the poet at the breakfast table-第41节

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morbid　reveries　have　been　so　often　mistaken　for　piety！　　No。　I。　had
something　for　me；　then；　besides　the　cover；　which　was　all　it　claimed
to　have　worth　offering。

No。　II。　was　〃A　View　of　Society　and　Manners　in　Italy。〃　　Vol。　III。　By
John　Moore；　M。　D。　　（Zeluco　Moore。）　You　know　his　pleasant　book。　　In
this　particular　volume　what　interested　me　most；　perhaps；　was　the　very
spirited　and　intelligent　account　of　the　miracle　of　the　liquefaction
of　the　blood　of　Saint　Januarius；　but　it　gave　me　an　hour's　mighty
agreeable　reading。　　So　much　for　Number　Two。

No。　III。　　was　〃An　ESSAY　On　the　Great　EFFECTS　of　Even　Languid　and
Unheeded　LOCAL　MOTION。〃　　By　the　Hon。　Robert　Boyle。　　Published　in
1685；　and；　as　appears　from　other　sources；　〃received　with　great　and
general　applause。〃　　I　confess　I　was　a　little　startled　to　find　how
near　this　earlier　philosopher　had　come　to　the　modern　doctrines；　such
as　are　illustrated　in　Tyndall's　〃Heat　considered　as　a　Mode　of
Motion。〃　　He　speaks　of　〃Us；　who　endeavor　to　resolve　the　Phenomena　of
Nature　into　Matter　and　Local　motion。〃　　That　sounds　like　the
nineteenth　century；　but　what　shall　we　say　to　this？　　〃As　when　a　bar　of
iron　or　silver；　having　been　well　hammered；　is　newly　taken　off　of　the
anvil；　though　the　eye　can　discern　no　motion　in　it；　yet　the　touch　will
readily　perceive　it　to　be　very　hot；　and　if　you　spit　upon　it；　the
brisk　agitation　of　the　insensible　parts　will　become　visible　in　that
which　they　will　produce　in　the　liquor。〃　　He　takes　a　bar　of　tin；　and
tries　whether　by　bending　it　to　and　fro　two　or　three　times　he　cannot
〃procure　a　considerable　internal　commotion　among　the　parts　〃；　and
having　by　this　means　broken　or　cracked　it　in　the　middle；　finds；　as　he
expected；　that　the　middle　parts　had　considerably　heated　each　other。
There　are　many　other　curious　and　interesting　observations　in　the
volume　which　I　should　like　to　tell　you　of；　but　these　will　serve　my
purpose。

Which　book　furnished　you　the　old　cover　you　wanted？　said　I。

Did　he　kill　the　owl　？said　the　Master；　laughing。　　＇I　suppose　you；
the　reader；　know　the　owl　story。＇It　was　Number　Two　that　lent　me　one
of　his　covers。　　Poor　wretch！　　He　was　one　of　three；　and　had　lost　his
two　brothers。　　From　him　that　hath　not　shall　be　taken　even　that　which
he　hath。　　The　Scripture　had　to　be　fulfilled　in　his　case。　　But　I
couldn't　help　saying　to　myself；　What　do　you　keep　writing　books　for；
when　the　stalls　are　covered　all　over　with　'em；　good　books；　too；　that
nobody　will　give　ten　cents　apiece　for；　lying　there　like　so　many　dead
beasts　of　burden；　of　no　account　except　to　strip　off　their　hides？
What　is　the　use；　I　say？　　I　have　made　a　book　or　two　in　my　time；　and　I
am　making　another　that　perhaps　will　see　the　light　one　of　these　days。
But　if　I　had　my　life　to　live　over　again；　I　think　I　should　go　in　for
silence；　and　get　as　near　to　Nirvana　as　I　could。　　This　language　is
such　a　paltry　tool！　　The　handle　of　it　cuts　and　the　blade　doesn't。
You　muddle　yourself　by　not　knowing　what　you　mean　by　a　word；　and　send
out　your　unanswered　riddles　and　rebuses　to　clear　up　other　people's
difficulties。　　It　always　seems　to　me　that　talk　is　a　ripple　and
thought　is　a　ground　swell。　　A　string　of　words；　that　mean　pretty　much
anything；　helps　you　in　a　certain　sense　to　get　hold　of　a　thought；　just
as　a　string　of　syllables　that　mean　nothing　helps　you　to　a　word；　but
it's　a　poor　business；　it's　a　poor　business；　and　the　more　you　study
definition　the　more　you　find　out　how　poor　it　is。　　Do　you　know　I
sometimes　think　our　little　entomological　neighbor　is　doing　a　sounder
business　than　we　people　that　make　books　about　ourselves　and　our
slippery　abstractions？　　A　man　can　see　the　spots　on　a　bug　and　count
'em；　and　tell　what　their　color　is；　and　put　another　bug　alongside　of
him　and　see　whether　the　two　are　alike　or　different。　　And　when　he　uses
a　word　he　knows　just　what　he　means。　　There　is　no　mistake　as　to　the
meaning　and　identity　of　pulex　irritans；　confound　him！

