　have　been　too　often

transplanted。



Then　a　good　many　of　our　race　are　very　hard　and　unimaginative；their

voices　have　nothing　caressing；　their　movements　are　as　of　machinery

without　elasticity　or　oil。　　I　wish　it　were　fair　to　print　a　letter　a

young　girl；　about　the　age　of　our　Iris；　wrote　a　short　time　since。　　〃I

am　***　***　***；〃　she　says；　and　tells　her　whole　name　outright。　　Ah！

said　I；　when　I　read　that　first　frank　declaration；you　are　one　of

the　right　sort！She　was。　　A　winged　creature　among　close…clipped

barn　door　fowl。　　How　tired　the　poor　girl　was　of　the　dull　life　about

her；the　old　woman's　〃skeleton　hand　〃　at　the　window　opposite；

drawing　her　curtains；〃Ma'am　shooing　away　the　hens；〃the　vacuous

country　eyes　staring　at　her　as　only　country　eyes　can　stare；a

routine　of　mechanical　duties；　and　the　soul's　half…articulated　cry

for　sympathy；　without　an　answer！　Yes；pray　for　her；　and　for　all

such！　　Faith　often　cures　their　longings；　but　it　is　so　hard　to　give　a

soul　to　heaven　that　has　not　first　been　trained　in　the　fullest　and

sweetest　human　affections！　　Too　often　they　fling　their　hearts　away

on　unworthy　objects。　　Too　often　they　pine　in　a　secret　discontent；

which　spreads　its　leaden　cloud　over　the　morning　of　their　youth。　　The

immeasurable　distance　between　one　of　these　delicate　natures　and　the

average　youths　among　whom　is　like　to　be　her　only　choice　makes　one's

heart　ache。　　How　many　women　are　born　too　finely　organized　in　sense

and　soul　for　the　highway　they　must　walk　with　feet　unshod！　　Life　is

adjusted　to　the　wants　of　the　stronger　sex。　　There　are　plenty　of

torrents　to　be　crossed　in　its　journey；　but　their　stepping…stones　are

measured　by　the　stride　of　man；　and　not　of　woman。



Women　are　more　subject　than　men　to　atrophy　of　the　heart。　　So　says

the　great　medical　authority；　Laennec。　　Incurable　cases　of　this　kind

used　to　find　their　hospitals　in　convents。　　We　have　the　disease　in

New　England；but　not　the　hospitals。　　I　don't　like　to　think　of　it。

I　will　not　believe　our　young　Iris　is　going　to　die　out　in　this　way。

Providence　will　find　her　some　great　happiness；　or　affliction；　or

duty；and　which　would　be　best　for　her；　I　cannot　tell。　　One　thing　is

sure：　the　interest　she　takes　in　her　little　neighbor　is　getting　to　be

more　engrossing　than　ever。　　Something　is　the　matter　with　him；　and

she　knows　it；　and　I　think　worries　herself　about　it。



I　wonder　sometimes　how　so　fragile　and　distorted　a　frame　has　kept　the

fiery　spirit　that　inhabits　it　so　long　its　tenant。　　He　accounts　for

it　in　his　own　way。



The　air　of　the　Old　World　is　good　for　nothing；　he　said；　one　day。　

Used　up；　Sir；breathed　over　and　over　again。　　You　must　come　to　this

side；　Sir；　for　an　atmosphere　fit　to　breathe　nowadays。　　Did　not

worthy　Mr。　Higginson　say　that　a　breath　of　New　England's　air　is

better　than　a　sup　of　Old　England's　ale？　　I　ought　to　have　died　when　I

was　a　boy；　Sir；　but　I　could　n't　die　in　this　Boston　air；and　I　think

I　shall　have　to　go　to　New　York　one　of　these　days；　when　it's　time　for

me　to　drop　this　bundle；or　to　New　Orleans；　where　they　have　the

yellow　fever；or　to　Philadelphia；　where　they　have　so　many　doctors。



This　was　some　time　ago；　but　of　late　he　has　seemed；　as　I　have　before

said；　to　be　ailing。　　An　experienced　eye；　such　as　I　think　I　may　call

mine；　can　tell　commonly　whether　a　man　is　going　to　die；　or　not；　long

before　he　or　his　friends　are　alarmed　about　him。　　I　don'