(Qornell Mntttccaitg ffiihratg 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
__ ^ Cornell University Library 
 
 PS 1950.E91 
 V.3 
 
 '■'^SHiiOS/',.„f'''"°''-'''he writings of Oliv 
 
 3 1924 021 970 169 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 924021 9701 69 
 
irar0e#a]^ei; €tiitton 
 
 THE WRITINGS OF 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 IN THIRTEEN VOLUMES 
 VOLUME III. 
 
THE POET 
 
 AT 
 
 THE BREAKFAST-TABLE 
 
 ^t tal&e tDit{) Us fella'a-Monx'iitve 
 anH t^e EeaDer 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 CAMBRIDGE 
 
 ptinttn at i^t Wbtteist ^ttee 
 1891 
 
 ^ ^> c 
 
Copyright, 1872 and 1891 
 Bt OUVBR WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 AJl rights reserved 
 
 (iSn»o itun6«t) anO SitHmtt^'ifiot Copies J9rintti) for America 
 JVo.J^ 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In this, the third series of Breakfast-Table conver- 
 sations, a slight dramatic background shows off a few 
 talkers and writers, aided by certain silent supernu- 
 meraries. The machinery is much like that of the two 
 preceding series. Some of the characters must seem 
 like old acquaintances to those who have read the 
 former papers. As I read these over for the first 
 time for a number of years, I notice one character 
 representing a class of beings who have greatly mid- 
 tiplied during the interval which separates the earlier 
 and later Breakfast-Table papers, — I mean the scien- 
 tific specialists. The entomologist, who confines 
 himself rigidly to the study of the coleoptera, is in- 
 tended to typify this class. The subdivision of labor, 
 which, as we used to be told, required fourteen differ- 
 ent workmen to make a single pin, has reached all 
 branches of knowledge. We find new terms in all the 
 professions, implying that special provinces have been 
 marked off, each having its own school of students. 
 In theology we have many curious subdivisions; 
 among the rest eschatology, that is to say, the geogra- 
 phy, geology, etc., of the "undiscovered country; " 
 in medicine, if the surgeon who deals with dislocations 
 of the right shotilder declines to meddle with a dis- 
 placement on the other side, we are not surprised, but 
 
VI PKEFACE. 
 
 ring the bell of the practitioner who devotes himself 
 to injuries of the left shoulder. 
 
 On the other hand, we have had or have the ency- 
 clopaedic intelligences like Cuvier, Buckle, and more 
 emphatically Herbert Spencer, who take all know- 
 ledge, or large fields of it, to be their province. The 
 author of "Thoughts on the Universe" has something 
 in common vsdth these, but he appears also to have a 
 good deal about him of what we call the humorist; 
 that is, an individual with a somewhat heterogeneous 
 personality, in which various distinctly human ele- 
 ments are mixed together, so as to form a kind of 
 coherent and sometimes pleasing whole, which is to a 
 symmetrical character as a breccia is to a mosaic. 
 
 As for the Young Astronomer, his rhythmical dis- 
 course may be taken as expressing the reaction of 
 what some would call "the natural man" against the 
 unnatural beliefs which he found in that lower world 
 to which he descended by day from his midnight home 
 in the firmament. 
 
 I have endeavored to give fair play to the protest 
 of gentle and reverential conservatism in the letter of 
 the Lady, which was not copied from, but suggested 
 by, one which I received long ago from a lady bear- 
 ing an honored name, and which I read thoughtfully 
 and with profound respect. 
 
 December, 1882. 
 
PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION. 
 
 It is now nearly twenty years since this book was 
 published. Being the third of the Breakfast-Table 
 series, it could hardly be expected to attract so much 
 attention as the earlier voliimes. Still, I had no rea- 
 son to be disappointed with its reception. It took its 
 place with the others, and was in some points a clearer 
 exposition of my views and feelings than either of the 
 other books, its predecessors. The poems "Homesick 
 in Heaven " and the longer group of passages coming 
 from the midnight reveries of the Young Astronomer 
 have thoughts in them not so fully expressed elsewhere 
 in my writings. 
 
 The first of these two poems is at war with our com- 
 mon modes of thought. In looking forward to re- 
 joining in a future state those whom we have loved on 
 earth, — as most of us hope and many of us believe 
 we shall, — we are apt to forget that the same individ- 
 uality is remembered by one relative as a babe, by 
 another as an adult in the strength of maturity, and 
 by a third as a wreck with little left except its infirm- 
 ities and its affections. The main thought of this 
 poem is a painful one to some persons. They have 
 so closely associated life with its accidents that they 
 expect to see their departed friends in the costume of 
 the time in which they best remember them, and feel 
 
viii PEEFACE TO THE NEW EDITION. 
 
 as if they slioiild meet the spirit of their grandfather 
 with his wig and cane, as they habitually recall him 
 to memory. 
 
 The process of scientific specialization referred to 
 and illustrated in this record has been going on more 
 actively than ever during these last twenty years. 
 We have only to look over the lists of the Faculties 
 and teachers of our Universities to see the subdivision 
 of labor carried out as never before. The movement 
 is irresistible; it brings with it exactness, exhaustive 
 knowledge, a narrow but complete self-satisfaction, 
 with such accompanying faults as pedantry, triviality, 
 and the kind of partial blindness which belong to in- 
 tellectual myopia. The specialist is idealized almost 
 into sublimity in Browning's "Burial of the Gramma- 
 rian." We never need fear that he will undervalue 
 himself. To be the supreme authority on anything is 
 a satisfaction to self-love next door to the precious de- 
 lusions of dementia. I have never pictured a charac- 
 ter more contented with himseK than the "Scarabee" 
 of this story. 
 
 O. W. H. 
 
 Beveklt Fabms, Mass. , August 1, 1891. 
 
THE POET 
 
 BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 I. 
 
 The idea of a man's "interviewing" himself is 
 rather odd, to be sure. But then that is what we are 
 all of us doing every day. I talk half the time to 
 find out my own thoughts, as a school-boy turns his 
 pockets inside out to see what is in them. One brings 
 to light all sorts of personal property he had forgot- 
 ten in his inventory. 
 
 — You don't know what your thoughts are going to 
 be beforehand? said the "Member of the Haouse," as 
 he calls himself. 
 
 — Why, of course I don't. Bless your honest leg- 
 islative soul, I suppose I have as many bound volumes 
 of notions of one kind and another in my head as you 
 have in your Representatives' library up there at the 
 State House. I have to tumble them over and over, 
 and open them in a hundred places, and sometimes 
 cut the leaves here and there, to find what I think 
 about this and that. And a good many people who 
 flatter themselves they are talking wisdom to me, are 
 only helping me to get at the shelf and the book and 
 the page where I shall find my own opinion about 
 the matter in question. 
 
2 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 — The Member's eyes began to look heavy. 
 
 — It 's a very queer place, that receptacle a man 
 fetches his talk out of. The library comparison 
 does n't exactly hit it. You stow away some idea and 
 don't want it, say for ten years. When it turns up 
 at last it has got so jammed and crushed out of shape 
 by the other ideas packed with it, that it is no more 
 like what it was than a raisin is like a grape on the 
 vine, or a fig from a drum like one hanging on the 
 tree. Then, again, some kinds of thoughts breed in 
 the dark of one's mind like the blind fishes in the 
 Mammoth Cave. We can't see them and they can't 
 see us; but sooner or later the daylight gets in and 
 we find that some cold, fishy little negative has been 
 spawning all over our beliefs, and the brood of blind 
 questions it has given birth to are burrowing round 
 and under and butting their blunt noses against the 
 pillars of faith we thought the whole world might lean 
 on. And then, again, some of our old beliefs are 
 dying out every year, and others feed on them and 
 grow fat, or get poisoned as the case may be. And 
 so, you see, you can't teU what the thoughts are that 
 you have got salted down, as one may say, till you 
 run a streak of talk through them, as the market peo- 
 ple run a butter-scoop through a firkin. 
 
 Don't talk, thinking you are going to find out your 
 neighbor, for you won't do it, but talk to find out 
 yourself. There is more of you — and less of you, in 
 spots, very likely — than you know. 
 
 — The Member gave a slight but unequivocal start 
 just here. It does seem as if perpetual somnolence 
 was the price of listening to other people's wisdom. 
 This was one of those transient nightmares that one 
 may have in a doze of twenty seconds. He thought a 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 3 
 
 certain imaginary Committee of Safety of a certain 
 imaginary Legislature was proceeding to burn down 
 his haystack, in accordance with an Act, entitled an 
 Act to make the Poor Richer by making the Rich 
 Poorer. And the chairman of the committee was in- 
 stituting a forcible exchange of hats with him, to his 
 manifest disadvantage, for he had just bought him a 
 new beaver. He told this dream afterwards to one of 
 the boarders. 
 
 There was nothing very surprising, therefore, in his 
 asking a question not very closely related to what had 
 gone before. 
 
 — Do you think they mean business? 
 
 — I beg your pardon, but it would be of material 
 assistance to me in answering your question if I knew 
 who "they " might happen to be. 
 
 — Why, those chaps that are setting folks on to 
 burn us aU up in our beds. Political firebugs we call 
 'em up our way. Want to substitoot the match-box 
 for the ballot-box. Scare all our old women half to 
 death. 
 
 — Oh — ah — yes — to be sure. I don't believe 
 they say what the papers put in their mouths any 
 more than that a friend of mine wrote the letter about 
 Worcester's and Webster's Dictionaries, that he had 
 to disown the other day. These newspaper fellows 
 are half asleep when they make up their reports at two 
 or three o'clock in the morning, and fill out the 
 speeches to suit themselves. I do remember some 
 things that sounded pretty bad, — about as bad as 
 nitro-glycerine, for that matter. But I don't believe 
 they ever said 'em, when they spoke their pieces, or 
 if they said 'em I know they didn't mean 'em. 
 Something like this, was n't it? If the majority 
 
4 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 didn 't do something the minority wanted 'em to, then 
 the people were to burn up our cities, and knock us 
 down and jump on our stomachs. That was about 
 the kind of talk, as the papers had it; I don't wonder 
 it scared the old women. 
 
 — The Member was wide awake by this time. 
 
 — I don't seem to remember of them partickler 
 phrases, he said. 
 
 — Dear me, no; only levelling everything smack, 
 and trampling us under foot, as the reporters made it 
 out. That means fiee, I take it, and knocking you 
 down and stamping on you, whichever side of your 
 person happens to be uppermost. Sounded like a 
 threat; meant, of course, for a wamiug. But I don't 
 believe it was in the piece as they spoke it, — could n't 
 have been. Then, again, Paris was n't to blame, — 
 as much as to say — so the old women thought — that 
 New York or Boston would n't be to blame if it did the 
 same thing. I 've heard of political gatheriags where 
 they barbecued an ox, but I can't think there 's a 
 party in this country that wants to barbecue a city. 
 But it is n't quite fair to frighten the old women. I 
 don't doubt there are a great many people wiser than 
 I am that would n't be hurt by a hint I am goiag to 
 give them. It 's no matter what you say when you 
 talk to yourself, but when you talk to other people, 
 your business is to use words with reference to the 
 way in which those other people are like to understand 
 them. These pretended inflammatory speeches, so 
 reported as to seem full of combustibles, even if they 
 were as threatening as they have been represented, 
 would do no harm if read or declaimed in a man's 
 study to his books, or by the sea-shore to the waves. 
 But they are not so wholesome moral entertainment 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 6 
 
 for the dangerous classes. Boys must not toucli off 
 their squibs and crackers too near the powder-maga- 
 zine. This kind of speech does n't help on the millen- 
 nium much. 
 
 — It ain't jest the thing to grease your ex with ile 
 o' vitrul, said the Member. 
 
 — No, the wheel of progress wiU soon stick fast if 
 you do. You can't keep a dead level long, if you 
 burn everything down flat to make it. Why, bless 
 your soul, if all the cities of the world were reduced 
 to ashes, you 'd have a new set of millionnaires in a 
 couple of years or so, out of the trade in potash. In 
 the mean time, what is the use of setting the man with 
 the silver watch against the man with the gold watch, 
 and the man without any watch against them both? 
 
 — You can't go agin human natur', said the Mem- 
 ber. 
 
 — You speak truly. Here we are travelling through 
 the desert together like the children of Israel. Some 
 pick up more manna and catch more quails than oth- 
 ers, and ought to help their hungry neighbors more 
 than they do ; that will always be so until we come 
 back to primitive Christianity, the road to which does 
 not seem to be via Paris, just now; but we don't 
 want the incendiary's pillar of a cloud by day and a 
 pillar of fire by night to lead us in the march to civil- 
 ization, and we don't want a Moses who wiU smite 
 the rock, not to bring out water for our thirst, but 
 petroleum to burn us all up with. 
 
 — It is n't quite fair to run an opposition to the 
 other funny speaker, Kev. Petroleum V. What 's-his- 
 name, — spoke up an anonymous boarder. 
 
 — You may have been thinking, perhaps, that it 
 
6 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 was I, — I, the Poet, who was the chief talker in the 
 one-sided dialogue to which you have been listening. 
 If so, you were mistaken. It was the old man in the 
 spectacles with large round glasses and the iron-gray 
 hair. He does a good deal of the talking at our table, 
 and, to tell the truth, I rather like to hear him. He 
 stirs me up, and finds me occupation in various ways, 
 and especially, because he has good solid prejudices, 
 that one can rub against, and so get up and let off a 
 superficial intellectual irritation, just as the cattle rub 
 their backs against a rail (you remember Sydney 
 Smith's contrivance in his pasture) or their sides 
 against an apple-tree (I don't know why they take to 
 these so particularly, but you will often find the trunk 
 of an apple-tree as brown and smooth as an old saddle 
 at the height of a cow's ribs). I think they begin 
 rubbing in cold blood, and then, you know, Vappetit 
 vient en mangeant, the more they rub the more they 
 want to. That is the way to use your friend's preju- 
 dices. This is a sturdy -looking personage of a good 
 deal more than middle age, his face marked with 
 strong manly furrows, records of hard thinking and 
 square stand-up fights with life and all its devils. 
 There is a slight touch of satire in his discourse now 
 and then, and an odd way of answering one that 
 makes it hard to guess how much more or less he 
 means than he seems to say. But he is honest, and 
 always has a twinkle in his eye to put you on your 
 guard when he does not mean to be taken quite liter- 
 ally. I think old Ben Franklin had just that look. 
 I know his great-grandson (in pace!^ had it, and I 
 don't doubt he took it in the straight line of descent, 
 as he did his grand intellect. 
 
 The Member of the Haouse evidently comes from 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. T 
 
 one of the lesser inland centres of civilization, where 
 the flora is rich in checkerberries and similar bounties 
 of nature, and the fauna lively with squirrels, wood- 
 chucks, and the like; where the leading sportsmen 
 snare patridges, as they are called, and "hunt" foxes 
 with guns; where rabbits are entrapped in "figgery 
 fours," and trout captured with the unpretentious 
 earth-worm, instead of the gorgeous fly; where they 
 get prizes for butter and cheese, and rag-carpets exe- 
 cuted by ladies more than seventy years of age ; where 
 they wear dress-coats before dinner, and cock their 
 hats on one side when they feel conspicuous and distin- 
 guished; where they say Sir to you in their common 
 talk, and have other Arcadian and bucolic ways which 
 are highly unobjectionable, but are not so much ad- 
 mired in cities, where the people are said to be not 
 half so virtuous. 
 
 There is with us a boy of modest dimensions, not 
 otherwise especially entitled to the epithet, who ought 
 to be six or seven years old, to judge by the gap left 
 by his front milk teeth, these having resigned in favor 
 of their successors, who have not yet presented their 
 credentials. He is rather old for an enfant terrihle, 
 and quite too young to have grown into the bashful- 
 ness of adolescence ; but he has some of the qualities 
 of both these engaging periods of development. The 
 Member of the Haouse calls him "Bub," invariably, 
 which term I take to be an abbreviation of "Beelze- 
 bub," as "'bus" is the short form of "omnibus." 
 Many eminently genteel persons, whose manners make 
 them at home anywhere, being evidently unaware of 
 the true derivation of this word, are in the habit of 
 addressing all unknown children by one of the two 
 terms, "bub" and "sis," which they consider endears 
 
8 THE POET AT THE BBBAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 them greatly to the young people, and recommends 
 them to the acquaintance of their honored parents, if 
 these happen to accompany them. The other board- 
 ers commonly call our diminutive companion That 
 Boy. He is a sort of expletive at the table, serving 
 to stop gaps, taking the same place a washer does that 
 makes a loose screw fit, and contriving to get driven 
 in like a wedge between any two chairs where there is 
 a crevice. I shall not call that boy by the monosylla- 
 ble referred to, because, though he has many impish 
 traits at present, he may become civilized and human- 
 ized by being in good company. Besides, it is a term 
 which I understand is considered vulgar by the nobil- 
 ity and gentry of the Mother Country, and it is not 
 to be found in Mr. Worcester's Dictionary, on which, 
 as is well known, the literary men of this metropolis 
 are by special statute allowed to be sworn ia place of 
 the Bible. I know one, certainly, who never takes 
 his oath on any other dictionary, any advertising fic- 
 tion to the contrary, notwithstanding. 
 
 I wanted to write out my account of some of the 
 other boarders, but a domestic occurrence — a some- 
 what prolonged visit from the landlady, who is rather 
 too anxious that I should be comfortable — broke in 
 upon the continuity of my thoughts, and occasioned 
 — in short, I gave up writing for that day. 
 
 — I wonder if anything like this ever happened. 
 Author writing, — 
 
 " To he, or not to he : that is the question : — 
 Whether 't is nohl — " 
 
 — "William, shall we have pudding to-day, or flap- 
 jacks?" 
 
 — "Flapjacks, an' it please thee, Anne, or a pud- 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLB. 9 
 
 ding, for that matter; or wliat thou wilt, good woman, 
 so thou come not betwixt me and my thought." 
 
 — Exit Mistress Anne, with strongly accented clos- 
 ing of the door and murmurs to the effect: "Ay, 
 marry, 't is well for thee to talk as if thou hadst no 
 stomach to fiU. "We poor wives must swink for our 
 masters, while they sit in their arm-chairs growing as 
 great in the girth through laziness as that ill-mannered 
 old fat man William hath writ of in his books of play- 
 ers' stuff. One had as well meddle with a porkpen, 
 which hath thorns all over him, as try to deal with 
 WiUiam when his eyes be rolling in that mad way." 
 
 William — writing once more — after an exclama- 
 tion in strong English of the older pattern, — 
 " Whether 't is nobler — nobler — nobler — 
 
 To do what? O these women! these women! to have 
 puddings or flapjacks ! Oh ! — 
 
 Whether 't is nobler — in the mind — to suffer 
 The slings — and arrows — of — 
 
 Oh! Oh! these women! I will e'en step over to 
 the parson's and have a cup of sack with His Kever- 
 ence, for methinks Master Hamlet hath forgot that 
 which was just now on his lips to speak." 
 
 So I shall have to put off making my friends ac- 
 quainted with the other boarders, some of whom seem 
 to me worth studying and describing. I have some- 
 thing else of a graver character for my readers. I am 
 talking, you know, as a poet; I do not say I deserve 
 the name, but I have taken it, and if you consider me 
 at all it must be in that aspect. You wiU, therefore, 
 perhaps, be willing to run your eyes over a few pages 
 which I read, of course by request, to a select party of 
 the boarders. 
 
10 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 THE GAMBREL-ROOFED HOUSE AND ITS 
 OUTLOOK. 
 
 A PANORAMA, WITH SIDE-SHOWS. 
 
 My birthplace, the home of my childhood and ear- 
 lier and later boyhood, has within a few months 
 passed out of the ownership of my family into the 
 hands of that venerable Alma Mater who seems to 
 have renewed her youth, and has certainly repainted 
 her dormitories. In truth, when I last revisited that 
 familiar scene and looked upon iAxe flammantia moenia 
 of the old haUs, "Massachusetts" with the dummy 
 clock-dial, "Harvard" with the garrulous belfry, lit- 
 tle "Holden " with the scidptured unpunishable cherub 
 over its portal, and the rest of my early brick-and- 
 mortar acquaintances, I could not help saying to my- 
 sel£ that I had lived to see the peaceable establishment 
 of the Eed Kepublic of Letters. 
 
 Many of the things I shall put down I have no 
 doubt told before in a fragmentary way, how many 
 I cannot be quite sure, as I do not very often read my 
 own prose works. But when a man dies a great deal 
 is said of him which has often been said in other 
 forms, and now this dear old house is dead to me in 
 one sense, and I want to gather up my recollections 
 and wind a string of narrative round them, tying them 
 up like a nosegay for the last tribute : the same blos- 
 soms in it I have often laid on its threshold while it 
 was still living for me. 
 
 We Americans are all cuckoos, — we make our 
 homes in the nests of other birds. I have read some- 
 where that the lineal descendants of the man who 
 carted off the body of William Rufus, with Walter 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 11 
 
 Tyrrel's arrow sticking in it, have driven a cart (not 
 absolutely the same one, I suppose) in the New Forest, 
 from that day to this. I don't quite imderstand Mr. 
 Ruskin's saying (if he said it) that he could n't get 
 along in a country where there were no castles, but I 
 do think we lose a great deal in living where there 
 are so few permanent homes. You will see how much 
 I parted with which was not reckoned in the price 
 paid for the old homestead. 
 
 I shall say many things which an uncharitable 
 reader might find fault with as personal. I should 
 not dare to call myself a poet if I did not; for if 
 there is anything that gives one a title to that name, 
 it is that his inner nature is naked and is not ashamed. 
 But there are many such things I shall put in words, 
 not because they are personal, but because they are 
 human, and are bom of just such experiences as those 
 who hear or read what I say are like to have had in 
 greater or less measure. I find myself so much like 
 other people that I often wonder at the coincidence. 
 It was only the other day that I sent out a copy of 
 verses about my great-grandmother's picture, and I 
 was surprised to find how many other people had 
 portraits of their great-grandmothers or other progen- 
 itors, about which they felt as I did about mine, and 
 for whom I had spoken, thinking I was speaking for 
 myself only. And so I am not afraid to talk very 
 freely with you, my precious reader or listener. You 
 too, Beloved, were bom somewhere and remember 
 your birthplace or your early home; for you some 
 house is haxmted by recollections ; to some roof you 
 have bid farewell. Your hand is upon mine, then, as 
 I guide my pen. Your heart frames the responses to 
 the litany of my remembrance. For myself it is a 
 
12 THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 
 
 tribute of affection I am rendering, and I should put 
 it on record for my own satisfaction, were there none 
 to read or to listen. 
 
