the poet at the breakfast table-第58节

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should　explode；　as　it　were；　into　bloom　with　audible　sound；　as　you　may
read　in　Keats's　Endymion；　or　observe　in　your　own　garden。

There　is　a　continual　tendency　in　men　to　fence　in　themselves　and　a　few
of　their　neighbors　who　agree　with　them　in　their　ideas；　as　if　they
were　an　exception　to　their　race。　　We　must　not　allow　any　creed　or
religion　whatsoever　to　confiscate　to　its　own　private　use　and　benefit
the　virtues　which　belong　to　our　common　humanity。　　The　Good　Samaritan
helped　his　wounded　neighbor　simply　because　he　was　a　suffering　fellow…
creature。　　Do　you　think　your　charitable　act　is　more　acceptable　than
the　Good　Samaritan's；　because　you　do　it　in　the　name　of　Him　who　made
the　memory　of　that　kind　man　immortal？　　Do　you　mean　that　you　would　not
give　the　cup　of　cold　water　for　the　sake　simply　and　solely　of　the
poor；　suffering　fellow…mortal；　as　willingly　as　you　now　do；　professing
to　give　it　for　the　sake　of　Him　who　is　not　thirsty　or　in　need　of　any
help　of　yours？　　We　must　ask　questions　like　this；　if　we　are　to　claim
for　our　common　nature　what　belongs　to　it。

The　scientific　study　of　man　is　the　most　difficult　of　all　branches　of
knowledge。　　It　requires；　in　the　first　place；　an　entire　new
terminology　to　get　rid　of　that　enormous　load　of　prejudices　with　which
every　term　applied　to　the　malformations；　the　functional　disturbances；
and　the　organic　diseases　of　the　moral　nature　is　at　present　burdened。
Take　that　one　word　Sin；　for　instance：　all　those　who　have　studied　the
subject　from　nature　and　not　from　books　know　perfectly　well　that　a
certain　fraction　of　what　is　so　called　is　nothing　more　or　less　than　a
symptom　of　hysteria；　that　another　fraction　is　the　index　of　a　limited
degree　of　insanity；　that　still　another　is　the　result　of　a　congenital
tendency　which　removes　the　act　we　sit　in　judgment　upon　from　the
sphere　of　self…determination；　if　not　entirely；　at　least　to　such　an
extent　that　the　subject　of　the　tendency　cannot　be　judged　by　any
normal　standard。

To　study　nature　without　fear　is　possible；　but　without　reproach；
impossible。　　The　man　who　worships　in　the　temple　of　knowledge　must
carry　his　arms　with　him　as　our　Puritan　fathers　had　to　do　when　they
gathered　in　their　first　rude　meeting…houses。　　It　is　a　fearful　thing
to　meddle　with　the　ark　which　holds　the　mysteries　of　creation。　　I
remember　that　when　I　was　a　child　the　tradition　was　whispered　round
among　us　little　folks　that　if　we　tried　to　count　the　stars　we　should
drop　down　dead。　　Nevertheless；　the　stars　have　been　counted　and　the
astronomer　has　survived。　　This　nursery　legend　is　the　child's　version
of　those　superstitions　which　would　have　strangled　in　their　cradles
the　young　sciences　now　adolescent　and　able　to　take　care　of
themselves；　and　which；　no　longer　daring　to　attack　these；　are　watching
with　hostile　aspect　the　rapid　growth　of　the　comparatively　new　science
of　man。

The　real　difficulty　of　the　student　of　nature　at　this　time　is　to
reconcile　absolute　freedom　and　perfect　fearlessness　with　that　respect
for　the　past；　that　reverence；　for　the　spirit　of　reverence　wherever　we
find　it；　that　tenderness　for　the　weakest　fibres　by　which　the　hearts
of　our　fellow…creatures　hold　to　their　religious　convictions；　which
will　make　the　transition　from　old　belief　to　a　larger　light　and
liberty　an　interstitial　change　and　not　a　violent　mutilation。

I　remember　once　going　into　a　little　church　in　a　small　village　some
miles　from　a　great　European　capital。　　The　special　object　of　adoration
in　this　humblest　of　places　of　worship　was　a　bambino；　a　holy　infant；
done　in　wax；　and　covered　with　cheap　ornaments　such　as　a　little　girl
would　like　to　beautify　her　doll　with。　　Many　a　good　Protestant　of　the
old　Puritan　type　would　have　felt　a　strong　impulse　to　seize　this
〃idolatrous〃　figure　and　dash　it　to　pieces　on　the　stone　floor　of　the
little　church。　　But　one　must　have　lived　awhile　among　simple…minded
pious　Catholics　to　know　what　this　poor　waxen　image　and　the　whole
baby…house　of　bambinos　mean　for　a　humble；　unlettered；　unimaginative
peasantry。　　He　will　find　that　the　true　office　of　this　eidolon　is　to
fix　the　mind　of　the　worshipper；　and　that　in　virtue　of　the　devotional
thoughts　it　has　called　forth　so　often　for　so　many　years　in　the　mind
of　that　poor　old　woman　who　is　kneeling　before　it；　it　is　no　longer　a
wax　doll　for　her；　but　has　undergone　a　transubstantiation　quite　as
real　as　that　of　the　Eucharist。　　The　moral　is　that　we　must　not　roughly
smash　other　people's　idols　because　we　know；　or　think　we　know；　that
they　are　of　cheap　human　manufacture。

Do　you　think　cheap　manufactures　encourage　idleness？　said　I。

The　Master　stared。　　Well　he　might；　for　I　had　been　getting　a　little
drowsy；　and　wishing　to　show　that　I　had　been　awake　and　attentive；
asked　a　question　suggested　by　some　words　I　had　caught；　but　which
showed　that　I　had　not　been　taking　the　slightest　idea　from　what　he　was
reading　me。　　He　stared；　shook　his　head　slowly；　smiled　good…humoredly；
took　off　his　great　round　spectacles；　and　shut　up　his　book。

