a mortal antipathy-第4节

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freedom；　reaching　at　last　the　summit　of　his　ambition　as　minister　at

the　Court　of　Saint　James。　　All　this　I　seemed　to　share　with　him　as　I

tracked　his　career　from　his　birthplace　in　Dorchester；　and　the　house

in　Walnut　Street　where　he　passed　his　boyhood；　to　the　palaces　of

Vienna　and　London。　　And　then　the　cruel　blow　which　struck　him　from　the

place　he　adorned；　the　great　sorrow　that　darkened　his　later　years；　the

invasion　of　illness；　a　threat　that　warned　of　danger；　and　after　a

period　of　invalidism；　during　a　part　of　which　I　shared　his　most

intimate　daily　life；　the　sudden；　hardly　unwelcome；　final　summons。

Did　not　my　own　consciousness　migrate；　or　seem；　at　least；　to　transfer

itself　into　this　brilliant　life　history；　as　I　traced　its　glowing

record？　　I；　too；　seemed　to　feel　the　delight　of　carrying　with　me；　as

if　they　were　my　own；　the　charms　of　a　presence　which　made　its　own

welcome　everywhere。　　I　shared　his　heroic　toils；　I　partook　of　his

literary　and　social　triumphs；　I　was　honored　by　the　marks　of

distinction　which　gathered　about　him；　I　was　wronged　by　the　indignity

from　which　he　suffered；　mourned　with　him　in　his　sorrow；　and　thus；

after　I　had　been　living　for　months　with　his　memory；　I　felt　as　if　I

should　carry　a　part　of　his　being　with　me　so　long　as　my　self…

consciousness　might　remain　imprisoned　in　the　ponderable　elements。



The　years　passed　away；　and　the　influences　derived　from　the

companionships　I　have　spoken　of　had　blended　intimately　with　my　own

current　of　being。　　Then　there　came　to　me　a　new　experience　in　my

relations　with　an　eminent　member　of　the　medical　profession；　whom　I

met　habitually　for　a　long　period；　and　to　whose　memory　I　consecrated　a

few　pages　as　a　prelude　to　a　work　of　his　own；　written　under　very

peculiar　circumstances。　　He　was　the　subject　of　a　slow；　torturing；

malignant；　and　almost　necessarily　fatal　disease。　　Knowing　well　that

the　mind　would　feed　upon　itself　if　it　were　not　supplied　with　food

from　without；　he　determined　to　write　a　treatise　on　a　subject　which

had　greatly　interested　him；　and　which　would　oblige　him　to　bestow　much

of　his　time　and　thought　upon　it；　if　indeed　he　could　hold　out　to

finish　the　work。　　During　the　period　while　he　was　engaged　in　writing

it；　his　wife；　who　had　seemed　in　perfect　health；　died　suddenly　of

pneumonia。　　Physical　suffering；　mental　distress；　the　prospect　of

death　at　a　near；　if　uncertain；　time　always　before　him；　it　was　hard　to

conceive　a　more　terrible　strain　than　that　which　he　had　to　endure。

When；　in　the　hour　of　his　greatest　need；　his　faithful　companion；　the

wife　of　many　years　of　happy　union；　whose　hand　had　smoothed　his

pillow；　whose　voice　had　consoled　and　cheered　him；　was　torn　from　him

after　a　few　days　of　illness；　I　felt　that　my；　friend's　trial　was　such

that　the　cry　of　the　man　of　many　afflictions　and　temptations　might

well　have　escaped　from　his　lips：　〃I　was　at　ease；　but　he　hath　broken

me　asunder；　he　hath　also　taken　me　by　my　neck　and　shaken　me　to　pieces；

and　set　me　up　for　his　mark。　　His　archers　compass　me　round　about；　he

cleaveth　my　reins　asunder；　and　doth　not　spare；　he　poureth　out　my　gall

upon　the　ground。〃



I　had　dreaded　meeting　him　for　the　first　time　after　this　crushing

blow。　　What　a　lesson　he　gave　me　of　patience　under　sufferings　which

the　fearful　description　of　the　Eastern　poet　does　not　picture　too

vividly！　　We　have　been　taught　to　admire　the　calm　philosophy　of

Haller；　watching　his　faltering　pulse　as　he　lay　dying；　we　have　heard

the　words　of　pious　resignation　said　to　have　been　uttered　with　his

last　breath　by　Addison：　but　here　was　a　trial；　not　of　hours；　or　days；

or　weeks；　but　of　months；　even　years；　of　cruel　pain；　and　in　the　midst

of　its　thick　darkness　the　light　of　love；　which　had　burned　steadily　at

his　bedside；　was　suddenly　extinguished。



There　were　times　in　which　the　thought　would　force　itself　upon　my

consciousness；　How　long　is　the　universe　to　look　upon　this　dreadful

experiment　of　a　malarious　planet；　with　its　unmeasurable　freight　of

suffering；　its　poisonous　atmosphere；　so　sweet　to　breathe；　so　sure　to

kill　in　a　few　scores　of　years　at　farthest；　and　its　heart…breaking

woes　which　make　even　that　brief　space　of　time　an　eternity？　　There　can

be　but　one　answer　that　will　meet　this　terrible　question；　which　must

arise　in　every　thinking　nature　that　would　fain　〃justify　the　ways　of

God　to　men。〃　　So　must　it　be　until　that



　　　　　　　　　〃one　far…off　divine　event

　　　　　　　　　　To　which　the　whole　creation　moves〃



has　become　a　reality；　and　the　anthem　in　which　there　is　no　discordant

note　shall　be　joined　by　a　voice　from　every　life　made　〃perfect　through

sufferings。〃



Such　was　the　lesson　into　which　I　lived　in　those　sad　yet　placid　years

of　companionship　with　my　suffering　and　sorrowing　friend；　in　retracing

which　I　seemed　to　find　another　existence　mingled　with　my　own。



And　now　for　many　months　I　have　been　living　in　daily　relations　of

intimacy　with　one　who　seems　nearer　to　me　since　he　has　left　us　than

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　cann