 I hope you wiU not say that I have built a pillared 
 portico of introduction to a humble structure of nar- 
 rative. For when you look at the old gambrel-roofed 
 house, you will see an unpretending mansion, such as 
 very possibly you were born in yourself, or at any 
 rate such a place of residence as your minister or some 
 of your well-to-do coimtry cousins find good enough, 
 but not at all too grand for them. We have stately 
 old Colonial palaces in our ancient village, now a 
 city, and a thriving one, — square-fronted edifices that 
 stand back from the vulgar highway, with folded 
 arms, as it were; social fortresses of the time when 
 the twilight lustre of the throne reached as far as our 
 half -cleared settlement, with a glacis before them in 
 the shape of a long broad gravel-walk, so that in King 
 George's time they looked as formidably to any but 
 the silk-stocking gentry as Gibraltar or Ehrenbreit- 
 stein to a visitor without the password. We forget 
 all this in the kindly welcome they give us to-day; 
 for some of them are stiU standing and doubly famous, 
 as we all know. But the gambrel-roofed house, 
 though stately enough for college dignitaries and schol- 
 arly clergymen, was not one of those old Tory, Epis- 
 copal-church-goer's strongholds. One of its doors 
 opens directly upon the green, always called the Com- 
 mon; the other, facing the south, a few steps from it, 
 over a paved foot-walk, on the other side of which is 
 the miniature front yard, bordered with lilacs and 
 syringas. The honest mansion makes no pretensions. 
 Accessible, companionable, holding its hand out to 
 all, comfortable, respectable, and even in its way dig- 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKPAST-TABLE. 13 
 
 nified, but not imposing, not a house for his Majesty's 
 Counsellor, or the Eight Reverend successor of Him 
 who had not where to lay his head, for something like 
 a hundred and fifty years it has stood in its lot, and 
 seen the generations of men come and go like the 
 leaves of the forest. I passed some pleasant hours, 
 a few years since, in the Eegistry of Deeds and the 
 Town Records, looking up the history of the old house. 
 How those dear friends of mine, the antiquarians, for 
 whose grave councils I compose my features on the too 
 rare Thursdays when I am at liberty to meet them, in 
 whose human herbarium the leaves and blossoms of 
 past generations are so carefully spread out and pressed 
 and laid away, would listen to an expansion of the 
 following brief details into an Historical Memoir ! 
 
 The estate was the third lot of the eighth " Squad- 
 ron " (whatever that might be), and in the year 1707 
 was allotted in the distribution of undivided lands to 
 "Mr. ffox," the Reverend Jabez Fox of Wobum, it 
 may be supposed, as it passed from his heirs to the 
 first Jonathan Hastings ; from him to his son, the long- 
 remembered College Steward; from him in the year 
 1792 to the Reverend Eliphalet Pearson, Professor 
 of Hebrew and other Oriental languages in Harvard 
 College, whose large personality swam into my ken 
 when I was looking forward to my teens; from him 
 to the progenitors of my imborn self. 
 
 I wonder if there are any such beings nowadays as 
 the great Eliphalet, with his large features and con- 
 versational basso prqfundo, seemed to me. His very 
 name had something elephantine about it, and it 
 seemed to me that the house shook from cellar to gar- 
 ret at his footfall. Some have pretended that he had 
 Olympian aspirations, and wanted to sit in the seat of 
 
14 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Jove and bear the academic thunderbolt and the aegis 
 inscribed Christo et Ecclesioe. It is a common weak- 
 ness enough to wish to find one's self in an empty sad- 
 dle ; Cotton Mather was miserable aU his days, I am 
 afraid, after that entry in his Diary: "This Day Dr. 
 Sewall was chosen President, yb/- his Piety." 
 
 There is no doubt that the men of the older gener- 
 ation look bigger and more formidable to the boys 
 whose eyes are turned up at their venerable counte- 
 nances than the race which succeeds them, to the same 
 boys grown older. Everything is twice as large, mea- 
 sured on a three-yearrold's three-foot scale as on a 
 thirty -year-old's six-foot scale; but age magnifies and 
 aggravates persons out of due proportion. Old peo- 
 ple are a kind of monsters to little folks ; mild mani- 
 festations of the terrible, it may be, but still, with 
 their white locks and ridged and grooved features, 
 which those horrid little eyes exhaust of their details, 
 like so many microscopes not exactly what human 
 beings ought to be. The middle-aged and young 
 men have left comparatively faint impressions in my 
 memory, but how grandly the procession of the old 
 clergymen who filled our pulpit from time to time, 
 and passed the day under our roof, marches before my 
 closed eyes ! At their head the most venerable David 
 Osgood, the majestic minister of Medford, with mas- 
 sive front and shaggy over-shadowing eyebrows ; fol- 
 lowing in the train, mUd-eyed John Foster of Brigh- 
 ton, with the lambent aurora of a smile about his 
 pleasant mouth, which not even the "Sabbath" could 
 subdue to the true Levitical aspect; and bulky 
 Charles Stearns of Lincoln, author of "The Ladies' 
 Philosophy of Love. A Poem. 1797 " (how I stared 
 at him ! he was the first living person ever pointed out 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKPAST-TABLE. 15 
 
 to me as a poet); and Thaddeus Mason Harris of 
 Dorchester (the same who, a poor youth, trudging 
 along, staff in hand, being then in a stress of sore 
 need, found all at once that somewhat was adhering to 
 the end of his stick, which somewhat proved to be a 
 gold ring of price, bearing the words, "God speed 
 thee. Friend ! "), already in decadence as I remember 
 him, with head slanting forward and downward as 
 if looking for a place to rest in after his learned la- 
 bors ; and that other Thaddeus, the old man of West 
 Cambridge, who outwatched the rest so long after they 
 had gone to sleep in their own churchyards, that it al- 
 most seemed as if he meant to sit up until the morning 
 of the resurrection ; and bringing up the rear, atten- 
 uated but vivacious little Jonathan Homer of Newton, 
 who was, to look upon, a kind of expurgated, reduced 
 and Americanized copy of Voltaire, but very unlike 
 him in wickedness or wit. The good-humored junior 
 member of our family always loved to make him happy 
 by setting him chirruping about Miles Coverdale's 
 Version, and the Bishop's Bible, and how he wrote to 
 his friend Sir Isaac (Coffin) about something or other, 
 and how Sir Isaac wrote back that he was very much 
 pleased with the contents of his letter, and so on 
 about Sir Isaac, ad libitum, — for the admiral was his 
 old friend, and he was proud of him. The kindly lit- 
 tle old gentleman was a collector of Bibles, and made 
 himself believe bethought he should publish a learned 
 Commentary some day or other; but his friends 
 looked for it only in the Greek Calends, — say on the 
 31st of April, when that should come round, if you 
 would modernize the phrase. I recall also one or two 
 exceptional and infrequent visitors with perfect dis- 
 tinctness : cheerful Elijah KeUogg, a lively missionary 
 
16 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 from the region of the Quoddy Indians, with much 
 hopeful talk about Sock Bason and his tribe; also 
 poor old Poor-house-Parson Isaac Smith, his head 
 going like a China mandarin, as he discussed the pos- 
 sibilities of the escape of that distinguished captive 
 whom he spoke of under the name, if I can reproduce 
 phonetically its vibrating nasalities of "General 
 Mmbongaparty," — a name suggestive to my yoimg 
 imagination of a dangerous, loose-jointed skeleton, 
 threatening us all like the armed figure of Death in 
 my little New England Primer. 
 
 I have mentioned only the names of those whose 
 images come up pleasantly before me, and I do not 
 mean to say anything which any descendant might not 
 read smilingly. But there were some of the black- 
 coated gentry whose aspect was not so agreeable to 
 me. It is very curious to me to look back on my 
 early likes and dislikes, and see how as a child I was 
 attracted or repelled by such and such ministers, a 
 good deal, as I found out long afterwards, according 
 to their theological beliefs. On the whole, I think the 
 old-fashioned New England divine softening down into 
 Arminianism was about as agreeable as any of them. 
 And here I may remark, that a mellowing rigorist is 
 always a much pleasanter object to contemplate than 
 a tightening liberal, as a cold day warming up to 32° 
 Fahrenheit is much more agreeable than a warm one 
 chilling down to the same temperature. The least 
 pleasing change is that kind of mental hemiplegia 
 which now and then attacks the rational side of a man 
 at about the same period of life when one side of the 
 body is liable to be palsied, and in fact is, very prob- 
 ably, the same thing as palsy, in another form. The 
 worst of it is that the subjects of it never seem to sus- 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 17 
 
 pect that they are intellectual invalids, stammerers and 
 cripples at best, but are all the time hitting out at 
 their old friends with the well arm, and calling them 
 hard names out of their twisted mouths. 
 
 It was a real delight to have one of those good, 
 hearty, happy, benignant old clergymen pass the Sun- 
 day with us, and I can remember some whose advent 
 made the day feel almost like "Thanksgiving." But 
 now and then would come along a clerical visitor with 
 a sad face and a wailing voice, which sounded exactly 
 as if somebody must be lying dead up stairs, who took 
 no interest in us children, except a painful one, as 
 being in a bad way with our cheery looks, and did 
 more to unchristianize us with his woebegone ways 
 than all his sermons were like to accomplish in the 
 other direction. I remember one in particular, who 
 twitted me so with my blessings as a Christian child, 
 and whined so to me about the naked black children 
 who, like the "Little Vulgar Boy," "hadn't got no 
 supper and hadn't got no ma," and hadn't got no 
 Catechism, (how I wished for the moment I was a lit- 
 tle black boy !) that he did more in that one day to 
 make me a heathen than he had ever done in a month 
 to make a Christian out of an infant Hottentot. 
 What a debt we owe to our friends of the left centre, 
 the Brooklyn and the Park Street and the Summer 
 Street ministers; good, wholesome, sound-bodied, 
 sane-minded, cheerful-spirited men, who have taken 
 the place of those wailing poitrinaires with the ban- 
 danna handkerchiefs round their meagre throats and 
 a funeral service in their forlorn physiognomies! I 
 might have been a minister myself, for aught I know, 
 if this clergyman had not looked and talked so like an 
 undertaker. 
 
18 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 All this belongs to one of the side-shows, to which 
 I promised those who would take tickets to the main 
 exhibition should have entrance gratis. If I were 
 writing a poem you would expect, as a matter of 
 course, that there would be a digression now and then. 
 
 To come back to the old house and its former 
 tenant, the Professor of Hebrew and other Oriental 
 languages. Fifteen years he lived with his family un- 
 der its roof. I never foimd the slightest trace of him 
 until a few years ago, when I cleaned and brightened 
 with pious hands the brass lock of "the study," which 
 had for many years been covered with a thick coat of 
 paint. On that I found scratched, as with a nail or 
 fork, the following inscription : — 
 
 E PE 
 
 Only that and nothing more, but the story told it- 
 self. Master Edward Pearson, then about as liigh as 
 the lock, was disposed to immortalize himself in mon- 
 umental brass, and had got so far towards it, when 
 a sudden interruption, probably a smart box on the 
 ear, cheated him of his fame, except so far as this 
 poor record may rescue it. Dead long ago. I remem- 
 ber him well, a grown man, as a visitor at a later 
 period ; and, for some reason, I recall him in the atti- 
 tude of the Colossus of Rhodes, standing full before 
 a generous wood-fire, not facing it, but quite the con- 
 trary, a perfect picture of the content afforded by a 
 blazing hearth contemplated from that point of view, 
 and, as the heat stole through his person and kindled 
 his emphatic features, seeming to me a pattern of 
 manly beauty. What a statue gallery of posturing 
 friends we all have in our memory ! The old Profes- 
 sor himself sometimes visited the house after it had 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 19 
 
 clianged hands. Of course, my recollections are not to 
 be wholly trusted, but I always think I see his likeness 
 in a profile face to be found among the illustrations of 
 Rees's Cyclopaedia. (See Plates, Vol. IV., Plate 2, 
 Painting, Diversities of the Human Face, Fig. 4.) 
 
 And now let us return to our chief picture. In the 
 days of my earliest remembrance, a row of tall Lom- 
 bardy poplars mounted guard on the western side of 
 the old mansion. Whether, like the cypress, these 
 trees suggest the idea of the funeral torch or the mon- 
 umental spire, whether their tremulous leaves make 
 us afraid by sympathy with their nervous thrills, 
 whether the faint balsamic smeU of their foliage and 
 their closely swathed limbs have in them vague hints 
 of dead Pharaohs stiffened in their cerements, I will 
 not guess; but they always seemed to me to give an 
 air of sepulchral sadness to the house before which 
 they stood sentries. Not so with the row of elms 
 which you may see leading up towards the western en- 
 trance. I think the patriarch of them all went over 
 in the great gale of 1815 ; I know I used to shake the 
 youngest of them with my hands, stout as it is now, 
 with a trunk that would defy the bully of Crotona, or 
 the strong man whose liaison with the Lady Delilah 
 proved so disastrous. 
 
 The College plain would be nothing without its 
 ehns. As the long hair of a woman is a glory to her, 
 so are these green tresses that bank themselves against 
 the sky in thick clustered masses the ornament and the 
 pride of the classic green. You know the "Washing- 
 ton elm," or if you do not, you had better rekindle 
 your patriotism by reading the inscription, which tells 
 you that under its shadow the great leader first drew 
 his sword at the head of an American army. In a 
 
20 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 line with that you may see two others : the coral fan, 
 as I always called it from its resemblance in form to 
 that beautiful marine growth, and a third a little far- 
 ther along. I have heard it said that all three were 
 planted at the same time, and that the difference of 
 their growth is due to the slope of the ground, — the 
 Washington elm being lower than either of the others. 
 There is a row of ehns just in front of the old house 
 on the south. When I was a child the one at the 
 southwest comer was struck by lightning, and one of 
 its limbs and a long ribbon of bark torn away. The 
 tree never fully recovered its symmetry and vigor, 
 and forty years and more afterwards a second thunder- 
 bolt crashed upon it and set its heart on fire, like those 
 of the lost souls in the Hall of Eblis. Heaven had 
 twice blasted it, and the axe finished what the light- 
 ning had begun. 
 
 The soil of the Universiiy town is divided into 
 patches of sandy and of clayey ground. The Com- 
 mon and the College green, near which the old house 
 stands, are on one of the sandy patches. Four curses 
 are the local inheritance: droughts, dust, mud, and 
 canker-worms. I cannot but think that all the char- 
 acters of a region help to modify the children born in 
 it. I am fond of making apologies for human nature, 
 and I think I could find an excuse for myself if I, too, 
 were dry and barren and muddy- witted and "cantan- 
 kerous," — disposed to get my back up, like those 
 other natives of the soil. 
 
 I know this, that the way Mother Earth treats a boy 
 shapes out a kind of natural theology for him. I fell 
 into Manichean ways of thinking from the teaching of 
 my garden experiences. Like other boys in the coun- 
 try, I had my patch of groimd, to which, in the spring- 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKPAST-TABLE. 21 
 
 time, I entrusted the seeds furnished me, with a con- 
 fident trust in their resurrection and glorification in 
 the better world of summer. But I soon found that 
 my lines had fallen in a place where a vegetable 
 growth had to run the gauntlet of as many foes and 
 trials as a Christian pilgrim. Flowers would not 
 blow; daffodils perished like criminals in their con- 
 demned caps, without their petals ever seeing daylight; 
 roses were disfigured with monstrous protrusions 
 through their very centres, — something that looked 
 like a second bud pushing through the middle of the 
 corolla; lettuces and cabbages would not head; rad- 
 ishes knotted themselves until they looked like cente- 
 narians' fingers; and on every stem, on every leaf, and 
 both sides of it, and at the root of everything that 
 grew, was a professional specialist in the shape of 
 grub, caterpillar, aphis, or other expert, whose busi- 
 ness it was to devour that particidar part, and help 
 murder the whole attempt at vegetation. Such expe- 
 riences must influence a child born to them. A sandy 
 soil, where nothing flourishes but weeds and evil 
 beasts of small dimensions, must breed different qual- 
 ities in its human offspring from one of those fat and 
 fertile spots which the wit whom I have once before 
 quoted described so happily that, if I quoted the pas- 
 sage, its brilliancy would spoil one of my pages, as a 
 diamond breastpin sometimes kills the social effect of 
 the wearer, who might have passed for a gentleman 
 without it. Your arid patch of earth should seem to 
 be the natural birthplace of the leaner virtues and the 
 feebler vices, — of temperance and the domestic pro- 
 prieties on the one hand, with a tendency to light 
 weights in groceries and provisions, and to clandestine 
 abstraction from the person on the other, as opposed to 
 
22 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 the free hospitality, the broadly planned burglaries, 
 and the largely conceived homicides of our rich West- 
 ern alluvial regions. Yet Nature is never wholly 
 unkind. Economical as she was in my unparadised 
 Eden, hard as it was to make some of my floral houris 
 unveil, stiU the damask roses sweetened the June 
 breezes, the bladed and plumed flower-de-luces un- 
 folded their close-wrapped cones, and larkspurs and 
 lupins, lady's delights, — plebeian manifestations of 
 the pansy, — self -sowing marigolds, hollyhocks, the 
 forest flowers of two seasons, and the perennial lilacs 
 and syringas, — aU whispered to the winds blowing 
 over them that some caressing presence was around 
 me. 
 
 Beyond the garden was "the field," a vast domain 
 of four acres or thereabout, by the measurement of 
 after years, bordered to the north by a fathomless 
 chasm, — the ditch thebase-baU players of the present 
 era jump over; on the east by unexplored territory; 
 on the south by a barren enclosure, where the red 
 sorrel proclaimed liberty and equality under its dra- 
 peau rouge, and succeeded in establishing a vegetable 
 commime where all were alike, poor, mean, sour, and 
 uninteresting; and on the west by the Common, not 
 then disgraced by jealous enclosures, which make it 
 look like a cattle-market. Beyond, as Hooked round, 
 were the Colleges, the meeting-house, the little square 
 market-house, long vanished ; the burial-ground where 
 the dead Presidents stretched their weary bones un- 
 der epitaphs stretched out at as full length as their 
 subjects; the pretty church where the gouty Tories 
 used to kneel on their hassocks ; the district school- 
 house, and hard by it Ma'am Hancock's cottage, 
 never so called in those days, but rather "tenfooter"; 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 23 
 
 then houses scattered near and far, open spaces, the 
 shadowy ehns, round hilltops in the distance, and over 
 all the great bowl of the sky. Mind you, this was 
 the WORLD, as I first knew it; terra veteribus cognita, 
 as Mr. Arrowsmith would have called it, if he had 
 mapped the universe of my infancy. 
 
 But I am forgetting the old house again in the 
 landscape. The worst of a modern stylish mansion 
 is, that it has no place for ghosts. I watched one 
 building not long since. It had no proper garret, to 
 begin with, only a sealed interval between the roof and 
 attics, where a spirit could not be accommodated, un- 
 less it were flattened out like Eavel, Brother, after the 
 millstone had fallen on him. There was not a nook 
 or a corner in the whole house fit to lodge any respect- 
 able ghost, for every part was as open to observation 
 as a literary man's character and condition, his figure 
 and estate, his coat and his countenance, are to his (or 
 her) Bohemian Majesty on a tour of inspection through 
 his (or her) subjects' keyholes. 
 
 Now the old house had wainscots, behind which the 
 mice were always scampering and squeaking and rat- 
 tling down the plaster, and enacting family scenes and 
 parlor theatricals. It had a cellar where the cold slug 
 clung to the walls, and the misanthropic spider with- 
 drew from the garish day; where the green mould 
 loved to grow, and the long white potato-shoots went 
 feeling along the floor, if haply they might find the 
 daylight; it had great brick pillars, always in a cold 
 sweat with holding up the burden they had been ach- 
 ing under day and night for a century and more ; it 
 had sepulchral arches closed by rough doors that hung 
 on hinges rotten with rust, behind which doors, if 
 there was not a heap of bones connected with a myste- 
 
24 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 rious disappearance of long ago, there well might have 
 been, for it was just the place to look for them. It 
 had a garret, very nearly such a one as it seems to me 
 one of us has described in one of his books ; but let us 
 look at this one as I can reproduce it from memory. 
 It has a flooring of laths with ridges of mortar squeezed 
 up between them, which if you tread on you will go to 
 
 — the Lord have mercy on you ! where will you go to ? 
 
 — the same being crossed by narrow bridges of boards, 
 on which you may put your feet, but with fear and 
 trembling. Above you and around you are beams 
 and joists, on some of which you may see, when the 
 light is let in, the marks of the conchoidal clippings of 
 the broadaxe, showing the rude way in which the tim- 
 ber was shaped as it came, full of sap, from the neigh- 
 boring forest. It is a realm of darkness and thick 
 dust, and shroud-like cobwebs and dead things they 
 wrap in their gray folds. For a garret is like a sea- 
 shore, where wrecks are thrown up and slowly go to 
 pieces. There is the cradle which the old man you 
 just remember was rocked in; there is the ruin of the 
 bedstead he died on; that ugly slanting contrivance 
 used to be put imder his piUow in the days when his 
 breath came hard; there is his old chair with both 
 arms gone, symbol of the desolate time when he had 
 nothing earthly left to lean on; there is the large 
 wooden reel which the blear-eyed old deacon sent the 
 minister's lady, who thanked him graciously, and 
 twirled it smilingly, and in fitting season bowed it out 
 decently to the limbo of troublesome conveniences. 
 And there are old leather portmanteaus, like stranded 
 porpoises, their mouths gaping in gaunt hunger for the 
 food with which they used to be gorged to bulging 
 repletion; and old brass andirons, waiting until time 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 26 
 
 shall revenge them on their paltry substitutes, and they 
 shall have their own again, and bring with them the 
 fore-stick and the back-log of ancient days; and the 
 empty churn, with its idle dasher, which the Nancys 
 and Phcfibes, who have left their comfortable places to 
 the Bridgets and Norahs, used to handle to good pur- 
 pose ; and the brown, shaky old spinning-wheel, which 
 was running, it may be, in the days when they were 
 hanging the Salem witches. 
 
 Under the dark and haunted garret were attic 
 cham^bers which themselves had histories. On a pane 
 in the northeastern chamber may be read these names : 
 "John Tracy," "KobertEoberts," "Thomas Prince"; 
 '■'■ Stvltus " another hand had added. When I found 
 these names a few years ago (wrong side up, for the 
 window had been reversed), I looked at once in the 
 Triennial to find them, for the epithet showed that 
 they were probably students. I found them all imder 
 the years 1771 and 1773. Does it please their thin 
 ghosts thus to be dragged to the light of day? Has 
 '''' Stultus " forgiven the indignity of being thus char- 
 acterized? 
 
 The southeast chamber was the Library Hospital. 
 Every scholar should have a book infirmary attached 
 to his library. There should find a peaceable refuge 
 the many books, invalids from their birth, which are 
 sent "with the best regards of the Author"; the re- 
 spected, but impresentable cripples which have lost 
 a cover; the odd volumes of honored sets which go 
 mourning all their days for their lost brother; the 
 school-books which have been so often the subjects of 
 assault and battery, that they look as i£ the police 
 court must know them by heart; these and still more 
 the pictured story-books, beginning with Mother Goose 
 
26 THE POET AT THE BEE A KFAST-TABLE. 
 
 (which a dear old friend of mine has just been amus- 
 ing his philosophic leisure with turning most ingen- 
 iously and happily into the tongues of VirgU and 
 Homer), wiU be precious mementos by and by, when 
 children and grandchildren come along. What would 
 I not give for that dear little paper-bound quarto, in 
 large and most legible type, on certain pages of which 
 the tender hand that was the shield of my infancy had 
 crossed out with deep black marks something awful, 
 probably about Beaks, such as once tare two-and- 
 forty of us little folks for making faces, and the very 
 name of which made us hide our heads under the bed- 
 clothes. 
 