What　if　we　should　look　in；　some　day；　on　the　Scarabeeist；　as　he
calls　himself？said　I。…The　fact　is　the　Master　had　got　agoing　at
such　a　rate　that　I　was　willing　to　give　a　little　turn　to　the
conversation。

Oh；　very　well；said　the　Master；I　had　some　more　things　to　say；
but　I　don't　doubt　they'll　keep。　　And　besides；　I　take　an　interest　in
entomology；　and　have　my　own　opinion　on　the　meloe　question。

You　don't　mean　to　say　you　have　studied　insects　as　well　as　solar
systems　and　the　order　of　things　generally？

He　looked　pleased。　　All　philosophers　look　pleased　when　people　say
to　them　virtually；　〃Ye　are　gods。〃　　The　Master　says　he　is　vain
constitutionally；　and　thanks　God　that　he　is。　　I　don't　think　he　has
enough　vanity　to　make　a　fool　of　himself　with　it；　but　the　simple　truth
is　he　cannot　help　knowing　that　he　has　a　wide　and　lively　intelligence；
and　it　pleases　him　to　know　it；　and　to　be　reminded　of　it；　especially
in　an　oblique　and　tangential　sort　of　way；　so　as　not　to　look　like
downright　flattery。

Yes；　yes；　I　have　amused　a　summer　or　two　with　insects；　among　other
things。　　I　described　a　new　tabanus；horsefly；　you　know；which；　I
think；　had　escaped　notice。　　I　felt　as　grand　when　I　showed　up　my　new
discovery　as　if　I　had　created　the　beast。　　I　don't　doubt　Herschel　felt
as　if　he　had　made　a　planet　when　he　first　showed　the　astronomers
Georgium　Sidus；　as　he　called　it。　　And　that　reminds　me　of　something。
I　was　riding　on　the　outside　of　a　stagecoach　from　London　to　Windsor　in
the　yearnever　mind　the　year；　but　it　must　have　been　in　June；　I
suppose；　for　I　bought　some　strawberries。　　England　owes　me　a　sixpence
with　interest　from　date；　for　I　gave　the　woman　a　shilling；　and　the
coach　contrived　to　start　or　the　woman　timed　it　so　that　I　just　missed
getting　my　change。　　What　an　odd　thing　memory　is；　to　be　sure；　to　have
kept　such　a　triviality；　and　have　lost　so　much　that　was　invaluable！
She　is　a　crazy　wench；　that　Mnemosyne；　she　throws　her　jewels　out　of
the　window　and　locks　up　straws　and　old　rags　in　her　strong　box。

＇De　profundis！　　said　I　to　myself；　the　bottom　of　the　bushel　has
dropped　out！　　SanctaMaria；　ora　pro　nobis！＇

