a mortal antipathy- 第6部分

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　is　the　one　who

is　born　to　an　ancient　estate；　with　a　long　line　of　family　traditions

and　the　means　in　his　hands　of　shaping　his　mansion　and　his　domain　to

his　own　taste；　without　losing　sight　of　all　the　characteristic

features　which　surrounded　his　earliest　years。　　The　American　is；　for

the　most　part；　a　nomad；　who　pulls　down　his　house　as　the　Tartar　pulls

up　his　tent…poles。　　If　I　had　an　ideal　life　to　plan　for　him　it　would

be　something　like　this：



His　grandfather　should　be　a　wise；　scholarly；　large…brained；　large…

hearted　country　minister；　from　whom　he　should　inherit　the　temperament

that　predisposes　to　cheerfulness　and　enjoyment；　with　the　finer

instincts　which　direct　life　to　noble　aims　and　make　it　rich　with　the

gratification　of　pure　and　elevated　tastes　and　the　carrying　out　of

plans　for　the　good　of　his　neighbors　and　his　fellow…creatures。　　He

should；　if　possible；　have　been　born；　at　any　rate　have　passed　some　of

his　early　years；　or　a　large　part　of　them；　under　the　roof　of　the　good

old　minister。　　His　father　should　be；　we　will　say；　a　business　man　in

one　of　our　great　cities；a　generous　manipulator　of　millions；　some　of

which　have　adhered　to　his　private　fortunes；　in　spite　of　his　liberal

use　of　his　means。　　His　heir；　our　ideally　placed　American；　shall　take

possession　of　the　old　house；　the　home　of　his　earliest　memories；　and

preserve　it　sacredly；　not　exactly　like　the　Santa　Casa；　but；　as　nearly

as　may　be；　just　as　he　remembers　it。　　He　can　add　as　many　acres　as　he

will　to　the　narrow　house…lot。　　He　can　build　a　grand　mansion　for

himself；　if　he　chooses；　in　the　not　distant　neighborhood。　　But　the　old

house；　and　all　immediately　round　it；　shall　be　as　he　recollects　it

when　be　had　to　stretch　his　little　arm　up　to　reach　the　door…handles。

Then；　having　well　provided　for　his　own　household；　himself　included；

let　him　become　the　providence　of　the　village　or　the　town　where　be

finds　himself　during　at　least　a　portion　of　every　year。　　Its　schools；

its　library；　its　poor；and　perhaps　the　new　clergyman　who　has

succeeded　his　grandfather's　successor　may　be　one　of　them；all　its

interests；　he　shall　make　his　own。　　And　from　this　centre　his

beneficence　shall　radiate　so　far　that　all　who　hear　of　his　wealth

shall　also　hear　of　him　as　a　friend　to　his　race。



Is　not　this　a　pleasing　programme？　　Wealth　is　a　steep　hill；　which　the

father　climbs　slowly　and　the　son　often　tumbles　down　precipitately；

but　there　is　a　table…land　on　a　level　with　it；　which　may　be　found　by

those　who　do　not　lose　their　head　in　looking　down　from　its　sharply

cloven　summit。…Our　dangerously　rich　men　can　make　themselves　hated；

held　as　enemies　of　the　race；　or　beloved　and　recognized　as　its

benefactors。　　The　clouds　of　discontent　are　threatening；　but　if　the

gold…pointed　lightning…rods　are　rightly　distributed　the　destructive

element　may　be　drawn　off　silently　and　harmlessly。　　For　it　cannot　be

repeated　too　often　that　the　safety　of　great　wealth　with　us　lies　in

obedience　to　the　new　version　of　the　Old　World　axiom；　RICHESS　oblige。













THE　NEW　PORTFOLIO：　FIRST　OPENING。









A　MORTAL　ANTIPATHY。







I



GETTING　READY。



It　is　impossible　to　begin　a　story　which　must　of　necessity　tax　the

powers　of　belief　of　readers　unacquainted　with　the　class　of　facts　to

which　its　central　point　of　interest　belongs　without　some　words　in　the

nature　of　preparation。　　Readers　of　Charles　Lamb　remember　that　Sarah

Battle　insisted　on　a　clean…swept　hearth　before　sitting　down　to　her

favorite　game　of　whist。



The　narrator　wishes　to　sweep　the　hearth；　as　it　were；　in　these　opening

pages；　before　sitting　down　to　tell　his　story。　　He　does　not　intend　to

frighten　the　reader　away　by　prolix　explanation；　but　he　does　mean　to

warn　him　against　hasty　judgments　when　facts　are　related　which　are　not

within　the　range　of　every…day　experience。　　Did　he　ever　see　the

Siamese　twins；　or　any　pair　like　them？　　Probably　not；　yet　he　feels

sure　that　Chang　and　Eng　really　existed；　and　if　he　h