 I made strange acquaintances in that book infirm- 
 ary up in the southeast attic. The "Negro Plot" at 
 New York helped to implant a feeliag in me which it 
 took Mr. Garrison a good many years to root out. 
 "Thinks I to Myself," an old novel, which has been 
 attributed to a famous statesman, introduced me to 
 a world of fiction which was not represented on the 
 shelves of the library proper, unless perhaps by Coe- 
 lebs in Search of a Wife, or allegories of the bitter 
 tonic class, as the young doctor that sits on the other 
 side of the table would probably call them. I always, 
 from an early age, had a keen eye for a story with a 
 moral sticking out of it, and gave it a wide berth, 
 though in my later years I have myself" written a 
 couple of "medicated novels," as one of my dearest 
 and pleasantest old friends wickedly called them, 
 when somebody asked her i£ she had read the last of 
 my printed performances. I forgave the satire for 
 the charming esprit of the epithet. Besides the works 
 I have mentioned, there was an old, old Latin alchemy 
 book, with the manuscript annotations of some ancient 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKPAST-TABLE. 27 
 
 Kosicrucian, in the pages of wliicli I had a vague no- 
 tion that I might find the mighty secret of the Lapis 
 Philosophomm, otherwise called Chaos, the Dragon, 
 the Green Lion, the Quinta Essentia, the Soap of 
 Sages, the Vinegar of Philosophers, the Dew of Hea- 
 venly Grace, the Egg, the Old Man, the Sm, the 
 Moon, and by all manner of odd aliases, as I am as- 
 sured by the plethoric little book before me, in parch- 
 ment covers browned like a meerschaum with the 
 smoke of furnaces and the thumbing of dead gold- 
 seekers, and the fingering of bony-handed book-misers, 
 and the long intervals of dusty slumber on the shelves 
 of the bouquiniste ; for next year it wUl be three cen- 
 turies old, and it had already seen nine generations 
 of men when I caught its eye {Alchemim Doctrina) 
 and recognized it at pistol-shot distance as a prize, 
 among the breviaries and Heures and trumpery vol- 
 umes of the old open-air dealer who exposed his 
 treasures under the shadow of St. Sulpice. I have 
 never lost my taste for alchemy since I first got hold 
 of the Pallad/ium Spagyncum of Peter John Faber, 
 and sought — in vain, it is true — through its pages 
 for a clear, intelligible, and practical statement of 
 how I could turn my lead sinkers and the weights of 
 the tall kitchen clock into good yellow gold, specific 
 gravity 19.2, and exchangeable for whatever I then 
 wanted, and for many more things than I was then 
 aware of. One of the greatest pleasures of childhood 
 is found in the mysteries which it hides from the skep- 
 ticism of the elders, and works up into small mythol- 
 ogies of its own. I have seen all this played over 
 again in adult life, — the same delightful bewilderment 
 of semi-emotional belief in listening to the gaseous 
 promises of this or that fantastic system, that I found 
 
28 THE POET AT THE BKBAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 in the pleasing mirages conjured up for me by the 
 ragged old volume I used to pore over in the southeast 
 attic-chamber. 
 
 The rooms of the second story, the chambers of 
 birth and death, are sacred to silent memories. 
 
 Let us go down to the groimd-floor. I should 
 have begun with this, but that the historical reminis- 
 cences of the old house have been recently told in a 
 most interesting memoir by a distiaguished student of 
 our local history. I retain my doubts about those 
 "dents" on the floor of the right-hand room, "the 
 study "of successive occupants, said to have been made 
 by the butts of the Continental militia's firelocks, but 
 this was the cause to which the story told me in child- 
 hood laid them. That military consultations were 
 held in that room when the house was General Ward's 
 headquarters, that the Provincial generals and colonels 
 and other men of war there planned the movement 
 which ended in the fortifying of Bunker's Hill, that 
 Warren slept in the house the night before the battle, 
 that President Langdon went forth from the western 
 door and prayed for God's blessing on the men just 
 setting forth on their bloody expedition, — all these 
 things have been told, and perhaps none of them need 
 be doubted. 
 
 But now for fifty years and more that room has 
 been a meeting-ground for the platoons and companies 
 which range themselves at the scholar's word of com- 
 mand. Pleasant it is to think that the retreating host 
 of books is to give place to a still larger army of vol- 
 umes, which have seen service under the eye of a great 
 commander. For here the noble collection of him so 
 freshly remembered as our silver-tongued orator, our 
 erudite scholar, our honored CoUege President, our 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 29 
 
 accomplished statesman, our courtly ambassador, are 
 to be reverently gathered by the heir of his name, him- 
 self not unworthy to be surrounded by that august as- 
 sembly of the wise of all ages and of various lands and 
 languages. 
 
 Could such a many-chambered edifice have stood a 
 century and a half and not have had its passages of 
 romance to bequeath their lingering legends to the 
 after-time? There are other names on some of the 
 small window-panes, which must have had young flesh- 
 and-blood owners, and there is one of early date which 
 elderly persons have whispered was borne by a fair 
 woman, whose graces made the house beautiful in the 
 eyes of the youth of that time. One especially — you 
 will find the name of Fortescue Vernon, of the class 
 of 1780, in the Triennial Catalogue — was a favored 
 visitor to the old mansion; but he went over seas, I 
 think they told me, and died still young, and the 
 name of the maiden which is scratched on the window- 
 pane was never changed. I am telling the story hon- 
 estly, as I remember it, but I may have colored it 
 unconsciously, and the legendary pane may be broken 
 before this for aught I know. At least, I have named 
 no names except the beautiful one of the supposed 
 hero of the romantic story. 
 
 It was a great happiness to have been born in an 
 old house haunted by such recollections, with harmless 
 ghosts walking its corridors, with fields of waving 
 grass and trees and singing birds, and that vast ter- 
 ritory of four or five acres around it to give a child the 
 sense that he was born to a noble principality. It has 
 been a great pleasure to retain a certain hold upon it 
 for so many years ; and since in the natural course of 
 things it must at length pass into other hands, it is a 
 
30 THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 
 
 gratification to see the old place making itself tidy for 
 a new tenant, like some venerable dame who is getting 
 ready to entertain a neighbor of condition. Not long 
 since a new cap of shingles adorned this ancient 
 mother among the village — now city — mansions. 
 She has dressed herself in brighter colors than she has 
 hitherto worn, so they teU me, within the last few 
 days. She has modernized her aspects in several 
 ways; she has rubbed bright the glasses through which 
 she looks at the Common and the Colleges; and as the 
 sunsets shine upon her through the flickering leaves 
 or the wiry spray of the elms I remember from my 
 childhood, they will glorify her into the aspect she 
 wore when President Holyoke, father of our long since 
 dead centenarian, looked upon her in her youthful 
 comeliness. 
 
 The quiet corner formed by this and the neighbor- 
 ing residences has changed less than any place I can 
 remember. Our kindly, polite, shrewd, and humorous 
 old neighbor, who in former days has served the town 
 as constable and auctioneer, and who bids fair to be- 
 come the oldest inhabitant of the city, was there when 
 I was bom, and is living there to-day. By and by 
 the stony foot of the great University will plant itseK 
 on this whole territory, and the private recollections 
 which clung so tenaciously and fondly to the place 
 and its habitations will have died with those who 
 cherished them. 
 
 Shall they ever live again in the memory of those 
 who loved them here below? What is this life with- 
 out the poor accidents which made it our own, and 
 by which we identify ourselves ? Ah me ! I might like 
 to be a winged chorister, but still it seems to me I 
 should hardly be quite happy if I could not recall at 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 31 
 
 will the Old House with the Long Entry, and the 
 White Chamber (where I wrote the first verses that 
 made me known, with a pencil, stans pede in uno, 
 pretty nearly), and the Little Parlor, and the Study, 
 and the old books in uniforms as varied as those of 
 the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company used 
 to be, if my memory serves me right, and the front 
 yard with the Star-of-Bethlehems growing, flowerless, 
 among the grass, and the dear faces to be seen no 
 more there or anywhere on this earthly place of fare- 
 wells. 
 
 I have told my story. I do not know what special 
 gifts have been granted or denied me; but this I 
 know, that I am like so many others of my fellow- 
 creatures, that when I smile, I feel as if they must; 
 when I cry, I think their eyes fill; and it always seems 
 to me that when I am most truly myself I come near- 
 est to them and am surest of being listened to by the 
 brothers and sisters of the larger family into which 
 I was born so long ago. I have often feared they 
 might be tired of me and what I teU them. But then, 
 perhaps, would come a letter from some quiet body in 
 some out-of-the-way place, which showed me that I 
 had said something which another had often felt but 
 never said, or told the secret of another's heart in un- 
 burdening my own. Such evidences that one is in the 
 highway of human experience and feeling lighten the 
 footsteps wonderfully. So it is that one is encour- 
 aged to go on writing as long as the world has any- 
 thing that interests him, for he never knows how many 
 of his fellow-beings he may please or profit, and in 
 how many places his name will be spoken as that of a 
 friend. 
 
 In the mood suggested by my story I have ventured 
 
32 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 on the poem that follows. Most people love this world 
 more than they are willing to confess, and it is hard 
 to conceive ourselves weaned from it so as to feel no 
 emotion at the thought of its most sacred recollections, 
 — even after a sojourn of years, as we should count 
 the lapse of earthly time, — in the realm where, sooner 
 or later, all tears shall be wiped away. I hope, there- 
 fore, the title of my lines will not frighten those who 
 are little accustomed to think of men and women as 
 human beings in any state but the present. 
 
 HOMESICK m HEAVEN. 
 
 THE DIVINE VOICE. 
 
 Go seek thine earth-born sisters, — thus the Voice 
 That all obey, — the sad and silent three ; 
 
 These only, while the hosts of heaven rejoice, 
 Smile never : ask them what their sorrows be : 
 
 And when the secret of their griefs they tell, 
 Look on them with thy mild, half-human eyes ; 
 
 Say what thou wast on earth ; thou knowest well ; 
 So shall they cease from unavailing sighs. 
 
 THE AJN^GEL. 
 
 — Why thus, apart, — the swift-winged herald spake, ■ 
 Sit ye with silent lips and unstrung lyres 
 
 While the trisagion's blending chords awake 
 In shouts of joy from all the heavenly choirs ? 
 
 THE FIRBT SPIRIT. 
 
 — Chide not thy sisters, — thus the answer came ; 
 
 Children of earth, our half-weaned nature clings 
 
 To earth's fond memories, and her whispered name 
 Untunes our quivering lips, our saddened strings ; 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 33 
 
 For there we loved, and where we love is home, 
 Home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts, 
 
 Though o'er us shine the jasper-lighted dome : — 
 The chain may lengthen, but it never parts ! 
 
 Sometimes a sunlit sphere comes rolling by. 
 
 And then we softly whisper, — can it be 9 
 And leaning toward the silvery orb, we try 
 
 To hear the music of its murmuring sea ; 
 
 To catch, perchance, some flashing glimpse of green, 
 Or breathe some wild-wood fragrance, wafted through 
 
 The opening gates of pearl, that fold between 
 The blinding splendors and the changeless blue. 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 — Nay, sister, nay ! a single healing leaf 
 
 Plucked from the bough of yon twelve-fruited tree, 
 Would soothe such anguish, — deeper stabbing grief 
 Has pierced thy throbbing heart — 
 
 THE FIRST SPIRIT. 
 
 — Ah, woe is me ! 
 I from my clinging babe was rudely torn ; 
 
 His tender lips a loveless bosom pressed ; 
 Can I forget him in my life new born ? 
 
 O that my darling lay upon my breast I 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 — And thou ? — 
 
 THE SECOND SPIRIT. 
 
 I was a fair and youthful bride, 
 The kiss of love still burns upon my cheek. 
 He whom I worshipped, ever at my side, — 
 Him through the spirit realm in vain I seek. 
 
 Sweet faces turn their beaming eyes on mine ; 
 
 Ah ! not in these the wished-for look I read ; 
 Still for that one dear human smile I pine ; 
 
 Thou and none other ! — is the lover's creed. 
 
34 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 — And whence thy sadness in a world of bliss 
 Where never parting comes, nor mourner's tear ? 
 
 Art thou, too, dreaming of a mortal's kiss 
 Amid the seraphs of the heavenly sphere ? 
 
 THE THIED SPIKIT. 
 
 — Nay, tax not me with passion's wasting fire ; 
 "When the swift message set my spirit free. 
 
 Blind, helpless, lone, I left my gray-haired sire ; 
 My friends were many, he had none save me. 
 
 I left him, orphaned, in the starless night ; 
 
 Alas, for him no cheerful morning's dawn ! 
 I wear the ransomed spirit's robe of white. 
 
 Yet still I hear liim moaning. She is gone 1 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 — Ye know me not, sweet sisters ? — All in vain 
 Ye seek your lost ones in the shapes they wore ; 
 
 The flower once opened may not bud again. 
 The fruit once fallen finds the stem no more. 
 
 Child, lover, sire, — yea, aU things loved below, — 
 Fair pictures damasked on a vapor's fold, — 
 
 Fade like the roseate flush, the golden glow. 
 When the bright curtain of the day is rolled. 
 
 / was the babe that slumbered on thy breast. 
 
 — And, sister, mine the lips that called thee bride. 
 
 — Mine were the silvered locks thy hand caressed. 
 That faithful hand, my faltering footstep's guide 1 
 
 Each changing form, frail vesture of decay. 
 The soul unclad forgets it once hath worn, 
 
 Stained with the travel of the weary day. 
 And shamed with rents from every wayside thorn. 
 
 To lie, an infant, in thy fond embrace, — 
 
 To come with love's warm kisses back to thee, — 
 
THE POET AT THE BBBAKPAST-TABLE. 35 
 
 To show thine eyes thy gray-haired father's face, 
 Not Heaven itself could grant ; this may not be I 
 
 Then spread your folded wings, and leave to earth 
 The dust once breathing ye have mourned so long, 
 
 Till Love, new risen, owns his heavenly birth. 
 And sorrow's discords sweeten into song I 
 
 II. 
 
 I am going to take it for granted now and hence- 
 forth, in my report of what was said and what was to 
 be seen at our table, that I have secured one good, 
 faithful, loving reader, who never finds fault, who 
 never gets sleepy over my pages, whom no critic can 
 bully out of a liking for me, and to whom I am always 
 safe in addressing myself. My one elect may be man 
 or woman, old or young, gentle or simple, living in 
 the next block or on a slope of Nevada, my fellow- 
 countryman or an alien; but one such reader I shall 
 assume to exist and have always in my thought when 
 I am writing. 
 
 A writer is so like a lover ! And a talk with the 
 right listener is so like an arm-in-arm walk in the 
 moonlight with the soft heartbeat just felt through the 
 folds of muslin and broadcloth! But it takes very 
 little to spoil everything for writer, talker, lover. 
 There are a great many cruel things besides poverty 
 that freeze the genial current of the soul, as the poet 
 of the Elegy caUs it. Fire can stand any wind, but 
 flame is easily blown out, and then come smouldering 
 and smoke, and profitless, slow combustion without 
 the cheerful blaze which sheds light all round it. The 
 One Eeader's hand may shelter the flame; the one 
 
36 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 blessed ministering spirit with the vessel of oU may 
 keep it bright in spite of the stream of cold water on 
 the other side doing its best to put it out. 
 
 I suppose, if any writer, of any distinguishable in- 
 dividuality, could look into the hearts of all his read- 
 ers, he might very probably find one in his parish of 
 a thousand or a million who honestly preferred him to 
 any other of his kind. I have no doubt we have each 
 one of us, somewhere, our exact facsimile, so like us 
 in all things except the accidents of condition, that 
 we should love each other like a pair of twins, if our 
 natures could once fairly meet. I know I have my 
 counterpart in some State of this Union. I feel sure 
 that there is an Englishman somewhere precisely like 
 myself. (I hope he does not drop his h's, for it does 
 not seem to me possible that the Royal Dane could 
 have remained faithful to his love for Ophelia, if she 
 had addressed him as 'Amlet.) There is also a cer- 
 tain Monsieur, to me at this moment unknown, and 
 likewise a Herr Von Something, each of whom is 
 essentially my double. An Arab is at this moment 
 eating dates, a mandarin is just sipping his tea, and 
 a South-Sea-Islander (with undeveloped possibilities) 
 drinking the milk of a cocoa-nut, each one of whom, 
 if he had been born in the gambrel-roofed house, and 
 cultivated my little sand-patch, and grown up in "the 
 study" from the height of Walton's Polyglot Bible 
 to that of the shelf which held the Elzevir Tacitus and 
 Casaubon's Polybius, with aU the complex influences 
 about him that surrounded me, would have been so 
 nearly what I am that I should have loved him like a 
 brother, — always provided that I did not hate him 
 for his resemblance to me, on the same principle as 
 that which makes bodies in the same electric condi- 
 tion repel each other. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 37 
 
 For, perhaps after all, my One Reader is quite as 
 likely to be not the person most resembling myself, 
 but the one to whom my nature is complementary. 
 Just as a particular soil wants some one element to 
 fertilize it, just as the body in some conditions has a 
 kind of famine for one special food, so the mind has 
 its wants, which do not always call for what is best, 
 but which know themselves and are as peremptory as 
 the salt-sick sailor's call for a lemon or a raw potato, 
 or, if you wiU, as those capricious "longings," which 
 have a certain meaning, we may suppose, and which 
 at any rate we think it reasonable to satisfy if we can. 
 
 I was going to say something about our boarders 
 the other day when I got run away with by my local 
 reminiscences. I wish you to understand that we 
 have a rather select company at the table of our 
 boarding-house . 
 
 Our Landlady is a most respectable person, who 
 has seen better days, of course, — all landladies have, 
 — but has also, I feel svixe, seen a good deal worse 
 ones. For she wears a very handsome silk dress on 
 state occasions, with a breastpin set, as I honestly be- 
 lieve, with genuine pearls, and appears habitually with 
 a very smart cap, from under which her gray curls come 
 out with an unmistakable expression, conveyed in the 
 hieratic language of the feminine priesthood, to the 
 effect that while there is life there is hope. And 
 when I come to reflect on the many circumstances 
 which go to the making of matrimonial happiness, I 
 cannot help thinking that a personage of her present- 
 able exterior, thoroughly experienced in all the do- 
 mestic arts which render life comfortable, might make 
 the later years of some hitherto companionless bache- 
 lor very endurable, not to say pleasant. 
 
38 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 The condition of the Landlady's family is, from 
 what I learn, such as to make the connection I have 
 alluded to, I hope with delicacy, desirable for inciden- 
 tal as well as direct reasons, provided a fitting match 
 could be found. I was startled at hearing her address 
 by the familiar name of Benjamin the young physi- 
 cian I have referred to, until I found on inquiry, what 
 I might have guessed by the size of his slices of pie 
 and other little marks of favoritism, that he was her 
 son. He has recently come back from Europe, where 
 he has topped off his home training with a first-class 
 foreign finish. As the Landlady could never have 
 educated him in this way out of the profits of keeping 
 boarders, I was not surprised when I was told that she 
 had received a pretty little property in the form of a 
 bequest from a former boarder, a very kind-hearted, 
 worthy old gentleman who had been long with her and 
 seen how hard she worked for food and clothes for 
 herself and this son of hers, Benjamin Franklin by 
 his baptismal name. Her daughter had also married 
 weU, to a member of what we may call the post-med- 
 ical profession, that, namely, which deals with the 
 mortal frame after the practitioners of the healing 
 art have done with it and taken their leave. So 
 thriving had this son-in-law of hers been in his busi- 
 ness, that his wife drove about in her own carriage, 
 drawn by a pair of jet-black horses of most dignified 
 demeanor, whose only fault was a tendency to relapse 
 at once into a walk after every application of a stimu- 
 lus that quickened their pace to a trot; which appli- 
 cation always caused them to look round upon the 
 driver with a surprised and offended air, as if he had 
 been guilty of a grave indecorum. 
 
 The Landlady's daughter had been blessed with a 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 39 
 
 number of children, of great sobriety of outward as- 
 pect, but remarkably cbeerful in their inward habit 
 of mind, more especially on the occasion of the death 
 of a doll, which was an almost daily occurrence, and 
 gave them immense delight in getting up a fxmeral, 
 for which they had a complete miniature outfit. How 
 happy they were under their solemn aspect ! For the 
 head mourner, a child of remarkable gifts, could ac- 
 tually make the tears run down her cheeks, — as real 
 ones as if she had been a grown person following a 
 rich relative, who had not forgotten his connections, 
 to his last unfurnished lodgings. 
 
 So this was a most desirable family connection for 
 the right man to step into, — a thriving, thrifty 
 mother-in-law, who knew what was good for the sus- 
 tenance of the body, and had no doubt taught it to 
 her daughter ; a medical artist at hand in case the lux- 
 uries of the table should happen to disturb the physi- 
 ological harmonies; and in the worst event, a sweet 
 consciousness that the last sad offices would be at- 
 tended to with affectionate zeal, and probably a large 
 discount from the usual charges. 
 
 It seems as if I cotdd hardly be at this table for a 
 year, if I should stay so long, without seeing some 
 romance or other work itself out under my eyes ; and 
 I cannot help thinking that the Landlady is to be 
 the heroine of the love-history like to unfold itself. I 
 think I see the little cloud in the horizon, with a sil- 
 very lining to it, which may end in a rain of cards 
 tied round with white ribbons. Extremes meet, and 
 who so like to be the other party as the elderly gen- 
 tleman at the other end of the table, as far from her 
 now as the length of the board permits? I may be 
 mistaken, but I think this is to be the romantic epi- 
 
40 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 sode of the year before me. Only it seems so natural 
 it is improbable, for you never find your dropped 
 money just where you look for it, and so it is with 
 these a priori matches. 
 
 This gentleman is a tight, tidy, wiry little man, 
 with a small, brisk head, close-cropped white hair, a 
 good wholesome complexion, a quiet, rather kindly 
 face, quick in his movements, neat in his dress, but 
 fond of wearing a short jacket over his coat, which 
 gives him the look of a pickled or preserved school- 
 boy. He has retired, they say, from a thriving busi- 
 ness, with a snug property, suspected by some to be 
 rather more than snug, and entitling him to be called 
 a capitalist, except that this word seems to be equiva- 
 lent to highway robber in the new gospel of Saint 
 Petroleum. That he is economical in his habits can- 
 not be denied, for he saws and splits his own wood, — 
 for exercise, he says, — and makes his own fires, 
 brushes his own shoes, and, it is whispered, dams a 
 hole in a stocking now and then, — all for exercise, 
 I suppose. Every summer he goes out of town for 
 a few weeks. On a given day of the month a wagon 
 stops at the door and takes up, not his trunks, for he 
 does not indulge in any such extravagance, but the 
 stout brown linen bags in which he packs the few con- 
 veniences he carries with him. 
 