But　as　I　was　saying；　I　was　riding　on　the　outside　of　a　stage…coach
from　London　to　Windsor；　when　all　at　once　a　picture　familiar　to　me
from　my　New　England　village　childhood　came　upon　me　like　a
reminiscence　rather　than　a　revelation。　　It　was　a　mighty　bewilderment
of　slanted　masts　and　spars　and　ladders　and　ropes；　from　the　midst　of
which　a　vast　tube；　looking　as　if　it　might　be　a　piece　of　ordnance　such
as　the　revolted　angels　battered　the　walls　of　Heaven　with；　according
to　Milton；　lifted　its　muzzle　defiantly　towards　the　sky。　　Why；　you
blessed　old　rattletrap；　said　I　to　myself；　I　know　you　as　well　as　I
know　my　father's　spectacles　and　snuff…box！　　And　that　same　crazy　witch
of　a　Memory；　so　divinely　wise　and　foolish；　travels　thirty…five
hundred　miles　or　so　in　a　single　pulse…beat；　makes　straight　for　an　old
house　and　an　old　library　and　an　old　corner　of　it；　and　whisks　out　a
volume　of　an　old　cyclopaedia；　and　there　is　the　picture　of　which　this
is　the　original。　　Sir　William　Herschel's　great　telescope！　　It　was
just　about　as　big；　as　it　stood　there　by　the　roadside；　as　it　was　in
the　picture；　not　much　different　any　way。　　Why　should　it　be？　　The
pupil　of　your　eye　is　only　a　gimlet…hole；　not　so　very　much　bigger　than
the　eye　of　a　sail…needle；　and　a　camel　has　to　go　through　it　before　you
can　see　him。　　You　look　into　a　stereoscope　and　think　you　see　a
miniature　of　a　building　or　a　mountain；　you　don't；　you　're　made　a　fool
of　by　your　lying　intelligence；　as　you　call　it；　you　see　the　building
and　the　mountain　just　as　large　as　with　your　naked　eye　looking
straight　at　the　real　objects。　　Doubt　it；　do　you？　　Perhaps　you'd　like
to　doubt　it　to　the　music　of　a　couple　of　gold　five…dollar　pieces。　　If
you　would；　say　the　word；　and　man　and　money；　as　Messrs。　Heenan　and
Morrissey　have　it；　shall　be　forthcoming；　for　I　will　make　you　look　at
a　real　landscape　with　your　right　eye；　and　a　stereoscopic　view　of　it
with　your　left　eye；　both　at　once；　and　you　can　slide　one　over　the
other　by　a　little　management　and　see　how　exactly　the　picture　overlies
the　true　landscape。　　We　won't　try　it　now；　because　I　want　to　read　you
something　out　of　my　book。

I　have　noticed　that　the　Master　very　rarely　fails　to　come　back　to
his　original　proposition；　though　he；　like　myself；　is　fond　of
zigzagging　in　order　to　reach　it。　　Men's　minds　are　like　the　pieces　on
a　chess…board　in　their　way　of　moving。　　One　mind　creeps　from　the
square　it　is　on　to　the　next；　straight　forward；　like　the　pawns。
Another　sticks　close　to　its　own　line　of　thought　and　follows　it　as　far
as　it　goes；　with　no　heed　for　others'　opinions；　as　the　bishop　sweeps
the　board　in　the　line　of　his　own　color。　　And　another　class　of　minds
break　through　everything　that　lies　before　them；　ride　over　argument
and　opposition；　and　go　to　the　end　of　the　board；　like　the　castle。　　But
there　is　still　another　sort　of　intellect　which　is　very　apt　to　jump
over　the　thought　that　stands　next　and　come　down　in　the　unexpected　way
of　the　knight。　　But　that　same　knight；　as　the　chess　manuals　will　show
you；　will　contrive　to　get　on　to　every　square　of　the　board　in　a　pretty
series　of　moves　that　looks　like　a　pattern　of　embroidery；　and　so　these
zigzagging　minds　like　the　Master's；　and　I　suppose　my　own　is