Sat　prates　biberunt；he　said。　　A　sick　man　that　gets　talking　about
himself；　a　woman　that　gets　talking　about　her　baby；　and　an　author　that
begins　reading　out　of　his　own　book；　never　know　when　to　stop。　　You'll
think　of　some　of　these　things　you've　been　getting　half　asleep　over　by
and　by。　　I　don't　want　you　to　believe　anything　I　say；　I　only　want　you
to　try　to　see　what　makes　me　believe　it。

My　young　friend；　the　Astronomer；　has；　I　suspect；　been　making　some
addition　to　his　manuscript。　　At　any　rate　some　of　the　lines　he　read　us
in　the　afternoon　of　this　same　day　had　never　enjoyed　the　benefit　of　my
revision；　and　I　think　they　had　but　just　been　written。　　I　noticed　that
his　manner　was　somewhat　more　excited　than　usual；　and　his　voice　just
towards　the　close　a　little　tremulous。　　Perhaps　I　may　attribute　his
improvement　to　the　effect　of　my　criticisms；　but　whatever　the　reason；
I　think　these　lines　are　very　nearly　as　correct　as　they　would　have
been　if　I　had　looked　them　over。


　　　　　WIND…CLOUDS　AND　STAR…DRIFTS。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　VII

What　if　a　soul　redeemed；　a　spirit　that　loved
While　yet　on　earth　and　was　beloved　in　turn；
And　still　remembered　every　look　and　tone
Of　that　dear　earthly　sister　who　was　left
Among　the　unwise　virgins　at　the　gate；
Itself　admitted　with　the　bridegroom's　train；
What　if　this　spirit　redeemed；　amid　the　host
Of　chanting　angels；　in　some　transient　lull
Of　the　eternal　anthem；　heard　the　cry
Of　its　lost　darling；　whom　in　evil　hour
Some　wilder　pulse　of　nature　led　astray
And　left　an　outcast　in　a　world　of　fire；
Condemned　to　be　the　sport　of　cruel　fiends；
Sleepless；　unpitying；　masters　of　the　skill
To　wring　the　maddest　ecstasies　of　pain
》From　worn…out　souls　that　only　ask　to　die；
Would　it　not　long　to　leave　the　bliss　of　Heaven；
Bearing　a　little　water　in　its　hand
To　moisten　those　poor　lips　that　plead　in　vain
With　Him　we　call　our　Father？　　Or　is　all
So　changed　in　such　as　taste　celestial　joy
They　hear　unmoved　the　endless　wail　of　woe；
The　daughter　in　the　same　dear　tones　that　hushed
Her　cradled　slumbers；　she　who　once　had　held
A　babe　upon　her　bosom　from　its　voice
Hoarse　with　its　cry　of　anguish；　yet　the　same？

No！　not　in　ages　when　the　Dreadful　Bird
Stamped　his　huge　footprints；　and　the　Fearful　Beast
Strode　with　the　flesh　about　those　fossil　bones
We　build　to　mimic　life　with　pygmy　hands；
Not　in　those　earliest　days　when　men　ran　wild
And　gashed　each　other　with　their　knives　of　stone；
When　their　low　foreheads　bulged　in　ridgy　brows
And　their　flat　hands　were　callous　in　the　palm
With　walking　in　the　fashion　of　their　sires；
Grope　as　they　might　to　find　a　cruel　god
To　work　their　will　on　such　as　human　wrath
Had　wrought　its　worst　to　torture；　and　had　left
With　rage　unsated；　white　and　stark　and　cold；
Could　hate　have　shaped　a　demon　more　malign
Than　him　the　dead　men　mummied　in　their　creed
And　taught　their　trembling　children　to　adore！
Made　in　his　image！　　Sweet　and　gracious　souls
Dear　to　my　heart　by　nature's　fondest　names；
Is　not　your　memory　still　the　precious　mould
That　lends　its　form　to　Him　who　hears　my　prayer？
Thus　only　I　behold　him；　like　to　them；
Long…suffering；　gentle；　ever　slow　to　wrath；
If　wrath　it　be　that　only　wounds　to　heal；
Ready　to　meet　the　wanderer　ere　he　reach
The　door　he　seeks；　forgetful　of　his　sin；
Longing　to　clasp　him　in　a　father's　arms；
And　seal　his　pardon　with　a　pitying　tear！

Four　gospels　tell　their　story　to　mankind；
And　none　so　full　of　soft；　caressing　words
That　bring　the　Maid　of　Bethlehem　and　her　Babe
Before　our　tear…dimmed　eyes；　as　his　who　learned
In　the　meek　service　of　his　gracious　art
The　tones　which　like　the　medicinal　balms
That　calm　the　sufferer's　anguish；　soothe　our　souls。
Oh　that　the　loving　woman；　she　who　sat
So　long　a　listener　at　her　Master's　feet；
Had　left　us　Mary's　Gospel；all　she　heard
Too　sweet；　too　subtle　for　the　ear　of　man！
Mark　how　the　tender…hearted　mothers　read
The　messages　of　love　between　the　lines
Of　the　same　page　that　loads　the　bitter　tongue
Of　him　who　deals　in　terror　as　his　trade
With　threatening　words　of　wrath　that　scorch　like　flame！
They　tell　of　angels　whispering　round　the　bed
Of　the　sweet　infant　smiling　in　its　dream；
Of　lambs　enfolded　in　the　Shepherd's　arms；
Of　Him　who　blessed　the　children；　of　the　land
Where　crystal　rivers　feed　unfadin