 I do not think this worthy and economical person- 
 age will have much to do or to say, unless he marries 
 the Landlady. If he does that, he wiU play a part of 
 some importance, — but I don't feel sure at all. His 
 talk is little in amount, and generally ends in some 
 compact formula condensing much wisdom in few 
 words, as that a man should not put all his eggs in 
 one hashet ; that there are as good fish in the sea as 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKTAST-TABLE. 41 
 
 efoer came out of it ; and one in particular, which he 
 surprised me by saying in pretty good French one 
 day, to the effect that the inheritance of the world 
 belongs to the phlegmatic people, which seems to me to 
 have a good deal of truth in it. 
 
 The other elderly personage, the old man with 
 iron-gray hair and large round spectacles, sits at my 
 right at table. He is a retired college of&cer, a man 
 of books and observation, and himself an author. 
 Magister Artiwm is one of his titles on the College 
 Catalogue, and I like best to speak of him as the 
 Master, because he has a certain air of authority 
 which none of us feel inclined to dispute. He has 
 given me a copy of a work of his which seems to me 
 not wanting in suggestiveness, and which I hope I 
 shall be able to make some use of in my records by 
 and by. I said the other day that he had good solid 
 prejudices, which is true, and I like him none the 
 worse for it; but he has also opinions more or less 
 original, valuable, probable, fanciful; fantastic, or 
 whimsical, perhaps, now and then; which he promul- 
 gates at table somewhat in the tone of imperial edicts. 
 Another thing I like about him is, that he takes a 
 certain intelligent interest in pretty much everything 
 that interests other people. I asked him the other 
 day what he thought most about in his wide range of 
 studies. 
 
 — Sir, — said he, — I take stock in everything that 
 concerns anybody. Humani nihil, — you know the 
 rest. But if you ask me what is my specialty, I 
 should say, I applied myself more particularly to the 
 contemplation of the Order of Things. 
 
 — A pretty wide subject, — I ventured to suggest. 
 
 — Not wide enough, sir, — not wide enough to sat- 
 
42 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 isfy the desire of a mind which wants to get at abso- 
 lute truth, without reference to the empirical arrange- 
 ments of our particular planet and its environments. 
 I want to subject the formal conditions of space and 
 time to a new analysis, and project a possible universe 
 outside of the Order of Things. But I have nar- 
 rowed myself by studying the actual facts of being. 
 By and by — by and by — perhaps — perhaps. I 
 hope to do some sound thinking in heaven — if I ever 
 get there, — he said seriously, and it seemed tome 
 not irreverently. 
 
 — I rather like that, — I said. I think your tele- 
 scopic people are, on the whole, more satisfactory than 
 your microscopic ones. 
 
 [ — My left-hand neighbor fidgeted about a little in 
 his chair as I said this. But the yoimg man sitting 
 not far from the Landlady, to whom my attention had 
 been attracted by the expression of his eyes, which 
 seemed as if they saw nothing before him, but looked 
 beyond everything, smiled a sort of faint starlight 
 smile, that touched me strangely; for until that mo- 
 ment he had appeared as if his thoughts were far 
 away, and I had been questioning whether he had 
 lost friends lately, or perhaps had never had them, 
 he seemed so remote from our boarding-house life. 
 I will inquire about him, for he interests me, and I 
 thought he seemed interested as I went on talking.] 
 
 — No, — I continued, — I don't want to have the 
 territory of a man's mind fenced in. I don't want to 
 shut out the mystery of the stars and the awful hollow 
 that holds them. We have done with those hypsethral 
 temples, that were open above to the heavens, but we 
 can have attics and skylights to them. Minds with 
 skylights, — yes, — stop, let us see if we can't get 
 something out of that. 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 43 
 
 One-story intellects, two -story intellects, three - 
 story intellects with skylights. All fact - collectors, 
 who have no aim beyond their facts, are one-story 
 men. Two-story men compare, reason, generalize, us- 
 ing the labors of the fact-collectors as well as their 
 own. Three-story men idealize, imagine, predict; 
 their best illumination comes from above, through 
 the skylight. There are minds with large groimd- 
 floors, that can store an infinite amount of knowledge ; 
 some librarians, for instance, who know enough of 
 books to help other people, without being able to make 
 much other use of their knowledge, have intellects of 
 this class. Your great working lawyer has two spa- 
 cious stories; his mind is clear, because his mental 
 floors are large, and he has room to arrange his 
 thoughts so that he can get at them, — facts below, 
 principles above, and all in ordered series; poets are 
 often narrow below, incapable of clear statement, and 
 with small power of consecutive reasoning, but full of 
 light, if sometimes rather bare of furniture, in the 
 attics. 
 
 — The old Master smiled. I think he suspects him- 
 self of a three-story intellect, and I don't feel sure 
 that he is n't right. 
 
 — Is it dark meat or white meat you will be helped 
 to? — said the Landlady, addressing the Master. 
 
 — Dark meat for me, always, — he answered. 
 Then turning to me, he began one of those monologues 
 of his, such as that which put the Member of the 
 Haouse asleep the other day. 
 
 — It's pretty much the same in men and women 
 and in books and everything, that it is in turkeys and 
 chickens. Why, take your poets, now, say Browning 
 
44 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 and Tennyson. Don't you think you can say whicli 
 is the dark-meat and which is the white-meat poet? 
 And so of the people you know; can't you pick out 
 the full-flavored, coarse-fibred characters from the 
 delicate, fine-fibred ones? And in the same person, 
 don't you know the same two shades in different parts 
 of the character that you find in the wing and thigh 
 of a partridge ? I suppose you poets may like white 
 meat best, very probably; you had rather have a wing 
 than a drumstick, I dare say. 
 
 — Why, yes, — said I, — I suppose some of us do. 
 Perhaps it is because a bird flies with his white-fleshed 
 limbs and walks with the dark-fleshed ones. Besides, 
 the wing-muscles are nearer the heart than the leg- 
 muscles. 
 
 I thought that sounded mighty pretty, and paused 
 a moment to pat myself on the back, as is my wont 
 when I say something that I think of superior quality. 
 So I lost my innings ; for the Master is apt to strike 
 in at the end of a bar, instead of waiting for a rest, 
 if I may borrow a musical phrase. No matter, just 
 at this moment, what he said; but he talked the 
 Member of the Haouse asleep again. 
 
 They have a new term nowadays (I am speaking to 
 you, the Reader) for people that do a good deal of 
 talking; they caU them "conversationists," or "con- 
 versationalists"; talkists, I suppose, would do just as 
 well. It is rather dangerous to get the name of being 
 one of these phenomenal manifestations, as one is ex- 
 pected to say something remarkable every time one 
 opens one's mouth in company. It seems hard not to 
 be able to ask for a piece of bread or a tumbler of 
 water, without a sensation running round the table, 
 as if one were an electric eel or a torpedo, and could n't 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 45 
 
 be touched without giving a shock. A fellow is n't 
 all battery, is he? The idea that a Gymnotus can't 
 swallow his worm without a coruscation of animal 
 lightning is hard on that brilliant but sensational 
 being. Good talk is not a matter of will at aU; it 
 depends — you know we are aU half -materialists now- 
 adays — on a certain amount of active congestion of 
 the brain, and that comes when it is ready, and not 
 before. I saw a man get up the other day in a plea- 
 sant company, and talk away for about five minutes, 
 evidently by a pure effort of wiU. His person was 
 good, his voice was pleasant, but anybody could see 
 that it was all mechanical labor; he was sparring for 
 wind, as the Hon. John Morrissey, M. C, would 
 express himself. Presently, — 
 
 Do you, — Beloved, I am afraid you are not old 
 enough, — but do you remember the days of the tin 
 tinder-box, the flint, and steel? Click! click! click! 
 — Ah-h-h! knuckles that time! click! click! click! 
 a spark has talsen, and is eating into the black tinder, 
 as a six-year-old eats into a sheet of gingerbread. 
 
 Presently, after hammering away for his five min- 
 utes with mere words, the spark of a happy expression 
 took somewhere among the mental combustibles, and 
 then for ten minutes we had a pretty, wandering, 
 scintillating play of eloquent thought, that enlivened, 
 if it did not kindle, all around it. If you want the 
 real philosophy of it, I vrill give it to you. The 
 chance thought or expression struck the nervous cen- 
 tre of consciousness, as the rowel of a spur stings the 
 flank of a racer. Away through aU the telegraphic 
 radiations of the nervous cords flashed the intelligence 
 that the brain was kindling, and must be fed with 
 something or other, or it would burn itself to ashes. 
 
46 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE, 
 
 And all the great hydraulic engines poured in their 
 scarlet blood, and the fire kindled, and the flame rose ; 
 for the blood is a stream that, like burning rock-oU, 
 at once kindles, and is itself the fuel. You can't 
 order these organic processes, any more than a milli- 
 ner can make a rose. She can make something that 
 loohs like a rose, more or less, but it takes all the 
 forces of the universe to finish and sweeten that 
 blossom in your button-hole; and you may be sure 
 that when the orator's brain is in a flame, when the 
 poet's heart is in a tumult, it is something mightier 
 than he and his wiU that is dealing with b^m ! As I 
 have looked from one of the northern windows of the 
 street which commands our noble estuary, — the view 
 through which is a picture on an iUimitable canvas and 
 a poem in innumerable cantos, — I have sometimes 
 seen a pleasure-boat drifting along, her sail flapping, 
 and she seeming as if she had neither will nor aim. 
 At her stern a man was laboring to briug her head 
 round with an oar, to little purpose, as it seemed to 
 those who watched him pulling and tugging. But all 
 at once the wind of heaven, which had wandered aU 
 the way from Florida or from Labrador, it may be, 
 struck full upon the sail, and it swelled and rounded 
 itself, like a white bosom that had burst its bodice, 
 and — 
 
 — You are right; it is too true! but how I love 
 these pretty phrases ! I am afraid I am becoming an 
 epicure in words, which is a bad thing to be, unless it 
 is dominated by something infinitely better than itself. 
 But there is a fascination in the mere sound of articu- 
 lated breath; of consonants that resist with the firm- 
 ness of a maid of honor, or half or whoUy yield to the 
 wooing lips; of vowels that flow and murmur, each 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 47 
 
 after its kind; the peremptory h and p, the brittle Ic, 
 the vibrating r, the insinuating s, the feathery/", the 
 velvety 'y, the bell-voiced m, the tranquil broad a, the 
 penetrating e, the cooing u, the emotional o, and the 
 beautiful combinations of alternate rock and stream, 
 as it were, that they give to the rippling flow of 
 speech, — there is a fascination in the skilful hand- 
 ling of these, which the great poets and even prose- 
 writers have not disdained to acknowledge and use to 
 recommend their thought. What do you say to this 
 line of Homer as a piece of poetical f uU-baad music ? 
 I know you read the Grreek characters with perfect 
 ease, but permit me, just for my own satisfaction, to 
 put it into English letters : — 
 
 Aigle pamphanoosa di' aitheros ouranon ike ! 
 as if he should have spoken in our poorer phrase of 
 Splendor far shining through ether to heaven ascending. 
 
 That Greek line, which I do not remember having 
 heard mention of as remarkable, has nearly every con- 
 sonantal and vowel sound in the language. Try it by 
 the Greek and by the English alphabet; it is a curi- 
 osity. Tell me that old Homer did not roll his sight- 
 less eyeballs about with delight, as he thundered out 
 these ringing syllables! It seems hard to think of 
 his going round like a hand-organ man, with such 
 music and such thought as his to earn his bread with. 
 One can't help wishing that Mr. Pugh could have got 
 at him for a single lecture, at least, of the "Star 
 Course," or that he could have appeared in the Music 
 HaU, "for this night only." 
 
 — I know I have rambled, but I hope you see that 
 this is a delicate way of letting you into the nature of 
 the individual who is, officially, the principal person- 
 
48 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 age at our table. It would hardly do to describe him 
 directly, you know. But you must not think, because 
 the lightning zigzags, it does not know where to strike. 
 I shall try to go through the rest of my description 
 of our boarders with as little of digression as is con- 
 sistent with my nature. I think we have a somewhat 
 exceptional company. Since our Landlady has got 
 up ui the world, her board has been decidedly a fa- 
 vorite with persons a little above the average in point 
 of intelligence and education. In fact, ever since a 
 boarder of hers, not wholly Tmknown to the reading 
 public, brought her establishment into notice, it has 
 attracted a considerable number of literary and scien- 
 tific people, and now and then a politician, like the 
 Member of the House of Eepresentatives, otherwise 
 called the Great and General Court of the State of 
 Massachusetts. The consequence is, that there is 
 more individuality of character than in a good many 
 similar boarding-houses, where all are business-men, 
 engrossed in the same pursuit of money -making, or 
 all are engaged in politics, and so deeply occupied 
 with the welfare of the community that they can think 
 and talk of little else. 
 
 At my left hand sits as singular-looking a human 
 being as I remember seeing outside of a regular mu- 
 sevun or tent-show. His black coat shines as if it had 
 been polished; and it has been polished on the wear- 
 er's back, no doubt, for the arms and other points 
 of maximum attrition are particularly smooth and 
 bright. Round shoulders, — stooping over some mi- 
 nute labor, I suppose. Very slender limbs, with bends 
 like a grasshopper's; sits a great deal, I presume; 
 looks as if he might straighten them out all of a sud- 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKEAST-TABLE. 49 
 
 den, and jump instead of walking. Wears goggles 
 very commonly; says it rests his eyes, which he 
 strains in looking at very small objects. Voice has a 
 dry creak, as if made by some small piece of mechan- 
 ism that wanted oiling. I don't think he is a botan- 
 ist, for he does not smell of dried herbs, but carries 
 a camphorated atmosphere about with him, as if to 
 keep the moths from attacking him. I must find out 
 what is his particular interest. One ought to know 
 something about his immediate neighbors at the table. 
 This is what I said to myself, before opening a con- 
 versation with him. Everybody in our ward of the 
 city was in a great stir about a certain election, and I 
 thought I might as well begin with that as anything. 
 
 — How do you think the vote is Kkely to go to- 
 morrow? — I said. 
 
 — It is n't to-morrow, — he answered, — it's next 
 month. 
 
 — Next month! — said I. — Why, what election do 
 you mean ? 
 
 — I mean the election to the Presidency of the En- 
 tomological Society, sir, — he creaked, with an air of 
 surprise, as if nobody could by any possibility have 
 been thinking of any other. Great competition, sir, 
 between the dipterists and the lepidopterists as to 
 which shall get in their candidate. Several close 
 baUotings already; adjourned for a fortnight. Poor 
 concerns, both of 'em. Wait till our turn comes. 
 
 — I suppose you are an entomologist? — I said 
 with a note of interrogation. 
 
 — Not quite so ambitious as that, sir. I should 
 like to put my eyes on the individual entitled to that 
 name! A society may call itself an Entomological 
 Society, but the man who arrogates such a broad title 
 
50 THE POET AT THE BEEAKJ'AST-TABLE, 
 
 as tliat to himself, in the present state of science, is a 
 pretender, sir, a dilettante, an impostor! No man 
 can be truly called an entomologist, sir; the subject 
 is too vast for any single human intelligence to grasp. 
 
 — May I venture to ask, — I said, a little awed by 
 his statement and manner, — what is your special pro- 
 vince of study? 
 
 I am often spoken of as a Coleopterist, — he said, 
 
 — but I have no right to so comprehensive a name. 
 The genus Scarabseus is what I have chiefly confined 
 myself to, and ought to have studied exclusively. The 
 beetles proper are quite enough for the labor of one 
 man's life. CaU me a Scarabeeist if you will; i£ I 
 can prove myself worthy of that name, my highest 
 ambition will be more than satisfied. 
 
 I think, by way of compromise and convenience, I 
 shall call him the Scarabee. He has come to look, 
 wonderfully like those creatures, — the beetles, I mean, 
 
 — by being so much among them. His room is hung 
 round with cases of them, each impaled on a pin 
 driven through him, something as they used to bury 
 suicides. These cases take the place for him of pic- 
 tures and all other ornaments. That Boy steals into 
 his room sometimes, and stares at them with great ad- 
 miration, and has himself undertaken to form a rival 
 cabinet, chiefly consisting of flies, so far, arranged in 
 ranks superintended by an occasional spider. 
 
 The old Master, who is a bachelor, has a kindly 
 feeling for this little monkey, and those of his kind. 
 
 — I like children, — he said to me one day at table, 
 
 — I like 'em, and I respect 'em. Pretty much all the 
 honest truth-teUing there is in the world is done by 
 them. Do you know they play the part in the house- 
 hold which the king's jester, who very often had a 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKPAST-TABLE. 51 
 
 mighty long head under his cap and bells, used to 
 play for a monarch? There 's no radical club like a 
 nest of little folks in a nursery. Did you ever watch 
 a baby's fingers? I have, often enough, though I 
 never knew what it was to own one. — The Master 
 paused half a minute or so, — sighed, — perhaps at 
 thinking what he had missed in life, — looked up at 
 me a little vacantly. I saw what was the matter; he 
 had lost the thread of his talk. 
 
 — Baby's fingers, — I intercalated. 
 
 — Yes, yes ; did you ever see how they will poke 
 those wonderful little fingers of theirs into every fold 
 and crack and crevice they can get at? That is their 
 first education, feeling their way into the solid facts 
 of the material world. When they begin to talk it is 
 the same thing over again in another shape. If there 
 is a crack or a flaw in your answer to their confounded 
 shoulder-hitting questions, they will poke and poke 
 until they have got it gaping just as the baby's fin- 
 gers have made a rent out of that atom of a hole in 
 his pinafore that your old eyes never took notice of. 
 Then they make such fools of us by copying on a 
 small scale what we do in the grand manner. I won- 
 der if it ever occurs to our dried-up neighbor there 
 to ask himself whether That Boy's collection of flies 
 is n't about as significant in the Order of Things as 
 his own Museum of Beetles? 
 
 — I could n't help thinking that perhaps That 
 Boy's questions about the simpler mysteries of life 
 might have a good deal of the same kind of significance 
 as the Master's inquiries into the Order of Things. 
 
 — On my left, beyond my next neighbor the Scar- 
 abee, at the end of the table, sits a person of whom 
 
52 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 we know little, except that he carries about him 
 more palpable reminiscences of tobacco and the allied 
 sources of comfort than a very sensitive organization 
 might find acceptable. The Master does not seem to 
 like hiTn much, for some reason or other, — perhaps 
 he has a special aversion to the odor of tobacco. As 
 his forefinger shows a little too distinctly that he uses 
 a pen, I shall compliment him by calling him the Man 
 of Letters, until I find out more about him. 
 
 — The Young Girl who sits on my right, next be- 
 yond the Master, can hardly be more than nineteen 
 or twenty years old. I wish I could paint her so as 
 to iaterest others as much as she does me. But she 
 has not a profusion of sunny tresses wreathing a neck 
 of alabaster, and a cheek where the rose and the lily 
 are trying to settle their old quarrel with alternating 
 victory. Her hair is brown, her cheek is delicately 
 pallid, her forehead is too ample for a baU-room 
 beauty's. A single faint line between the eyebrows 
 is the record of long - continued anxious efforts to 
 please in the task she has chosen, or rather which has 
 been forced upon her. It is the same line of anxious 
 and conscientious effort which I saw not long since on 
 the forehead of one of the sweetest and truest singers 
 who has visited us ; the same which is so striking on 
 the masks of singing women painted upon the facade 
 of our Great Organ, — that Himalayan home of har- 
 mony which you are to see and then die, if you don't 
 live where you can see and hear it often. Many 
 deaths have happened in a neigh"boring large city 
 from that well-known complaint. Icterus Invidioso- 
 rum, after returning from a visit to the Music Hall. 
 The invariable symptom of a fatal attack is the Bism 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 53 
 
 Sardonicus. — But the Young Girl. She gets her 
 living by writing stories for a newspaper. Every 
 week she furnishes a new story. If her head aches 
 or her heart is heavy, so that she does not come to 
 time with her story, she falls behindhand and has to 
 live on credit. It sounds well enough to say that 
 "she supports herself by her pen," but her lot is a 
 trying one; it repeats the doom of the Danaides. 
 The "Weekly Bucket" has no bottom, and it is her 
 business to help fill it. Imagine for one moment 
 what it is to tell a tale that must flow on, flow ever, 
 without pausing; the lover miserable and happy this 
 week, to begin miserable again next week and end as 
 before; the villain scowling, plotting, punished; to 
 scowl, plot, and get punished again in our next; an 
 endless series of woes and blisses, into each paragraph 
 of which the forlorn artist has to throw all the live- 
 liness, all the emotion, all the graces of style she is 
 mistress of, for the wages of a maid of all work, and 
 no more recognition or thanks from anybody than the 
 apprentice who sets the types for the paper that 
 prints her ever-ending and ever-beginning stories. 
 And yet she has a pretty talent, sensibility, a natural 
 way of writing, an ear for the music of verse, in which 
 she sometimes indulges to vary the dead monotony of 
 everlasting narrative, and a sufficient amount of in- 
 vention to make her stories readable. I have found 
 my eyes dimmed over them oftener than once, more 
 with thinking about her, perhaps, than about her 
 heroes and heroines. Poor little body! Poor little 
 mind! Poor little soul! She is one of that great 
 company of delicate, intelligent, emotional young 
 creatures, who are waiting, like that sail I spoke of, 
 for some breath of heaven to fill their white bosoms, 
 
54 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 — love, the right of every womaii ; religious emotion, 
 sister of love, with the same passionate eyes, but 
 cold, thin, bloodless hands, — some enthusiasm of hu- 
 manity or divinity; and find that life offers them, 
 instead, a seat on a wooden bench, a chain to fasten 
 them to it, and a heavy oar to pull day and night. 
 We read the Arabian tales and pity the doomed lady 
 who must amuse her lord and master from day to day 
 or have her head cut o&; how much better is a mouth 
 without bread to £11 it than no mouth at all to fill, 
 because no head? We have all round us aweary- 
 eyed company of Scheherezades ! This is one of them, 
 and I may call her by that name when it pleases me 
 to do so. 
 
 The next boarder I have to mention is the one who 
 sits between the Young Girl and the Landlady. In a 
 little chamber into which a small thread of sunshine 
 finds its way for half an hour or so every day during 
 a month or six weeks of the spring or autunm, at all 
 other times obliged to content itself with ungilded 
 daylight, lives this boarder, whom, without wronging 
 any others of our company, I may call, as she is very 
 generally called in the household, The Lady. In giv- 
 ing her this name it is not meant that there are no 
 other ladies at our table, or that the handmaids who 
 serve us are not ladies, or to deny the general propo- 
 sition that everybody who wears the unbifuxcated gar- 
 ment is entitled to that appellation. Only this lady 
 has a look and manner which there is no mistaking as 
 belonging to a person always accustomed to refined 
 and elegant society. Her style is perhaps a little 
 more courtly and gracious than some would like. The 
 language and manner which betray the habitual de- 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 55 
 
 sire of pleasing, and which add a charm to intercourse 
 in the higher social circles, are liable to be construed 
 by sensitive beings unused to such amenities as an odi- 
 ous condescension when addressed to persons of less 
 consideration than the accused, and as a still more 
 odious — you know the word — when directed to those 
 who are esteemed by the world as considerable person- 
 ages. But of all this the accused are fortunately 
 wholly unconscious, for there is nothing so entirely 
 natural and unaffected as the highest breeding. 
 
 From an aspect of dignified but undisguised econ- 
 omy which showed itself in her dress as well as in her 
 limited quarters, I suspected a story of shipwrecked 
 fortune, and determined to question our Landlady. 
 That worthy woman was delighted to tell the history 
 of her most distinguished boarder. She was, as I had 
 supposed, a gentlewoman whom a change of circum- 
 stances had brought down from her high estate. 
 
 — Did I know the Goldenrod family? — Of course 
 I did. — Well, the Lady was first cousin to Mrs. 
 Midas Goldenrod. She had been here in her car- 
 riage to call upon her, — not very often. — Were her 
 rich relations kind and helpful to her? — Well, — 
 yes; at least they made her presents now and then. 
 Three or four years ago they sent her a silver waiter, 
 and every Christmas they sent her a boquet, — it must 
 cost as much as five doUars, the Landlady thought. 
 
 — And how did the Lady receive these valuable and 
 useful gifts ? 
 
 — Every Christmas she got out the silver waiter 
 and borrowed a glass tumbler and filled it with water, 
 and put the boquet in it and set it on the waiter. It 
 smelt sweet enough and looked pretty for a day or 
 two, but the Landlady thought it would n't have hurt 
 
66 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 'em if they 'd sent a piece of goods for a dress, or 
 at least a pocket-handkercher or two, or something or 
 other that she could 'a' made some kind of use of; but 
 beggars must n't be choosers ; not that she was a beg- 
 gar, for she 'd sooner die than do that if she was in 
 want of a meal of victuals. There was a lady I re- 
 member, and she had a little boy and she was a 
 widow, and after she 'd buried her husband she was 
 dreadful poor, and she was ashamed to let her little 
 boy go out in his old shoes, and copper-toed shoes 
 they was too, because his poor little ten — toes — was 
 a coming out of 'em; and what do you think my hus- 
 band's rich uncle, — well, there now, it was me and 
 my little Benjamin, as he was then, there 's no use in 
 hiding of it, — and what do you think my husband's 
 uncle sent me but a plaster of Paris image of a young 
 woman, that was, — well, her appearance was n't re- 
 spectable, and I had to take and wrap her up in a 
 towel and poke her right into my closet, and there 
 she stayed till she got her head broke and served her 
 right, for she was n't fit to show folks. You need n't 
 say anything about what I told you, but the fact is I 
 was desperate poor before I began to support myself 
 taking boarders, and a lone woman without her — 
 her — 
 
 The sentence plunged into the gulf of her great 
 remembered sorrow, and was lost to the records of 
 himianity. 
 
 — Presently she continued in answer to my ques- 
 tions: The Lady was not very sociable; kept mostly 
 to herself. The Young Girl (our Scheherezade) used 
 to visit her sometimes, and they seemed to like each 
 other, but the Young Girl had not many spare hours 
 for visiting. The Lady never found fault, but she 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 57 
 
 was very nice in her tastes, and kept everything about 
 her looking as neat and pleasant as she could. 
 
 — What did she do? — Why, she read, and she 
 drew pictures, and she did needlework patterns, and 
 played on an old harp she had; the gilt was mostly 
 off, but it sounded very sweet, and she sung to it 
 sometimes, those old songs that used to be in fashion 
 twenty or thirty years ago, with words to 'em that 
 folks could understand. 
 
 Did she do anything to help support herselE? — The 
 Landlady couldn't say she did, but she thought 
 there was rich people enough that ought to buy the 
 flowers and things she worked and painted. 
 
 AH this points to the fact that she was bred to be 
 an ornamental rather than what is called a useful 
 member of society. This is aU very well so long as 
 fortune favors those who are chosen to be the orna- 
 mental personages; but if the golden tide recedes and 
 leaves them stranded, they are more to be pitied than 
 almost any other class. "I cannot dig, to beg I am 
 ashamed." 
 
 I think it is unpopular in this country to talk much 
 about gentlemen and gentlewomen. People are touchy 
 about social distinctions, which no doubt are often in- 
 vidious and quite arbitrary and accidental, but which 
 it is impossible to avoid recognizing as facts of nat- 
 ural history. Society stratifies itself everywhere, and 
 the stratum which is generally recognized as the up- 
 permost will be apt to have the advantage in easy grace 
 of manner and in unassuming confidence, and conse- 
 quently be more agreeable in the superficial relations 
 of life. To compare these advantages with the virtues 
 and utilities would be foolish. Much of the noblest 
 work in life is done by ill-dressed, awkward, ungainly 
 
58 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPA8T-TABLB. 
 
 persons ; but that is no more reason for undervaluing 
 good manners and what we call high-breeding, than 
 the fact that the best part of the sturdy labor of the 
 world is done by men with exceptionable hands is to 
 be urged against the use of Brown Windsor as a pre- 
 liminary to appearance in cultivated society. 
 
 I mean to stand up for this poor lady, whose use- 
 fulness in the world is apparently problematical. 
 She seems to me like a picture which has fallen from 
 its gilded frame and lies, face downward, on the dusty 
 floor. The picture never was as needful as a window 
 or a door, but it was pleasant to see it in its place, 
 and it would be pleasant to see it there again, and I, 
 for one, should be thankful to have the Lady restored 
 by some turn of fortune to the position from which 
 she has been so cruelly cast down. 
 
 — I have asked the Landlady about the young man 
 sitting near her, the same who attracted my attention 
 the other day while I was talking, as I mentioned. 
 He passes most of his time in a private observatory, 
 it appears; a watcher of the stars. That I suppose 
 gives the peculiar look to his lustrous eyes. The 
 Master knows him and was pleased to teU me some- 
 thing about him. 
 
 You call yourself a Poet, — he said, — and we call 
 you so, too, and so you are; I read your verses and 
 like 'em. But that young man lives in a world be- 
 yond the imagination of poets, let me teU you. The 
 daily home of his thought is in illimitable space, hov- 
 ering between the two eternities. In his contempla- 
 tions the divisions of time run together, as in the 
 thought of his Maker. With him also, — I say it not 
 profanely, — one day is as a thousand years and a 
 thousand years as one day. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 59 
 
 This account of his occupation increased the interest 
 his look had excited in me, and I haye observed him 
 more particularly and found out more about him. 
 Sometimes, after a long night's watching, he looks so 
 pale and worn, that one would think the cold moon- 
 light had stricken him with some malign effluence, 
 such as it is fabled to send upon those who sleep in 
 it. At such times he seems more like one who has 
 come from a planet farther away from the sun than 
 our earth, than like one of us terrestrial creatures. 
 His home is truly in the heavens, and he practises an 
 asceticism in the cause of science almost comparable 
 to that of Saint Simeon Stylites. Yet they tell me 
 he might live in luxury if he spent on himself what he 
 spends on science. His knowledge is of that strange, 
 remote character, that it seems sometimes almost su- 
 perhuman. He knows the ridges and chasms of the 
 moon as a surveyor knows a garden-plot he has mea- 
 sured. He watches the snows that gather around the 
 poles of Mars ; he is on the lookout for the expected 
 comet at the moment when its faint stain of diffused 
 light first shows itself; he analyzes the ray that comes 
 from the sun's photosphere; he measxires the rings 
 of Saturn; he counts his asteroids to see that none are 
 missing, as the shepherd counts the sheep in his flock. 
 A strange unearthly being; lonely, dwelling far apart 
 from the thoughts and cares of the planet on which 
 he lives, — an enthusiast who gives his life to know- 
 ledge; a student of antiquity, to whom the records of 
 the geologist are modem pages in the great volume of 
 being, and the pyramids a memorandum of yesterday, 
 as the eclipse or occultation that is.to take place thou- 
 sands of years hence is an event of to-morrow in the 
 diary without beginning and without end where he 
 
60 THE POET AT THE BEEAKTAST-TABLE. 
 
 enters the aspect of the passing moment as it is read 
 on the celestial dial. 
 
 In very marked contrast with this young man is the 
 something more than middle-aged Register of Deeds, 
 a rusty, saUow, smoke-dried looking personage, who 
 belongs to this earth as exclusively as the other be- 
 longs to the firmament. His movements are as me- 
 chanical as those of a pendulum, — to the office, where 
 he changes his coat and plunges into messuages and 
 building-lots; then, after changing his coat again, 
 back to our table, and so, day by day, the dust of 
 years gradually gathering around him as it does on the 
 old folios that fill the shelves all round the great cem- 
 etery of past transactions of which he is the sexton. 
 
 Of the Salesman who sits next him, nothing need 
 be said except that he is good-looking, rosy, well- 
 dressed, and of very polite maimers, only a little more 
 brisk than the approved style of carriage permits, — 
 as one in the habit of springing with a certain alacrity 
 at the call of a customer. 
 
 You would like to see, I don't doubt, how we sit at 
 the table, and I wiU help you by means of a diagram 
 which shows the present arrangement of ouv seats. 
 
 The The YonuB Girl TheMMier The The The Man 
 
 lAdy. (Sahehereiftde). ot Arta. Poet. Boarahee. ofLettors(7). 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 
 
 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 Ihftt The The Momber of The Begiater The 
 
 Bdj. ABtronomer. tbo Hboiuo. of Deeda. Saleuun. 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 61 
 
 Our young Scheherezade varies her prose stories 
 now and then, as I told you, with compositions in 
 verse, one or two of which she has let me look over. 
 Here is one of them, which she allowed me to copy. 
 It is from a story of hers, "The Sun -Worshipper's 
 Daughter," which you may find in the periodical be- 
 fore mentioned, to which she is a contributor, if you 
 can lay your hand upon a file of it. I think our 
 Seheherezade has never had a lover in human shape, 
 or she would not play so lightly with the firebrands 
 of the great passion. 
 
 FANTASIA. 
 
 Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn, 
 Blushing into life new-born I 
 Lend me -yiolets for my hair, 
 And thy russet robe to wear, 
 And thy ring of rosiest hue 
 Set in drops of diamond dew ! 
 
 Kiss my cheek, thou noontide ray, 
 From my Love so far away ! 
 Let thy splendor streaming down 
 Turn its pallid lilies brown, 
 Till its darkening shades reveal 
 Where his passion pressed its seal ! 
 
 Kiss my lips, thou Lord of light, 
 Bass my lips a soft good night ! 
 Westward sinks thy golden car ; 
 Leave me but the evening star, 
 And my solace that shall be, 
 Borrowing all its light from thee ! 
 
62 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 III. 
 
 The old Master was talking about a concert lie had 
 been to hear. 
 
 — I don't like your chopped music any way. That 
 woman — she had more sense in her little finger than 
 forty medical societies — Florence Nightingale — says 
 that the music joupour out is good for sick folks, and 
 the music you pound out isn't. Not that exactly, 
 but something like it. I have been to hear some 
 music-pounding. It was a young woman, with as 
 many white muslin flounces round her as the planet 
 Saturn has rings, that did it. She gave the music- 
 stool a twirl or two and fluffed down on to it like a 
 whirl of soap-suds in a hand-basin. Then she pushed 
 up her cuffs as if she was going to fight for the cham- 
 pion's belt. Then she worked her wrists and her 
 hands, to limber 'em, I suppose, and spread out her 
 fingers till they looked as though they would pretty 
 much cover the key -board, from the growling end to 
 the little squeaky one. Then those two hands of hers 
 made a jump at the keys as if they were a couple of 
 tigers coming down on a flock of black and white 
 sheep, and the piano gave a great howl as if its tail 
 had been trod on. Dead stop, — so stiU you could 
 hear your hair growing. Then another jump, and 
 another howl, as if the piano had two tails and you 
 had trod on both of 'em at once, and then a grand 
 clatter and scramble and string of jumps, up and 
 down, back and forward, one hand over the other, like 
 a stampede of rats and mice more than like anything 
 I call music. I like to hear a woman sing, and I like 
 to hear a fiddle sing, but these noises they hammer 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 63 
 
 out of their wood and ivory anvils — don't talk to me, 
 I know the difference between a bullfrog and a wood- 
 thrush and — 
 
 Pop ! went a small piece of artillery such as is made 
 of a stick of elder and carries a peUet of very moder- 
 ate consistency. That Boy was in his seat and look- 
 ing demure enough, but there could be no question 
 that he was the artillery -man who had discharged the 
 missile. The aim was not a bad one, for it took the 
 Master full in the forehead, and had the effect of 
 checking the flow of his eloquence. How the little 
 monkey had learned to time his interruptions I do not 
 know, but I have observed more than once before 
 this, that the popgun would go off just at the moment 
 when some one of the company was getting too ener- 
 getic or prolix. The Boy is n't old enough to judge 
 for himself when to intervene to change the order of 
 conversation; no, of course he isn't. Somebody 
 must give him a hint. Somebody. — Who is it? I 
 suspect Dr. B. Franklin. He looks too knowing. 
 There is certainly a trick somewhere. Why, a day 
 or two ago I was myself discoursing, with consider- 
 able effect, as I thought, on some of the new aspects 
 of humanity, when I was struck full on the cheek by 
 one of these little pellets, and there was such a con- 
 founded laugh that I had to wind up and leave off 
 with a preposition instead of a good mouthful of poly- 
 syllables. I have watched our young Doctor, how- 
 ever, and have been entirely unable to detect any 
 signs of communication between him and this auda- 
 cious child, who is like to become a power among us, 
 for that popgim is fatal to any talker who is hit by its 
 pellet. I have suspected a foot under the table as 
 the prompter, but I have been unable to detect the 
 
64 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 slightest movement or look as if he were making one, 
 on the part of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. I cannot 
 help thinking of th.& flappers in Swift's Laputa, only 
 they gave one a hint when to speak and another a hint 
 to listen, whereas the popgun says unmistakably, 
 "Shut up!" 
 
 — I should be sorry to lose my confidence in Dr. B. 
 Franklin, who seems very much devoted to his busi- 
 ness, and whom I mean to consult about some small 
 symptoms I have had lately. Perhaps it is coming to 
 a new boarding-house. The young people who come 
 into Paris from the provinces are very apt — so I have 
 been told by one that knows — to have an attack of 
 typhoid fever a few weeks or months after their arri- 
 val. I have not been long enough at this table to 
 get well acclimated; perhaps that is it. Boarding- 
 House Fever. Something like horse-ail, very likely, 
 — horses get it, you know, when they are brought to 
 city stables. A little "off my feed," as Hiram Wood- 
 rufif would say. A queer discoloration about my fore- 
 head. Query, a bump? Cannot remember any. 
 Might have got it against bedpost or something whQe 
 asleep. Very unpleasant to look so. I wonder how 
 my portrait would look, if anybody should take it 
 now! I hope not quite so badly as one I saw the 
 other day, which I took for the end man of the Ethi- 
 opian Serenaders, or some traveller who had been ex- 
 ploring the sources of the Niger, until I read the name 
 at the bottom and found it was a face I knew as well 
 as my own. 
 
 I must consult somebody, and it is nothing more 
 than fair to give our young Doctor a chance. Here 
 goes for Dr. Benjamin Franklin. 
 
 The young Doctor has a very small office and a very 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKTAST-TABLE. 65 
 
 large sign, with a transparency at night big enough 
 for an oyster-shop. These young doctors are partic- 
 ularly strong, as I understand, on what they caU di- 
 agnosis, — an excellent branch o£ the healing art, full 
 of satisfaction to the curious practitioner, who likes to 
 give the right Latin name to one's complaint; not 
 quite so satisfactory to the patient, as it is not so very 
 much pleasanter to be bitten by a dog with a collar 
 round his neck telling you that he is called Snap or 
 Teaser, than by a dog without a collar. Sometimes, 
 in fact, one would a little rather not know the exact 
 name of his complaint, as if he does he is pretty sure 
 to look it out in a medical dictionary, and then i£ he 
 reads. This terrible disease is attended with vast 
 suffering and is inemtahly mortal, or any such state- 
 ment, it is apt to affect him unpleasantly. 
 
 I confess to a little shakiness when I knocked at 
 Dr. Benjamin's office door. "Come in !" exclaimed 
 Dr. B. F. in tones that sounded ominous and sepid- 
 chral. And I went in. 
 
 I don't believe the chambers of the Inquisition ever 
 presented a more alarming array of implements for 
 extracting a confession, than our young Doctor's office 
 did of instruments to make nature tell what was the 
 matter with a poor body. 
 
 There were Ophthalmoscopes and Rhinoscopes and 
 Otoscopes and Laryngoscopes and Stethoscopes; and 
 Thermometers and Spirometers and Dynamometers 
 and Sphygmometers and Pleximeters ; and Probes and 
 Probangs and aU sorts of frightful inquisitive explor- 
 ing contrivances ; and scales to weigh you in, and tests 
 and balances and pumps and electro-magnets and 
 magneto-electric machines; in short, apparatus for 
 doing everything but turn you inside out. 
 
66 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Dr. Benjamin set me down before liis one window 
 and began looking at me with such a superhuman air 
 of sagacity, that I felt like one of those open-breasted 
 clocks which make no secret of their inside arrange- 
 ments, and almost thought he could see through me 
 as one sees through a shrimp or a jelly-fish. First he 
 looked at the place inculpated, which had a sort of 
 greenish-brown color, with his naked eyes, with much 
 corrugation of forehead and fearful concentration of 
 attention; then through a pocket-glass which he car- 
 ried. Then he drew back a space, for a perspective 
 view. Then he made me put out my tongue and laid 
 a slip of blue paper on it, which turned red and scared 
 me a little. Next he took my wrist; but instead of 
 counting my pulse in the old-fashioned way, he fas- 
 tened a machine to it that marked all the beats on a 
 sheet of paper, — for all the world like a scale of the 
 heights of mountains, say from Mount Tom up to 
 Chimborazo and then down again, and up again, and 
 so on. In the mean time he asked me aR sorts of 
 questions about myself and all my relatives, whether 
 we had been subject to this and that malady, until I 
 felt as if we must some of us have had more or less of 
 them, and could not feel quite sure whether Elephan- 
 tiasis and Beriberi and Progressive Locomotor Ataxy 
 did not run in the family. 
 
 After all this overhauling of myself and my history, 
 he paused and looked puzzled. Something was sug- 
 gested about what he called an "exploratory punc- 
 ture." This I at once declined, with thanks. Sud- 
 denly a thought struck him. He looked still more 
 closely at the discoloration I have spoken of. 
 
 — Looks like — I declare it reminds me of — very 
 rare ! very curious ! It would be strange if my first 
 case — of this kind — should be one of our boarders! 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 67 
 
 Wliat kind of a case do you call it? — I said, with 
 a sort of feeling that he could inflict a severe or a 
 light malady on me, as if he were a judge passing sen- 
 tence. 
 
 — The color reminds me, — said Dr. B. Franklin, 
 — of what I have seen in a case of Addison's Disease, 
 Morbus Addisonii. 
 
 — But my habits are quite regular, — I said; for I 
 remembered that the distinguished essayist was too 
 fond of his brandy and water, and I confess that the 
 thought was not pleasant to me of following Dr. John- 
 son's advice, with the slight variation of giving my 
 days and my nights to trying on the favorite maladies 
 of Addison. 
 
 — Temperance people are subject to it! — ex- 
 claimed Dr. Benjamin, almost exultingly, I thought. 
 
 — But I had the impression that the author of the 
 Spectator was afflicted with a dropsy, or some such 
 inflated malady, to which persons of sedentary and 
 bibacious habits are liable. [A literary swell, — I 
 thought to myself, but I did not say it. I felt too 
 serious.] 
 
 — The author of the Spectator! — cried out Dr. 
 Benjamin, — I mean the celebrated Dr. Addison, in- 
 ventor, I would say discoverer, of the wonderful new 
 disease called after him. 
 
 — And what may this valuable invention or discov- 
 ery consist in? — I asked, for I was curious to know 
 the nature of the gift which this benefactor of the race 
 had bestowed upon us. 
 
 — A most interesting affection, and rare, too. Al- 
 low me to look closely at that discoloration once more 
 for a moment. Cutis cerhea, bronze skin, they call 
 it sometimes — extraordinary pigmentation — a little 
 
68 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 more to the light, if you please — ah ! now I get the 
 bronze coloring admirably, beautifully ! Would you 
 have any objection to showing your case to the Soci- 
 eties of Medical Improvement and Medical Obser- 
 vation ? 
 
 [ — My case! O dear!] May I ask if any vital 
 organ is commonly involved in this interesting com- 
 plaint? — I said, faintly. 
 
 — Well, sir, — the young Doctor replied, — there 
 is an organ which is — sometimes — a little — 
 touched, I may say; a very curious and — ingenious 
 little organ or pair of organs. Did you ever hear of 
 the Capsidce Suprarenalesf 
 
 — No, — said I, — is it a mortal complaint? — I 
 ought to have known better than to ask such a ques- 
 tion, but I was getting nervous and thinking about all 
 sorts of horrid maladies people are liable to, with hor- 
 rid names to match. 
 
 — It is n't a complaint, — I mean they are not a 
 complaint, — they are two small organs, as I said, 
 inside of you, and nobody knows what is the use of 
 them. The most curious thing is that when anything 
 is the matter with them you turn of the color of 
 bronze. After all, I didn't mean to say I believed 
 it was Morbus Addisonii; I only thought of that 
 when I saw the discoloration. 
 
 So he gave me a recipe, which I took care to put 
 where it could do no hurt to anybody, and I paid him 
 his fee (which he took with the air of a man in the re- 
 ceipt of a great income) and said Good-morning. 
 
 — What in the name of a thousand diablos is the 
 reason these confounded doctors wiU mention their 
 guesses about "a case," as they call it, and all its con- 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKPAST-TABLE. 69 
 
 ceivable possibilities, out loud before their patients? 
 I don't suppose tbere is anything in aU this nonsense 
 about "Addison's Disease," but I wish he hadn't 
 spoken of that very interesting ailment, and I should 
 feel a little easier if that discoloration would leave my 
 forehead. I will ask the Landlady about it, — these 
 old women often know more than the young doctors 
 just come home with long names for everything they 
 don't know how to cure. But the name of this com- 
 plaint sets me thinking. Bronzed skin! What an 
 odd idea ! Wonder if it spreads all over one. That 
 would be picturesque and pleasant, now, would n't it ? 
 To be made a living statue of, — nothing to do but 
 strike an attitude. Arm up — so — like the one in 
 the Garden. John of Bologna's Mercury — thus — 
 on one foot. Needy knife-grinder in the Tribune at 
 Florence. No, not " needy," come to thiak of it. 
 Marcus Aurelius on horseback. Query. Are horses 
 subject to the Morbus Addisonii? Advertise for a 
 bronzed living horse — Lyceum invitations and en- 
 gagements — bronze versus brass. — What's the use 
 in being frightened ? Bet it was a bump. Pretty cer- 
 tain I bumped my forehead against something. Never 
 heard of a bronzed man before. Have seen white men, 
 black men, red men, yellow men, two or three blue 
 men, stained with doctor's stuff; some green ones, — 
 from the cotmtry; but never a bronzed man. Poh, 
 poh ! Sure it was a bump. Ask Landlady to look 
 at it. 
 
 — Landlady did look at it. Said it was a bump, 
 and no mistake. Recommended a piece of brown 
 paper dipped in vinegar. Made the house smell as if 
 it were in quarantine for the plague from Smyrna, but 
 discoloration soon disappeared, — so I did not become 
 
70 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 a bronzed man after all, — hope I never shall while I 
 am alive. Should n't mind being done in bronze after 
 I was dead. On second thoughts not so clear about 
 it, remembering how some of them look that we have 
 got stuck up in public ; think I had rather go down to 
 posterity in an Ethiopian Minstrel portrait, like our 
 friend's the other day. 
 
 — You were kind enough to say, I remarked to the 
 Master, that you read my poems and liked them. 
 Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what it 
 is you like about them ? 
 
 The Master harpooned a breakfast-roll and held it 
 up before me. — Will you tell me, — he said, — why 
 you like that breakfast-roll? — I suppose he thought 
 that would stop my mouth in two senses. But he was 
 mistaken. 
 
 — To be sure I will, — said I. — First, I like its 
 mechanical consistency ; brittle externally, — that is 
 for the teeth, which want resistance to be overcome; 
 soft, spongy, well tempered and flavored internally, 
 — that is for the organ of taste; wholesome, nutri- 
 tious, — that is for the internal surfaces and the sys- 
 tem generally. 
 
 — Good! — said the Master, and laughed a hearty 
 terrestrial laugh. 
 
 I hope he will carry that faculty of an honest laugh 
 with him wherever he goes, — why should n't he ? The 
 "order of things," as he calls it, from which hilarity 
 was excluded, would be crippled and one-sided 
 enough. I don't believe the human gamut wiU be 
 cheated of a single note after men have done breath- 
 ing this fatal atmospheric mixture and die into the 
 ether of immortality ! 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKEAST-TABLE. 71 
 
 I didn't say all that; if I liad said it, it would 
 have brought a pellet from the popgun, I feel quite 
 certain. 
 
 The Master went on after he had had out his laugh. 
 
 — There is one thing I am His Imperial Majesty 
 about, and that is my likes and dislikes. What if 
 I do like your verses, — you can't help yourself. I 
 don't doubt somebody or other hates 'em and hates 
 you and everything you do, or ever did, or ever can 
 do. He is all right; there is nothing you or I like 
 that somebody does n't hate. Was there ever any- 
 thing wholesome that was not poison to somebody? 
 If you hate honey or cheese, or the products of the 
 dairy, — I know a family a good many of whose mem- 
 bers can't touch milk, butter, cheese, and the like, — 
 why, say so, but don't find fault with the bees and the 
 cows. Some are afraid of roses, and I have known 
 those who thought a pond-lily a disagreeable neighbor. 
 That Boy will give you the metaphysics of likes and 
 dislikes. Look here, — you young philosopher over 
 there, — do you like candy? 
 
 That Boy. — You bet ! Give me a stick and see 
 if I don't. 
 
 And can you tell me why you like candy? 
 
 That Boy. — Because I do. 
 
 — There, now, that is the whole matter in a nut- 
 shell. Why do your teeth like crackling crust, and 
 your organs of taste like spongy crumb, and your di- 
 gestive contrivances take kindly to bread rather than 
 toadstools — 
 
 That Boy (thinking he was stiU being catechised). 
 
 — Because they do. 
 
 Whereupon the Landlady said, Sh ! and the Young 
 Girl laughed, and the Lady smiled; and Dr. Ben 
 
72 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Franklin kicked him, moderately, under the table, 
 and the Astronomer looked up at the ceiling to see 
 what had happened, and the Member of the Haouse 
 cried, Order ! Order ! and the Salesman said. Shut up, 
 cashboy! and the rest of the boarders kept on feeding; 
 except the Master, who looked very hard but haJf ap- 
 provingly at the small intruder, who had come about 
 as nearly right as most professors would have done. 
 
 — You poets, — the Master said after this excite- 
 ment had calmed down, — you poets have one thing 
 about you that is odd. You talk about everything as 
 if you knew more about it than the people whose busi- 
 ness it is to know all about it. I suppose you do a 
 little of what we teachers used to call "cramming" 
 now and then? 
 
 — If you like your breakfast you must n't ask the 
 cook too many questions, — I answered. 
 
 — Oh, come now, don't be afraid of letting out 
 your secrets. I have a notion I can tell a poet that 
 gets himself up just as I can tell a make-believe old 
 man on the stage by the line where the gray skull- 
 cap joins the smooth forehead of the young feUow 
 of seventy. You 'U confess to a rhyming dictionary 
 anyhow, won't you? 
 
 — I would as lief use that as any other dictionary, 
 but I don't want it. When a word comes up fit to 
 end a line with I can fed all the rhymes in the lan- 
 guage that are fit to go with it without naming them. 
 I have tried them all so many times, I know all the 
 polygamous words and all the monogamous ones, and 
 aU the unmarrying ones, — the whole lot that have no 
 mates, — as soon as I hear their names called. Some- 
 times I run over a string of rhymes, but generally 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 73 
 
 speaking it is strange wliat a short list it is of those 
 that are good for anything. That is the pitiful side 
 of all rhymed verse. Take two such words as home 
 and world. What can you do with chrome or loam 
 or gnome or tome ? You have dome,foam, and roam, 
 and not much more to use in your pome, as some of 
 our fellow-countrymen call it. As for world, you 
 know that in all himian probability somebody or some- 
 thing will be hurled into it or out of it; its clouds 
 may he furled or its grass impearled ; possibly some- 
 thing may be whirled, or curled, or have swirled, — 
 one of Leigh Hunt's words, which with lush, one of 
 Keats's, is an important part of the stock in trade of 
 some dealers in rhyme. 
 
 — And how much do you versifiers know of all 
 those arts and sciences you refer to as if you were as 
 familiar with them as a cobbler is with his wax and 
 lapstone? 
 
 — Enough not to make too many mistakes. The 
 best way is to ask some expert before one risks him- 
 self very far in illustrations from a branch he does not 
 know much about. Suppose, for instance, I wanted 
 to use the double star to illustrate anything, say the 
 relation of two human souls to each other, what would 
 I do? Why, I would ask our young friend there 
 to let me look at one of those loving celestial pairs 
 through his telescope, and I don't doubt he 'd let me 
 do so, and tell me their names and all I wanted to 
 know about them. 
 
 — I should be most happy to show any of the 
 double stars or whatever else there might be to see in 
 the heavens to any of our friends at this table, — the 
 young man said, so cordially and kindly that it was 
 a real invitation. 
 
74 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 — Show US the man in the moon, — said That Boy. 
 
 — I should so like to see a double star! — said 
 Scheherezade, with a very pretty air of smiling mod- 
 esty. 
 
 — Win you go, if we make up a party? — I asked 
 the Master. 
 
 — A cold in the head lasts me from three to five 
 days, — answered the Master. — I am not so very 
 fond of being out in the dew like Nebuchadnezzar : 
 that win do for you yoimg folks. 
 
 — I suppose I must be one of the young folks, — 
 not so young as our Scheherezade, nor so old as the 
 Capitalist, — yoimg enough at any rate to want to 
 be of the party. So we agreed that on some fair 
 night when the Astronomer should tell us that there 
 was to be a fine show in the skies, we would make up 
 a party and go to the Observatory. I asked the 
 Scarabee whether he would not like to make one of us. 
 
 — Out of the question, sir, out of the question. I 
 am altogether too much occupied with an important 
 scientific investigation to devote any considerable part 
 of an evening to star-gazing. 
 
 — Oh, indeed, — said I, — and may I venture to 
 ask on what particular point you are engaged just at 
 present? 
 
 — Certainly, sir, you may. It is, I suppose, as 
 difficult and important a matter to be investigated as 
 often comes before a student of natural history. I 
 wish to settle the point once for aU whether the Pedi- 
 culus MelittcB is or is not the larva of Meloe. 
 
 [ — Now is n't this the droUest world to live in that 
 one could imagine, short of being in a fit of ddirium 
 tremens f Here is a feUow-creature of mine and 
 yours who is asked to see all the glories of the firma- 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 75 
 
 ment brought close to him, and he is too busy with a 
 little unmentionable parasite that infests the bristly 
 surface of a bee to spare an hour or two of a single 
 evening for the splendors of the universe ! I must 
 get a peep through that microscope of his and see the 
 pediculus which occupies a larger space in his mental 
 vision than the midnight march of the solar systems. 
 — The creature, the hiunan one, I mean, interests 
 me.J 
 
 — I am very curious, — I said, — about that pedi- 
 culus melittce, — (just as if I knew a good deal about 
 the little wretch and wanted to know more, whereas 
 I had never heard him spoken of before, to my know- 
 ledge,) — could you let me have a sight of him in your 
 microscope ? 
 
 — You ought to have seen the way in which the 
 poor dried-up little Scarabee turned towards me. His 
 eyes took on a really himian look, and I almost 
 thought those antennse-like arms of his would have 
 stretched themselves out and embraced me. I don't 
 believe any of the boarders had ever shown any in- 
 terest in him, except the little monkey of a Boy, since 
 he had been in the house. It is not strange ; he had 
 not seemed to me much like a human being, until aU 
 at once I touched the one point where his vitality had 
 concentrated itself, and he stood revealed a man and a 
 brother. 
 
 — Come in, — said he, — come in, right after break- 
 fast, and you shall see the animal that has convulsed 
 the entomological world with questions as to his nature 
 and origin. 
 
 — So I went into the Scarabee's parlor, lodging- 
 room, study, laboratory, and museum, — a single 
 apartment applied to these various uses, you under- 
 stand. 
 
76 THE POET AT THE BREAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 — I wish I had time to have you show me all your 
 treasures, — I said, — but I am afraid I shall hardly 
 be able to do more than look at the bee-parasite. But 
 what a superb butterfly you have in that case ! 
 
 — Oh, yes, yes, well enough, — came from South 
 America with the beetle there; look at him I These 
 Lepidoptera are for children to play with, pretty to 
 look at, so some think. Give me the Coleoptera, and 
 the kings of the Ooleoptera are the beetles ! Lepi- 
 doptera and Neuroptera for little folks; Coleoptercu 
 for men, sir ! 
 
 — The particular beetle he showed me in the case 
 with the magnificent butterfly was an odious black 
 wretch that one would say. Ugh ! at, and kick out of 
 his path, if he did not serve him worse than that. 
 But he looked at it as a coin-collector would look at a 
 Pescennius Niger, if the coias of that Emperor are as 
 scarce as they used to be when I was collecting half- 
 penny tokens and pine-tree shillings and battered bits 
 of Roman brass with the head of Gallienus or some 
 such old fellow on them. 
 
 — A beauty! — he exclaimed, — and the only spe- 
 cimen of the kind ia this country, to the best of my 
 belief. A unique, sir, and there is a pleasure in ex- 
 clusive possession. Not another beetle like that short 
 of South America, sir. 
 
 — I was glad to hear that there were no more like 
 it in this neighborhood, the present supply of cock- 
 roaches answering every purpose, so far as I am con- 
 cerned, that such an animal as this would be likely 
 to serve. 
 
 — Here are my bee-parasites, — said the Scarabee, 
 showing me a box full of glass slides, each with a. 
 specimen ready mounted for the microscope. I was 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKEAST-TABLE. 77 
 
 most struck with one little beast flattened out like a 
 turtle, semi-transparent, six-legged, as I remember 
 him, and every leg terminated by a single claw hooked 
 like a lion's and as formidable for the size of the crea- 
 ture as that of the royal beast. 
 
 — Lives on a bumblebee, does he? — I said. — 
 That's the way I caU it. Btmiblebee or bumblybee 
 and huckleberry. Humblebee and whortleberry for 
 people that say Woos-ses-ter and Nor-wich. 
 
 — The Scarabee did not smUe; he took no interest 
 in trivial matters like this. 
 
 — [Lives on a bumblebee. When you come to 
 think of it, he must lead a pleasant kind of life. Sails 
 through the air without the trouble of flying. Free 
 pass everywhere that the bee goes. No fear of being 
 <lislodged; look at those six grappling-hooks. Helps 
 himself to such juices of the bee as he likes best ; the 
 bee feeds on the choicest vegetable nectars, and he 
 feeds on the bee. Lives either in the air or in the 
 perfumed pavilion of the fairest and sweetest flowers. 
 Think what tents the hollyhocks and the great lilies 
 spread for him ! And wherever he travels a band of 
 music goes with him, for this hum which wanders 
 by us is doubtless to him a vast and inspiring strain 
 of melody. J — I thought all this, while the Scarabee 
 supposed I was studying the minute characters of the 
 enigmatical specimen. 
 
 — I know what I consider your pediculus melittce, 
 1 said at length. 
 
 Do you think it really the larva of meloe f 
 
 — Oh, I don't know much about that, but I think 
 he is the best cared for, on the whole, of any animal 
 that I know of; and if I wasn't a man I believe I 
 had rather be that little sybarite than anything that 
 feasts at the board of nature. 
 
78 THE POET AT THE BKEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 — The question is, whether he is the larva of mdoe, 
 — the Scarabee said, as if he had not heard a word 
 of what I had just been saying. — If I live a few years 
 longer it shall be settled, sir; and if my epitaph can 
 say honestly that I settled it, I shall be willing to 
 trust my posthumous fame to that achievement. 
 
 I said good morning to the specialist, and went off 
 feeling not only kindly, but respectfully towards him. 
 He is an enthusiast, at any rate, as " earnest " a man 
 as any philanthropic reformer who, having passed his 
 life in worrying people out of their misdoings into 
 good behavior, comes at last to a state in which he is 
 never contented except when he is making somebody 
 uncomfortable. He does certainly know one thing 
 well, very likely better than anybody in the world. 
 
 I find myself somewhat singularly placed at our 
 table between a minute philosopher who has concen- 
 trated all his faculties on a single subject, and my 
 friend who finds the present universe too restricted 
 for his intelligence. I would not give much to hear 
 what the Scarabee says about the old Master, for he 
 does not pretend to form a judgment of anything but 
 beetles, but I should like to hear what the Master has 
 to say about the Scarabee. I waited after breakfast 
 until he had gone, and then asked the Master what 
 he could make of our dried-up friend. 
 
 — Well, — he said, — I am hospitable enough in 
 my feelings to him and all his tribe. These special- 
 ists are the coral-insects that build up a reef. By 
 and by it wiU be an island, and for aught we know 
 may grow into a continent. But 1 don't want to be a 
 coral-insect myself. I had rather be a voyager that 
 visits all the reefs and islands the creatures bmld, and 
 sails over the seas where they have as yet built up no- 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 79 
 
 tldng. I am a little afraid that science is breeding us 
 down too fast into coral-insects. A man like Newton 
 or Leibnitz or Haller used to paint a picture of out- 
 ward or inward nature witb a free band, and stand 
 back and look at it as a whole and feel like an archan- 
 gel; but nowadays you have a Society, and they come 
 together and make a great mosaic, each man bringing 
 his little bit and sticking it in its place, but so taken 
 up with his petty fragment that he never thinks of 
 looking at the picture the little bits make when they 
 are put together. You can't get any talk out of these 
 specialists away from their own subjects, any more 
 than you can get help from a policeman outside of his 
 own beat. 
 
 — Yes, — said I, — but why shouldn't we always 
 set a man talking about the thing he knows best? 
 
 — No doubt, no doubt, if you meet him once; but 
 what are you going to do with him if you meet him 
 every day? I travel with a man and we want to 
 make change very often in paying bills. But every 
 time I ask him to change a pistareen, or give me two 
 fo'pencehappennies for a ninepence, or help me to 
 make out two and thrippence (mark the old Master's 
 archaisms about the currency), what does the fellow 
 do but put his hand in his pocket and pull out an old 
 Roman coin; I have no change, says he, but this as- 
 sarion of Diocletian. Mighty deal of good that 'U do 
 me! 
 
 — It isn't quite so handy as a few specimens of 
 the modern currency would be, but you can pump him 
 on numismatics. 
 
 — To be sure, to be sure. I 've pumped a thousand 
 men of all they could teach me, or at least all I could 
 learn from 'em; and if it comes to that, I never saw 
 
80 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 the man that couldn't teach me something. I can 
 get along with everybody in his place, though I think 
 the place of some of my friends is over there among 
 the feeble-minded pupils, and I don't believe there 's 
 one of them I could n't go to school to for half an 
 hour and be the wiser for it. But people you talk 
 with every day have got to have feeders for their 
 minds, as much as the stream that turns a mill-wheel 
 has. It isn't one little rUl that 's going to keep the 
 float-boards turning roimd. Take a dozen of the 
 brightest men you can find in the brightest city, wher- 
 ever that may be, — perhaps you and I think we know, 
 — and let 'em come together once a month, and you 'U 
 find out in the course of a year or two the ones that 
 have feeders from all the hillsides. Your common 
 talkers, that exchange the gossip of the day, have no 
 wheel in particular to turn, and the wash of the rain 
 as it runs down the street is enough for them. 
 
 — Do you mean you can always see the sources 
 from which a man fills his mind, — his feeders, as you 
 call them? 
 
 — I don't go quite so far as that, — the Master 
 said. — I 've seen men whose minds were always over- 
 flowing, and yet they didn't read much nor go much 
 into the world. Sometimes you 'U find a bit of a 
 pond-hole in a pasture, and you 'U plimge your walk- 
 ing-stick into it and think you are going to touch bot- 
 tom. But you find you are mistaken. Some of these 
 little stagnant pond-holes are a good deal deeper than 
 you think; you may tie a stone to a bed-cord and not 
 get soundings in some of 'em. The country boys will 
 teU you they have no bottom, but that only means 
 that they are mighty deep ; and so a good many stag- 
 jiant, stupid-seeming people are a great deal deeper 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 81 
 
 than the length of your intellectual walking-stick, I 
 can tell you. There are hidden springs that keep the 
 little pond-holes full when the mountain brooks are all 
 dried up. You poets ought to know that. 
 
 — I can't help thinking you are more tolerant to- 
 wards the specialists than I thought at first, by the 
 way you seemed to look at our dried-up neighbor and 
 his small pursuits. 
 
 — I don't like the word tolerant, — the Master 
 said. — As long as the Lord can tolerate me I think 
 I can stand my fellow-creatures. Philosophically, I 
 love 'em all; empirically, I don't think I am very fond 
 of all of 'em. It depends on how you look at a man 
 or a woman. Come here. Youngster, will you? — 
 lie said to That Boy. 
 
 The Boy was trying to catch a blue-bottle to add to 
 his collection, and was indisposed to give up the chase ; 
 but he presently saw that the Master had taken out a 
 small coin and laid it on the table, and felt himself 
 drawn in that direction. 
 
 Read that, — said the Master. 
 
 U-n-i-ni — United States of America 6 cents. 
 
 The Master turned the coin over. Now read that. 
 
 In God is our t-r-u-s-t — trust. 1869. 
 
 — Is that the same piece of money as the other 
 one? 
 
 — There ain't any other one, — said the Boy, — 
 there ain't but one, but it 's got two sides to it with 
 different reading. 
 
 — That 's it, that 's it, — said the Master, — two 
 sides to everybody, as there are to that piece of 
 money. I 've seen an old woman that wouldn't fetch 
 five cents if you should put her up for sale at public 
 auction; and yet come to read the other side of her, 
 
82 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 she had a trust in God Almighty that was like the 
 bow anchor of a three-decker. It 's faith, in some- 
 thing and enthusiasm for something that makes a life 
 worth looking at. I don't think your ant-eating spe- 
 cialist, with his sharp nose and pin-head eyes, is the 
 best erery-day companion; but any man who knows 
 one thing well is worth listening to for once ; and if 
 you are of the large-brained variety of the race, and 
 want to fill out your programme of the Order of 
 Things in a systematic and exhaustive way, and get 
 aU the half -notes and flats and sharps of humanity 
 into your scale, you 'd a great deal better shut your 
 front door and open your two side ones when you 
 come across a fellow that has made a real business of 
 doing anything. 
 
 — That Boy stood aU this time looking hard at the 
 five-cent piece. 
 
 — Take it, — said the Master, with a good-natured 
 smile. 
 
 — The Boy made a snatch at it and was off for the 
 purpose of investing it. 
 
 — A child naturally snaps at a thing as a dog does 
 at his meat, — said the Master. — If you think of it, 
 we 've all been quadrupeds. A child that can only 
 crawl has aU the instincts of a four-footed beast. It 
 carries things in its mouth just as cats and dogs do. 
 I 've seen the little brutes do it over and over again. 
 I suppose a good many children would stay quadru- 
 peds all their lives, if they did n't learn the trick of 
 walking on their hind legs from seeing all the grown 
 people walking in that way. 
 
 — Do you accept Mr. Darwin's notions about the 
 origin of the race? — said I. 
 
 The Master looked at me with that twinkle in his 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 83 
 
 eye wlucli means that he is going to parry a ques- 
 tion. 
 
 — Better stick to Blair's Chronology; that settles 
 it. Adam and Eve, created Friday, October 28th, b. 
 c. 4004. You 've been in a ship for a good while, 
 and here comes Mr. Darwin on deck with an armful 
 of sticks and says, "Let 's build a raft, and trust our- 
 selves to that." 
 
 If your ship springs a leak, what would you do? 
 
 He looked me straight in the eyes for about half a 
 minute. — If I heard the pumps going, I 'd look and 
 see whether they were gaining on the leak or not. If 
 they were gaining I 'd stay where I was. — Go and 
 find out what 's the matter with that young woman. 
 
 I had noticed that the Young Girl — the story- 
 writer, our Scheherezade, as I called her — looked as 
 if she had been crying or lying awake half the night. 
 I found on asking her, — for she is an honest little 
 body and is disposed to be confidential with me for 
 some reason or other, — that she had been doing both. 
 
 — And what was the matter now, I questioned her 
 in a semi-paternal kind of way, as soon as I got a 
 chance for a few quiet words with her. 
 
 She was engaged to write a serial story, it seems, 
 and had only got as far as the second number, and 
 some critic had been jumping upon it, she said, and 
 grinding his heel into it, tiU she could n't bear to look 
 at it. He said she did not write half so well as half 
 a dozen other young women. She did n't write half 
 so well as she used to write herself. She hadn't any 
 characters and she hadn't any incidents. Then he 
 went to work to show how her story was coming out, 
 — trying to anticipate everything she could make of 
 it, so that her readers should have nothing to look for- 
 
84 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 ward to, and he should have credit for his sagacity in 
 guessing, which was nothing so very wonderful, she 
 seemed to think. Things she had merely hinted and 
 left the reader to infer, he told right out in the blimt- 
 est and coarsest way. It had taken all the life out of 
 her, she said. It was just as if at a dinner-party one 
 of the guests should take a spoonful of soup and get 
 up and say to the company, "Poor stuff, poor stuff; 
 you won't get anything better; let's go somewhere 
 else where things are fit to eat." 
 
 What do you read such things for, my dear? — 
 said I. 
 
 The film glistened in her eyes at the strange sound 
 of those two soft words ; she had not heard such very 
 often, I am afraid. 
 
 — I know I am a foolish creature to read them, — 
 she answered, — but I can't help it; somebody al- 
 ways sends me everything that will make me wretched 
 to read, and so I sit down and read it, and ache all 
 over for my pains, and lie awake all night. 
 
 — She smiled faintly as she said this, for she saw 
 the sub-ridiculous side of it, but the film glittered still 
 in her eyes. There are a good many real miseries in 
 life that we cannot help smiling at, but they are the 
 smiles that make wrinkles and not dimples. " Some- 
 body always sends her everything that will make her 
 wretched." Who can those creatures be who cut out 
 the offensive paragraph and send it anonymously to 
 us, who mail the newspaper which has the article we 
 had much better not have seen, who take care that we 
 shall know everything which can, by any possibility, 
 help to make us discontented with ourselves and a lit- 
 tle less light-hearted than we were before we had been 
 fools enough to open their incendiary packages ? I 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE, 85 
 
 don't like to say it to myself, but I cannot help sus- 
 pecting, ia this instance, the doubtful-looking person- 
 age who sits on my left, beyond the Scarabee. I have 
 some reason to think that he has made advances to the 
 Young Girl which were not favorably received, to 
 state the case in moderate terms, and it may be that 
 he is takiag his revenge in cutting up the poor girl's 
 story. I know this very well, that some personal 
 pique or favoritism is at the bottom of half the praise 
 and dispraise which pretend to be so very ingenuous 
 and discriminating. (Of course I have been thinking 
 aU this time and telling you what I thought.) 
 
 — What you want is encouragement, my dear, — 
 said I, — I know that as well as you. I don't think 
 the fellows that write such criticisms as you tell me 
 of want to correct your faults. I don't mean to say 
 that you can learn nothing from them, because they 
 are not all fools by any means, and they will often 
 pick out your weak points with a malignant sagacity, 
 as a pettifogging lawyer wiU frequently find a real flaw 
 in trying to get at everything he can quibble about. 
 But is there nobody who will praise you generously 
 when you do well, — nobody that will lend you a hand 
 now while you want it, — or must they all wait until 
 you have made yourself a name among strangers, and 
 then all at once find out that you have something in 
 you? 
 
 Oh, — said the girl, and the bright film, gathered 
 too fast for her young eyes to hold much longer, — I 
 ought not to be ungrateful ! I have found the kindest 
 friend in the world. Have you ever heard the Lady 
 — the one that I sit next to at the table — say any- 
 thing about me? 
 
 I have not really made her acquaintance, I said. 
 
86 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 She seems to me a little distant in her manners, and I 
 have respected her pretty evident liking for keeping 
 mostly to herself. 
 
 — Oh, but when you once do know her ! I don't 
 believe I could write stories all the time as I do, if 
 she did n't ask me up to her chamber, and let me read 
 them to her. Do you know, I can make her laugh 
 and cry, reading my poor stories? And sometimes, 
 when I feel as if I had written out all there is in 
 me, and want to lie down and go to sleep and never 
 wake up except in a world where there are no weekly 
 papers, — when everything goes wrong, like a car off 
 the track, — she takes hold and sets me on the rails 
 again all right. 
 
 — How does she go to work to help you? 
 
 — Why, she listens to my stories, to begin with, as 
 if she really liked to hear them. And then you 
 know I am dreadfully troubled now and then with 
 some of my characters, and can't think how to get rid 
 of them. And she 'U say, perhaps. Don't shoot your 
 villain this time, you 've shot three or four already in 
 the last six weeks; let his mare stumble and throw 
 him and break his neck. Or she '11 give me a hiat 
 about some new way for my lover to make a declara- 
 tion. She must have had a good many offers, it 's my 
 belief, for she has told me a dozen different ways for 
 me to use in my stories. And whenever I read a 
 story to her, she always laughs and cries in the right 
 places ; and that 's such a comfort, for there are some 
 people that think everything pitiable is so funny, and 
 wiU burst out laughing when poor Eip Van Winkle 
 — you've seen Mr. Jefferson, haven't you? — is 
 breaking your heart for you if you have one. Some- 
 times she takes a poem I have written and reads it to 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 87 
 
 me SO beautifully, that I fall in love with it, and some- 
 times she sets my verses to music and sings them to me. 
 
 — You have a laugh together sometimes, do you? 
 
 — Indeed we do. I write for what they caU the 
 "Comic Department " of the paper now and then. If 
 I did not get so tired of story-telling, I suppose I 
 should be gayer than I am; but as it is, we two get a 
 little fun out of my comic pieces. I begin them half- 
 crying sometimes, but after they are done they amuse 
 me. I don't suppose my comic pieces are very laugh- 
 able; at any rate the man who makes a business of 
 writing me down says the last one I wrote is very 
 melancholy reading, and that if it was only a little 
 better perhaps some bereaved person might pick out 
 a line or two that would do to put on a gravestone. 
 
 — Well, that is hard, I must confess. Do let me 
 see those lines which excite such sad emotions. 
 
 — Wni you read them very good-naturedly ? If you 
 will, I will get the paper that has "Aunt Tabitha." 
 That is the one the fault-finder said produced such 
 deep depression of feeling. It was written for the 
 " Comic Department. ' ' Perhaps it will make you cry, 
 but it was n't meant to. 
 
 — I wiU finish my report this time with our Sche- 
 herezade's poem, hoping that any critic who deals with 
 it will treat it with the courtesy due to aU a young 
 lady's literary efforts. 
 
 AUNT TABITHA. 
 
 Whatever I do, and whatever I say, 
 Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the way ; 
 When she was a girl (forty summers ago) 
 Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so. 
 
88 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 Dear aunt ! If I only would take her advice ! 
 But I like my own way, and I find it so nice ! 
 And besides, I forget half the things I am told ; 
 But they all will come back to me — when I am old. 
 
 If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt. 
 He may chance to look in as I chance to look out ; 
 She would never endure an impertinent stare, — 
 It is horrid, she says, and I mustn't sit there. 
 
 A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own. 
 But it is n't quite safe to be walking alone ; 
 So I take a lad's arm, —just for safety, you know, — 
 But Aunt Tabitha tells me they didn't do so. 
 
 How wicked we are, and how good they were then ! 
 They kept at arm's length those detestable men ; 
 What an era of virtue she lived in ! — But stay — 
 Were the men all such rogues in Auttt Tabitha's day ? 
 
 If the men were so wicked, I 'H ask my papa 
 
 How he dared to propose to my darling mamma ; 
 
 Was he like the rest of them ? Goodness ! Who knows ? 
 
 And what shall I say if a wretch should propose ? 
 
 I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, 
 What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been ! 
 And her grand-aunt — it scares me — how shockingly sad 
 That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad ! 
 
 A martyr will save us, and nothing else can ; 
 
 Let me perish — to rescue some wretched young man ! 
 
 Though when to the altar a victim I go. 
 
 Aunt Tabitha '11 tell me she never did so I 
 
 IV. 
 
 The old Master has developed one quality of late for 
 whicli I am afraid I hardly gave him credit. He has 
 turned out to be an excellent listener. 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 89 
 
 — I love to talk, — lie said, — as a goose loves to 
 swim. Sometimes I think it is because I am a goose. 
 For I never talked much at any one time ia my life 
 without saying something or other I was sorry for. 
 
 — You too ! — said I. — Now that is very odd, for 
 it is an experience /have habitually. I thought you 
 were rather too much of a philosopher to trouble your- 
 self about such small matters as to whether you had 
 said just what you meant to or not; especially as you 
 know that the person you talk to does not remember a 
 word of what you said the next morning, but is think- 
 ing, it is much more likely, of what she said, or how 
 her new dress looked, or some other body's new dress 
 which made hers look as if it had been patched to- 
 gether from the leaves of last November. That 's 
 what she 's probably thinking about. 
 
 — She 1 — said the Master, with a look which it 
 would take at least half a page to explain to the entire 
 satisfaction of thoughtful readers of both sexes. 
 
 — I paid the respect due to that most significant 
 monosyllable, which, as the old Kabbi spoke it, with 
 its targum of tone and expression, was not to be an- 
 swered flippantly, but soberly, advisedly, and after a 
 pause long enough for it to imfold its meaning in the 
 listener's mind. For there are short single words (all 
 the world remembers Rachel's Helas /) which are like 
 those Japanese toys that look like nothing of any sig- 
 nificance as you throw them on the water, but which 
 after a little time open out into various strange and 
 unexpected figures, and then you find that each little 
 shred had a complicated story to tell of itseK. 
 
 — Yes, — said I, at the close of this silent interval, 
 during which the monosyllable had been opening out 
 its meanings, — STie. When I think of talking, it is 
 
90 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 of course with a woman. For talking at its best 
 being an inspiration, it wants a corresponding divine 
 quality of receptiveness ; and where will you find this 
 but in woman? 
 
 The Master laughed a pleasant little laugh, — not 
 a harsh, sarcastic one, but playful, and tempered by 
 so kind a look that it seemed as if every wrinkled line 
 about his old eyes repeated, "God bless you," as the 
 tracings on the walls of the Alhambra repeat a sen- 
 tence of the Koran. 
 
 I said nothing, but looked the question, What are 
 you laughing at? 
 
 — Why, I laughed because I could n't help saying 
 to myself that a woman whose mind was taken up 
 with thinking how she looked, and how her pretty 
 neighbor looked, wouldn't have a great deal of 
 thought to spare for aU your fine discourse. 
 
 — Come, now, — said I, — a man who contradicts 
 himself in the course of two minutes must have a screw 
 loose in his mental machinery. I never feel afraid 
 that such a thing can happen to me, though it happens 
 often enough when I turn a thought over suddenly, as 
 you did that five-cent piece the other day, that it reads 
 differently on its two sides. What I meant to say is 
 something like this. A woman, notwithstanding she 
 is the best of listeners, knows her business, and it is a 
 woman's business to please. I don't say that it is not 
 her business to vote, but I do say that a woman who 
 does not please is a false note in the harmonies of na- 
 ture. She may not have youth, or beauty, or even 
 manner; but she must have something in her voice or 
 expression, or both, which it makes you feel better 
 disposed towards your race to look at or listen to. 
 She knows that as well as we do; and her first ques- 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 91 
 
 tion after you have been talking your soul into her 
 consciousness is, Did /please? A woman never for- 
 gets her sex. She would rather talk with a man than 
 an angel, any day. 
 
 — This frightful speech of mine reached the ear of 
 our Scheherezade, who said that it was perfectly 
 shocking and that I deserved to be shown up as the 
 outlaw in one of her bandit stories. 
 
 Hush, my dear, — said the Lady, — you will have 
 to bring John Milton into your story with our friend 
 there, if you punish everybody who says naughty 
 things like that. Send the little boy up to my cham- 
 ber for Paradise Lost, if you please. He will find it 
 lying on my table. The little old volume, — he can't 
 mistake it. 
 
 So the girl called That Boy round and gave him the 
 message; I don't know why she should give it, but 
 she did, and the Lady helped her out with a word or 
 two. 
 
 The little volimie — its cover protected with soft 
 white leather from a long kid glove, evidently sug- 
 gesting the brilliant assemblies of the days when 
 friends and fortune smiled — came presently and the 
 Lady opened it. — You may read that, if you like, — 
 she said, — it may show you that our friend is to be 
 pilloried in good company. 
 
 The Young Girl ran her eye along the passage the 
 Lady pointed out, blushed, laughed, and slapped the 
 book down as though she would have liked to box the 
 ears of Mr. John Milton, if he had been a contempo- 
 rary and fellow-contributor to the "Weekly Bucket." 
 — I won't touch the thing, — she said. — He was a 
 horrid man to talk so; and he had as many wives 
 as Blue-Beard. 
 
92 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 — Fair play, — said the Master. — Bring me the 
 book, my little fractional superfluity, — I mean you, 
 my nursling, — my boy, i£ that suits your small High- 
 ness better. 
 
 The Boy brought the book. 
 
 The old Master, not unfamiliar with the great epic, 
 opened pretty nearly to the place, and very soon found 
 the passage. He read aloud with grand scholastic 
 intonation and in a deep voice that silenced the table 
 as if a prophet had just uttered Thus saith the 
 Lord : — 
 
 " So spake our sire, and by his countenance seemed 
 Entering on studious thoughts abstruse ; which Eve 
 Perceiving " — 
 
 went to water her geraniums, to make a short story 
 of it, and left the two "conversationists," to wit, the 
 angel Eaphael and the gentleman, — there was but 
 one gentleman in society then, you know, — to talk it 
 out. 
 
 " Yet went she not, as not with such discourse 
 Delighted, or not capable her ear 
 Of what was high ; such pleasure she reserved, 
 Adam relating, she sole auditress ; 
 Her husband the relater she preferred 
 Before the angel, and of him to ask 
 Chose rather ; he she knew would intermix 
 Grateful digressions, and solve high dispute 
 With conjugal caresses : from his lips 
 Not words alone pleased her." 
 
 Everybody laughed, except the Capitalist, who was 
 a little hard of hearing, and the Scarabee, whose life 
 was too earnest for demonstrations of that kind. He 
 had his eyes fixed on the volume, however, with eager 
 interest. 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 93 
 
 — The p'int 's carried, — said the Member of the 
 Haouse. 
 
 Will you let me look at that book a single minute? 
 — said the Scarabee. I passed it to him, wondering 
 what in the world he wanted of Paradise Lost. 
 
 D&rmestes lardarius, — he said, pointing to a place 
 where the edge of one side of the outer cover had been 
 slightly tasted by some insect. — Very fond of leather 
 while they 're in the larva state. 
 
 — Damage the goods as bad as mice, — said the 
 Salesman. 
 
 — Eat half the binding off Folio 67, — said the 
 Register of Deeds. Something did, anyhow, and it 
 was n't mice. Found the shelf covered with little 
 hairy cases belonging to something or other that had 
 no business there. 
 
 Skins of the Dermestes lardarius, — said the Scar- 
 abee, — you can always tell them by those brown 
 hairy coats. That 's the name to give them. 
 
 — What good does it do to give 'em a name after 
 they 've eat the binding off my folios? — asked the 
 Register of Deeds. 
 
 The Scarabee had too much respect for science to 
 answer such a question as that ; and the book, having 
 served its purposes, was passed back to the Lady. 
 
 I return to the previous question, — said I, — if our 
 friend the Member of the House of Representatives 
 will allow me to borrow the phrase. Womanly women 
 are very kindly critics, except to themselves and now 
 and then to their own sex. The less there is of sex 
 about a woman, the more she is to be dreaded. But 
 take a real woman at her best moment, — well dressed 
 enough to be pleased with herself, not so resplendent 
 as to be a show and a sensation, with those varied 
 
94 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 outside influences which set vibrating the harmonic 
 notes of her nature stirring in the air about her, — 
 and what has social life to compare with one of those 
 vital interchanges of thought and feeling with her that 
 make an hour memorable? What can equal her tact, 
 her delicacy, her subtlety of apprehension, her quick- 
 ness to feel the changes of temperature as the warm 
 and cool currents of talk blow by turns? At one mo- 
 ment she is microscopically intellectual, critical, scru- 
 pulous in judgment as an analyst's balance, and the 
 next as sympathetic as the open rose that sweetens 
 the wind from whatever quarter it finds its way to her 
 bosom. It is in the hospitable soul of a woman that 
 a man forgets he is a stranger, and so becomes natural 
 and truthful, at the same time that he is mesmerized 
 by all those divine differences which make her a mys- 
 tery and a bewilderment to — 
 
 If you fire your popgun at me, you little chimpan- 
 zee, I will stick a pin right through the middle of you 
 and put you into one of this gentleman's beetle-cases ! 
 
 I caught the imp that time, but what started him 
 was more than I could guess. It is rather hard that 
 this spoiled child should spoil such a sentence as that 
 was going to be; but the wind shifted all at once, and 
 the talk had to come round on another tack, or at 
 least fall off a point or two from its course. 
 
 — I 'U teU you who I think are the best talkers in 
 aU probability, — said I to the Master, who, as I men- 
 tioned, was developing interesting talent as a listener, 
 — poets who never write verses. And there are a 
 good many more of these than it would seem at first 
 sight. I think you may say every yoimg lover is a 
 poet, to begin with. I don't mean either that all 
 young lovers are good talkers, — they have an elo- 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 95 
 
 quence all their own when they are with the beloved 
 object, no doubt, emphasized after the fashion the 
 solemn bard of Paradise refers to with such delicious 
 humor in the passage we just heard, — but a little 
 talk goes a good way in most of these cooing matches, 
 and it wouldn't do to report them too literally. 
 What I mean is, that a man with the gift of musical 
 and impassioned phrase (and love often lends that to a 
 young person for a while), who "wreaks" it, to bor- 
 row Byron's word, on conversation as the natural out- 
 let of his sensibilities and spiritual activities, is likely 
 to talk better than the poet, who plays on the instru- 
 ment of verse. A great pianist or violinist is rarely 
 a great singer. To write a poem is to expend the 
 vital force which would have made one brilliant for 
 an hour or two, and to expend it on an instrument 
 with more pipes, reeds, keys, stops, and pedals than 
 the Great Organ that shakes New England every time 
 it is played in full blast. 
 
 Do you mean that it is hard work to write a poem? 
 — said the old Master. — I had an idea that a poem 
 wrote itself, as it were, very often; that it came by 
 influx, without voluntary effort; indeed, you have 
 spoken of it as an inspiration rather than a result of 
 volition. 
 
 — Did you ever see a great ballet-dancer? — I 
 asked him. 
 
 — I have seen Taglioni, — he answered. — She used 
 to take her steps rather prettily. I have seen the 
 woman that danced the capstone on to Bunker Hill 
 Monument, as Orpheus moved the rocks by music, — 
 the Elssler woman, — Fanny Elssler. She would 
 dance you a rigadoon or cut a pigeon's wing for you 
 very respectably. 
 
96 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE, 
 
 (Confound this old college book-worm, — he has 
 seen everything!) 
 
 "Well, did these two ladies, dance as if it was hard 
 work to them? 
 
 — Why no, I should say they danced as if they 
 liked it and couldn't help dancing; they looked as iE 
 they felt so "corky" it was hard to keep them down. 
 
 — And yet they had been through such work to get 
 their limbs strong and flexible and obedient, that a 
 cart-horse lives an easy life compared to theirs while 
 they were in training. 
 
 — The Master cut in just here — I had sprung the 
 trap of a reminiscence. 
 
 — When I was a boy, — he said, — some of the 
 mothers in our small town, who meant that their chil- 
 dren should know what was what as well as other 
 people's children, laid their heads together and got a 
 dancing-master to come out from the city and give in- 
 struction at a few dollars a quarter to the young folks 
 of condition in the village. Some of their husbands 
 were ministers and some were deacons, but the mo- 
 thers knew what they were about, and they did n't see 
 any reason why ministers' and deacons' wives' chil- 
 dren should n't have as easy manners as the sons and 
 daughters of Belial. So, as I tell you, they got a 
 dancing-master to come out to our place, — a man of 
 good repute, a most respectable man, — madam (to the 
 Landlady), you must remember the worthy old citizen, 
 in his advanced age, going about the streets, a most 
 gentlemanly bundle of infirmities, — only he always 
 cocked his hat a little too much on one side, as they 
 do here and there along the Connecticut River, and 
 sometimes on our city sidewalks, when they 've got a 
 new beaver; they got him, I say, to give us boys and 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 97 
 
 girls lessons in dancing and deportment. He was as 
 gray and as lively as a squirrel, as I remember him, 
 and used to spring up in the air and "cross his feet," 
 as we called it, three times before he came down. 
 Well, at the end of each term there was what they 
 called an "exhibition ball," in which the scholars 
 danced cotillons and country-dances; also something 
 called a "gavotte," and I think one or more walked a 
 minuet. But all this is not what I wanted to say. 
 At this exhibition ball he used to bring out a number 
 of hoops wreathed with roses, of the perennial kind, 
 by the aid of which a number of amazingly compli- 
 cated and startling evolutions were exhibited; and 
 also his two daughters, who figured largely in these 
 evolutions, and whose wonderful performances to us, 
 who had not seen Miss Taglioni or Miss Elssler, were 
 something quite bewildering, in fact, siirpassing the 
 natural possibilities of human beings. Their extra- 
 ordinary powers were, however, accounted for by the 
 following explanation, which was accepted in the 
 school as entirely satisfactory. A certain little bone 
 In the ankles of each of these young girls had been 
 broken intentionally, secundum artem, at a very early 
 age, and thus they had been fitted to accomplish these 
 surprising feats which threw the achievements of the 
 children who were left in the condition of the natural 
 man into ignominious shadow. 
 
 — Thank you, — said I, — you have helped out my 
 illustration so as to make it better than I expected. 
 Let me begin again. Every poem that is worthy of 
 the name, no matter how easily it seems to be written, 
 represents a great amount of vital force expended at 
 some time or other. When you find a beach strewed 
 with the shells and other spoils that belonged once to 
 
98 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 the deep sea, you know the tide has been there, and 
 that the winds and waves have wrestled over its naked 
 sands. And so, if I find a poem stranded in my soul 
 and have nothing to do but seize it as a wrecker car- 
 ries off the treasure he finds cast ashore, I know I 
 have paid at some time for that poem with some in- 
 ward commotion, were it only an excess of enjoyment, 
 which has used up just so much of my vital capital. 
 But besides all the impressions that furnished the 
 stuff of the poem, there has been hard work to get the 
 management of that wonderful instrument I spoke of, 
 — the great organ, language. An artist who works 
 in marble or colors has them all to himself and his 
 tribe, but the man who moulds his thought in verse 
 has to employ the materials vulgarized by everybody's 
 use, and glorify them by his handling. I don't know 
 that you must break any bones in a poet's mechanism 
 before his thought can dance in rhythm, but read your 
 Milton and see what training, what patient labor, it 
 took before he could shape our common speech into 
 his majestic harmonies. 
 
 It is rather singular, but the same kind of thing has 
 happened to me not very rarely before, as I suppose it 
 has to most persons, that just when I happened to be 
 thinking about poets and their conditions, this very 
 morning, I saw a paragraph or two from a foreign 
 paper which is apt to be sharp, if not cynical, relating 
 to the same matter. I can't help it; I want to have 
 my talk about it, and if I say the same things that 
 writer did, somebody else can have the satisfaction of 
 saying I stole them all. 
 
 [I thought the person whom I have called hypothet- 
 ically the Man of Letters changed color a little and 
 betrayed a certain awkward consciousness that some 
 
THE POET AT THE BRE A KFAST-TABLE. 99 
 
 of US were looking at him or thinking of him; but 
 I am a little suspicious about him and may do him 
 wrong.] 
 
 That poets are treated as privileged persons by 
 their admirers and the educated public can hardly be 
 disputed. That they consider themselves so there is 
 no doubt whatever. On the whole, I do not know so 
 easy a way of shirking all the civic and social and do- 
 mestic duties, as to settle it in one's mind that one is 
 a poet. I have, therefore, taken great pains to ad- 
 vise other persons laboring under the impression that 
 they were gifted beings, destined to soar in the atmos- 
 phere of song above the vulgar realities of earth, not 
 to neglect any homely duty under the influence of that 
 impression. The number of these persons is so great 
 that if they were suffered to indulge their prejudice 
 against every-day duties and labors, it would be a 
 serious loss to the productive industry of the country. 
 My skirts are clear (so far as other people are con- 
 cerned) of countenancing that form of intellectual 
 opium-eating in which rhyme takes the place of the 
 narcotic. But what are you going to do when you 
 find John Keats an apprentice to a surgeon or apoth- 
 ecary? Isn't it rather better to get another boy to 
 sweep out the shop and shake out the powders and stir 
 up the mixtures, and leave him undisturbed to write 
 his Ode on a Grecian Urn or to a Nightingale? Oh 
 yes, the critic I have referred to would say, if he is 
 John Keats ; but not if he is of a much lower grade, 
 even though he be genuine, what there is of him. But 
 the trouble is, the sensitive persons who belong to the 
 lower grades of the poetical hierarchy do not know 
 their own poetical limitations, while they do feel a 
 natural unfitness and disinclination for many pursuits 
 
100 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 which young persons of the average balance of facili- 
 ties take to pleasantly enough. What is forgotten is 
 this, that every real poet, even of the humblest grade, 
 is an artist. Now I venture to say that any painter 
 or sculptor of real genius, though he may do nothing 
 more than paiat flowers and fruit, or carve cameos, is 
 considered a privileged person. It is recognized per- 
 fectly that to get his best work he must be insured the 
 freedom from disturbances which the creative power 
 absolutely demands, more absolutely perhaps in these 
 slighter artists than in the great masters. His nerves 
 must be steady for him to finish a rose-leaf or the 
 fold of a nymph's drapery in his best manner; and 
 they will be unsteadied if he has to perform the hon- 
 est drudgery which another can do for him quite as 
 weU. And it is just so with the poet, though he were 
 only finishing an epigram; you must no more meddle 
 roughly with him than you would shake a bottle of 
 Chambertin and expect the "sunset glow" to redden 
 your glass unclouded. On the other hand, it may be 
 said that poetry is not an article of prime necessity, 
 and potatoes are. There is a disposition in many per- 
 sons just now to deny the poet his benefit of clergy, 
 and to hold him no better than other people. Per- 
 haps he is not, perhaps he is not so good, half the 
 time; but he is a luxury, and if you want him you 
 must pay for him, by not trying to make a drudge of 
 him while he is all his lifetime struggling with the 
 chiUs and heats of his artistic intermittent fever. 
 
 There may have been some lesser interruptions dur- 
 ing the talk I have reported as if it was a set speech, 
 but this was the drift of what I said and should have 
 said if the other man, in the Keview I referred to, 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 101 
 
 had not seen fit to meddle with the subject, as some 
 fellow always does, just about the time when I am 
 going to say something about it. The old Master lis- 
 tened beautifully, except for cutting in once, as I told 
 you he did. But now he had held ia as long as it was 
 in his nature to contaia himself, and must have his 
 say or go off in an apoplexy, or explode in some way. 
 — I think you 're right about the poets, — he said. 
 — They are to common folks what repeaters are to 
 ordinary watches. They carry music in their iaside 
 arrangements, but they want to be handled carefully 
 or you put them out of order. And perhaps you 
 must n't expect them to be quite as good timekeepers 
 as the professional chronometer watches that make a 
 specialty of beiag exact within a few seconds a month. 
 They think too much of themselves. So does every- 
 body that considers himself as having a right to fall 
 back on what he calls his idiosyncrasy. Yet a man 
 has such a right, and it is no easy thing to adjust 
 the private claim to the fair public demand on him. 
 Suppose you are subject to tic douloureux, for in- 
 stance. Every now and then a tiger that nobody can 
 see catches one side of your face between his jaws and 
 holds on till he is tired and lets go. Some concession 
 must be made to you on that score, as everybody can 
 see. It is fair to give you a seat that is not in the 
 draught, and your friends ought not to find fault with 
 you if you do not care to join a party that is going on 
 a sleigh-ride. Now take a poet like Cowper. He 
 had a mental neuralgia, a great deal worse in many 
 respects than tic douloureux confined to the face. It 
 was well that he was sheltered and relieved, by the 
 cares of kind friends, especially those good women, 
 from as, many of the burdens of life as they could lift 
 
102 THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 
 
 off from him. I am fair to the poets, — don't you 
 agree that I am? 
 
 Why, yes, — I said, — you have stated the case 
 fairly enough, a good deal as I should have put it my- 
 self. 
 
 — Now, then, — the Master continued, — I '11 tell 
 you what is necessary to all these artistic idiosyncra- 
 sies to bring them into good square human relations 
 outside of the special province where their ways differ 
 from those of other people. I am going to illustrate 
 what I mean by a comparison. I don't know, by the 
 way, but you would be disposed to think and perhaps 
 call me a wine-bibber on the strength of the freedom 
 with which I deal with that fluid for the purposes of 
 illustration. But I make mighty little use of it, ex- 
 cept as it furnishes me an image now and then, as it 
 did, for that matter, to the Disciples and their Mas- 
 ter. In my younger days they used to bring up the 
 famous old wines, the White -top, the Juno, the 
 Eclipse, the Essex Junior, and the rest, in their old 
 cobwebbed, dusty bottles. The resurrection of one of 
 these old sepulchred dignitaries had something of so- 
 lemnity about it; it was like the disinterment of a 
 king; the bringing to light of the Royal Martyr King 
 Charles I., for instance, that Sir Henry Halford gave 
 such an interesting account of. And the bottle seemed 
 to inspire a personal respect ; it was wrapped in a nap- 
 kin and borne tenderly and reverently roxmd to the 
 guests, and sometimes a dead silence went before the 
 first gush of its amber flood, and 
 
 " The boldest held his breath 
 For a time." 
 
 But nowadays the precious juice of a long-dead vintage 
 is transferred carefully into a cut-glass decanter, and 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 103 
 
 stands side by side with the sherry from a corner gro- 
 cery, which looks just as bright and apparently thinks 
 just as well of itself. The old historic Madeiras, 
 which have warmed the periods of our famous rhet- 
 oricians of the past and burned in the impassioned 
 eloquence of our earlier political demigods, have no- 
 thing to mark them externally but a bit of thread, it 
 may be, round the neck of the decanter, or a slip of 
 ribbon, pink on one of them and blue on another. 
 
 Go to a London club, — perhaps I might find 
 something nearer home that would serve my turn, — 
 but go to a London club, and there you wUl see the 
 celebrities all looking alike modern, all decanted off 
 from their historic antecedents and their costume of 
 circumstance into the every -day aspect of the gentle- 
 man of common cultivated society. That is Sir Cceur 
 de Lion Plantagenet in the mutton-chop whiskers and 
 the plain gray suit ; there is the Laureate in a frock- 
 coat like your own, and the leader of the House of 
 Commons in a necktie you do not envy. That is the 
 kind of thing you want to take the nonsense out of 
 you. If you are not decanted off from yourself every 
 few days or weeks, you wiU think it sacrilege to 
 brush a cobweb from your cork by and by. O little 
 fool, that has published a little book full of little 
 poems or other sputtering tokens of an uneasy condi- 
 tion, how I love you for the one soft nerve of special 
 sensibility that runs through your exiguous organism, 
 and the one phosphorescent particle in your unillumi- 
 nated intelligence ! But if you don't leave your spun- 
 sugar confectionery business once in a while, and 
 come out among lusty men, — the bristly, pachyder- 
 matous fellows that hew out the highways for the ma- 
 terial progress of society, and the broad-shouldered. 
 
104 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 out-of-door men that fight for the great prizes of life, 
 — you will come to think that the spun-sugar business 
 is the chief end of man, and begin to feel and look 
 as if you believed yourself as much above common 
 people as that personage of whom Tourgueneff says 
 that "he had the air of his own statue erected by 
 national subscription." 
 
 — The Master paused and fell into a deep thinking 
 fit, as he does sometimes. He had had his own say, 
 it is true, but he had established his character as a 
 listener to my own perfect satisfaction, for I, too, was 
 conscious of having preached with a certain prolixity. 
 
 — I am always troubled when I think of my very 
 limited mathematical capacities. It seems as if every 
 well-organized mind should be able to handle numbers 
 and quantities through their symbols to an indefinite 
 extent; and yet, I am puzzled by what seems to a 
 clever boy with a turn for calculation as plain as 
 coimting his fingers. I don't think any man feels 
 well grounded in knowledge unless he has a good basis 
 of mathematical certainties, and knows how to deal 
 with them and apply them to every branch of know- 
 ledge where they can come in to advantage. 
 
 Our Young Astronomer is known for Ms mathemat- 
 ical ability, and I asked him what he thought was the 
 difficulty in the minds that are weak in that particular 
 direction, while they may be of remarkable force in 
 other provinces of thought, as is notoriously the case 
 with some men of great distinction in science. 
 
 The young man smiled and wrote a few letters and 
 symbols on a piece of paper. — Can you see through 
 that at once? — he said. 
 
 I puzzled over it for some minutes and gave it up. 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKEAST-TABLE. 105 
 
 — He said, as I returned it to him, You have heard 
 military men say that such a person had an eye for 
 country, have n't you? One man will note aU the 
 landmarks, keep the points of compass in his head, 
 observe how the streams run, in short, carry a map in 
 his brain of any region that he has marched or gal- 
 loped through. Another man takes no note of any 
 of these things; always follows somebody else's lead 
 when he can, and gets lost if he is left to himself; a 
 mere owl in daylight. Just so some men have an eye 
 
 for an equation, and would read at sight the one that 
 you puzzled over. It is told of Sir Isaac Newton that 
 he required no demonstration of the propositions ia 
 Euclid's Geometry, but as soon as he had read the 
 enunciation the solution or answer was plaia at once. 
 The power may be cultivated, but I think it is to 
 a great degree a natural gift, as is the eye for color, 
 as is the ear for music. 
 
 — I think I could read equations readily enough, 
 — I said, — if I could only keep my attention fixed 
 on them; and I think I could keep my attention on 
 them if I were imprisoned in a thinking-cell, such as 
 the Creative Intelligence shapes for its studio when at 
 its divinest work. 
 
 The young man's lustrous eyes opened very widely 
 as he asked me to explain what I meant. 
 
 — What is the Creator's divinest work? — I asked. 
 
 — Is there anything more divine than the sun; than 
 a sun with its planets revolving about it, warming 
 them, lighting them, and giving conscious life to the 
 beings that move on them? 
 
 — ^You agree, then, that conscious life is the grand 
 aim and end of all this vast mechanism. "Without life 
 that could feel and enjoy, the splendors and creative 
 
106 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 energy would all be thrown away. You know Har- 
 vey's saying, omnia animalia ex ovo, — aU animals 
 come from an egg. You ought to know it, for the 
 great controversy going on about spontaneous gen- 
 eration has brought it into special prominence lately. 
 WeU, then, the ovum, the egg, is, to speak in human 
 phrase, the Creator's more private and sacred studio, 
 for his magnum opus. Now, look at a hen's egg, 
 which is a convenient one to study, because it is large 
 enough and built solidly enough to look at and handle 
 casUy. That would be the form I would choose for 
 my thinking-cell. Build me an oval with smooth, 
 translucent walls, and put me in the centre of it with 
 Newton's "Principia" or Kant's "Kritik," and I 
 think I shall develop "an eye for an equation," as 
 you call it, and a capacity for an abstraction. 
 
 But do tell me, — said the Astronomer, a little in- 
 credulously, — what there is in that particular form 
 which is going to help you to be a mathematician or 
 a metaphysician? 
 
 — It is n't help I want, it is removing hindrances. 
 I don't want to see anything to draw off my attention. 
 I don't want a cornice, or an angle, or anything but 
 a containing curve. I want diffused light and no 
 single luminous centre to fix my eye, and so distract 
 my mind from its one object of contemplation. The 
 metaphysics of attention have hardly been sounded to 
 their depths. The mere fixing the look on any sin- 
 gle object for a long time may produce very strange 
 effects. Gibbon's weU-known story of the monks of 
 Mount Athos and their contemplative practice is often 
 laughed over, but it has a meaning. They were to 
 shut the door of the cell, recline the beard and chin 
 on the breast, and contemplate the abdominal centre. 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 107 
 
 "At first all will be dark and comfortless; but if you 
 persevere day and night, you will feel an ineffable 
 joy; and no sooner has the soul discovered the place of 
 the heart, than it is involved in a mystic and ethereal 
 light." And Mr. Braid produces absolute anaesthe- 
 sia, so that surgical operations can be performed 
 without suffering to the patient, only by making him 
 fix his eyes and his mind on a single object; and New- 
 ton is said to have said, as you remember, "I keep the 
 subject constantly before me, and wait till the first 
 dawnings open slowly by little and little into a full 
 and clear light." These are different, but certainly 
 very wonderful, instances of what can be done by 
 attention. But now suppose that your mind is in its 
 nature discursive, erratic, subject to electric attrac- 
 tions and repulsions, volage ; it may be impossible 
 for you to compel your attention except by taking 
 away all external disturbances. I think the poets 
 have an advantage and a disadvantage as compared 
 with the steadier-going people. Life is so vivid to 
 the poet, that he is too eager to seize and exhaust 
 its multitudinous impressions. Like Sindbad in the 
 valley of precious stones, he wants to fill his pockets 
 with diamonds, but, lo ! there is a great ruby like a 
 setting sun in its glory, and a sapphire that, like Bry- 
 ant's blue gentian, seems to have dropped from the 
 cerulean walls of heaven, and a nest of pearls that 
 look as if they might be unhatched angel's eggs, and 
 so he hardly knows what to seize, and tries for too 
 many, and comes out of the enchanted valley with 
 more gems than he can carry, and those that he lets 
 fall by the wayside we call his poems. You may 
 change the image a thousand ways to show you how 
 hard it is to make a mathematician or a logician out 
 
108 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 of a poet. He carries the tropics with him wherever 
 he goes ; he is in the true sense filius naturcB, and 
 Nature tempts him, as she tempts a child walking 
 through a garden where all the finest fruits are hang- 
 ing over him and dropping round him, where 
 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon (his) mouth do crush their wine, 
 The nectarine and curious peach, 
 Into (his) hands themselves do reach ; 
 
 and he takes a bite out of the sunny side of this and 
 the other, and, ever stimulated and never satisfied, is 
 hurried through the garden, and, before he knows it, 
 finds himself at an iron gate which opens outward, 
 and leaves the place he knows and loves — 
 
 — For one he will perhaps soon learn to love and 
 know better, — said the Master. — But I can help you 
 out with another comparison, not quite so poetical as 
 yours. Why did not you think of a railway-station, 
 where the cars stop five minutes for refreshments? 
 Is n't that a picture of the poet's hungry and hur- 
 ried feast at the banquet of life? The traveller flings 
 himself on the bewildering miscellany of delicacies 
 spread before him, the various tempting forms of am- 
 brosia and seducing draughts of nectar, with the same 
 eager hurry and restless ardor that you describe in 
 the poet. Dear me! If it wasn't for All aboard! 
 that summons of the deaf conductor which tears one 
 away from his half-finished sponge-cake and coffee, 
 how I, who do not call myself a poet, but only a ques- 
 tioner, should have enjoyed a good long stop — say a 
 couple of thousand years — at this way -station on the 
 g^eat railroad leading to the unknown terminus ! 
 
 — You say you are not a poet, — I said, after a lit- 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 109 
 
 tie pause, in whicli I suppose both of us were thinking 
 where the great railroad would land us after carrying 
 us into the dark tunnel, the farther end of which no 
 man has seen and taken a return train to bring us 
 news about it, — you say you are not a poet, and yet 
 it seems to me you have some of the elements which 
 go to make one. 
 
 — I don't think you mean to flatter me, — the Mas- 
 ter answered, — and, what is more, for I am not 
 afraid to be honest with you, I don't think you do 
 flatter me. I have taken the inventory of my facul- 
 ties as calmly as if I were an appraiser. I have some 
 of the qualities, perhaps I may say many of the qual- 
 ities, that make a man a poet, and yet I am not one. 
 And in the course of a pretty wide experience of men 
 — and women — (the Master sighed, I thought, but 
 perhaps I was mistaken) — I have met a good many 
 poets who were not rhymesters and a good many 
 rhymesters who were not poets. So I am only one of 
 the Voiceless, that I remember one of you singers 
 had some verses about. I think there is a little music 
 in me, but it has not found a voice, and it never will. 
 If I should confess the truth, there is no mere earthly 
 immortality that I envy so much as the poet's. If 
 your name is to live at all, it is so much more to have 
 it live in people's hearts than only in their brains ! I 
 don't know that one's eyes fiU with tears when he 
 thinks of the famous inventor of logarithms, but a 
 song of Bums's or a hymn of Charles Wesley's goes 
 straight to your heart, and you can't help loving both 
 of them, the sinner as well as the saint. The works 
 of other men live, but their personality dies out of 
 their labors ; the poet, who reproduces himself in his 
 creation, as no other artist does or can, goes down to 
 
110 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 posterity with all his personality blended with what- 
 ever is imperishable in his song. We see nothing of 
 the bees that built the honeycomb and stored it with 
 its sweets, but we can trace the veining in the wings 
 of insects that flitted through the forests which are 
 now coal-beds, kept unchanging in the amber that 
 holds them; and so the passion of Sappho, the tender- 
 ness of Simonides, the purity of holy George Herbert, 
 the lofty contemplativeness of James Shirley, are be- 
 fore us to-day as if they were living, in a few tears of 
 amber verse. It seems, when one reads, 
 
 " Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright," 
 or, 
 
 " The glories of our birth and state," 
 
 as if it were not a very difficult matter to gain immor- 
 tality, — such an immortality at least as a perishable 
 language can give. A single lyric is enough, if one 
 can only find in his soul and finish in his intellect one 
 of those jewels fit to sparkle "on the stretched fore- 
 finger of all time." A coin, a ring, a string of verses. 
 These last, and hardly anything else does. Every 
 century is an overloaded ship that must sink at last 
 with most of its cargo. The small portion of its crew 
 that get on board the new vessel which takes them off 
 don't pretend to save a great many of the bulky arti- 
 cles. But they must not and will not leave behind 
 the hereditary jewels of the race; and if you have 
 found and cut a diamond, were it only a spark with a 
 single polished facet, it wiU stand a better chance 
 of being saved from the wreck than anything, no 
 matter what, that wants much room for stowage. 
 
 The pyramids last, it is true, but most of them 
 have forgotten their builders' names. But the ring of 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. Ill 
 
 Thothmes III., who reigned some fourteen hundred 
 years before our era, before Homer sang, before the 
 Argonauts sailed, before Troy was built, is in the 
 possession of Lord Ashbumham, and proclaims the 
 name of the monarch who wore it more than three 
 thousand years ago. The gold coins with the head of 
 Alexander the Great are some of them so fresh one 
 might think they were newer than much of the silver 
 currency we were lately handling. As we have been 
 quoting from the poets this morning, I wiU follow 
 the precedent, and give some lines from an epistle of 
 Pope to Addison after the latter had written, but not 
 yet published, his Dialogue on Medals. Some of 
 these lines have been lingering in my memory for a 
 great many years, but I looked at the original the 
 other day and was so pleased with them that I got 
 them by heart. I think you wiU say they are singu- 
 larly pointed and elegant. 
 
 " Ambition siglied ; she found it vain to trust 
 The faithless column and the crumbling bust ; 
 Huge moles, whose shadows stretched from shore to shore, 
 Their ruins perished, and their place no more ! 
 Convinced, she now contracts her vast design, 
 And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. 
 A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, 
 Beneath her palm here sad Judsea weeps ; 
 Now scantier limits the proud arch confine. 
 And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine ; 
 A small Euphrates through the piece is roUed, 
 And little eagles wave their wings in gold." 
 
 It is the same thing in literature. Write half a 
 dozen folios full of other people's ideas (as all folios 
 are pretty sure to be), and you serve as ballast to the 
 lower shelves of a library, about as like to be dis- 
 
112 THE POET AT THE BEEAKTAST-TABLE. 
 
 txxrbed as the kentledge in the hold of a ship. Wriie 
 a story, or a dozen stories, and your book will be in 
 demand like an oyster while it is freshly opened, and 
 after that — The highways of literature are spread 
 over with the shells of dead novels, each of which has 
 been swallowed at a mouthful by the public, and is 
 done with. But write a volume of poems. No matter 
 if they are all bad but one, if that one is very good. 
 It will carry your name down to posterity like the 
 ring of Thothmes, like the coin of Alexander. I don't 
 suppose one would care a great deal about it a hun- 
 dred or a thousand years after he is dead, but I don't 
 feel quite sure. It seems as if, even in heaven. King 
 David might remember "The Lord is my Shepherd" 
 with a certain twinge of earthly pleasure. But we 
 don't know, we don't know. 
 
 — What in the world can have become of That Boy 
 and his popgun while all this somewhat extended ser- 
 monizing was going on? I don't wonder you ask, be- 
 loved Eeader, and I suppose I must tell you how we 
 got on so long without interruption. Well, the plain 
 truth is, the youngster was contemplating his gastric 
 centre, like the monks of Mount Athos, but in a less 
 happy state of mind than those tranquil recluses, in 
 consequence of indulgence in the heterogeneous assort- 
 ment of luxuries procured with the five-cent piece 
 given him by the kind-hearted old Master. But you 
 need not think I am going to teU you every time his 
 popgun goes off, making a SdaJi of him whenever 
 I want to change the subject. Occasionally he was 
 iU-timed in his artillery practice and ignominiously 
 rebuked, sometimes he was harmlessly playful and 
 nobody minded him, but every now and then he came 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 113 
 
 m SO apropos that I am morally certain he gets a hint 
 from somebody who watches the course of the conver- 
 sation, and means through him to have a hand in it 
 and stop any of us when we are getting prosy. But 
 in consequence of That Boy's indiscretion, we were 
 without a check upon our expansiveness, and ran on 
 in the way you have observed and may be disposed 
 to find fault with. 
 
 One other thing the Master said before we left the 
 table, after our long talk of that day. 
 
 — I have been tempted sometimes, — said he, — 
 to envy the immediate triumphs of the singer. He 
 enjoys all that praise can do for him and at the very 
 moment of exerting his talent. And the singing wo- 
 men ! Once in a while, in the course of my life, I 
 have found myself in the midst of a tulip-bed of full- 
 dressed, handsome women in all their glory, and when 
 some one among them has shaken her gauzy wings, 
 and sat down before the piano, and then, only giving 
 the keys a soft touch now and then to support her 
 voice, has warbled some sweet, sad melody intertwined 
 with the longings or regrets of some tender-hearted 
 poet, it has seemed to me that so to hush the rus- 
 tling of the silks and silence the babble of the buds, 
 as they call the chicks of a new season, and light up 
 the flame of romance in cold hearts, in desolate ones, 
 in old burnt-out ones, — like mine, I was going to say, 
 but I won't, for it isn't so, and you may laugh to 
 hear me say it is n't so, if you like, — was perhaps 
 better than to be remembered a few hundred years 
 by a few perfect stanzas, when your gravestone is 
 standing aslant, and your name is covered over with 
 a lichen as big as a militia colonel's cockade, and 
 
114 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 nobody knows or cares enough about you to scrape it 
 off and set the tipsy old slate-stone upright again. 
 
 — I said nothing in reply to this, for I was thinMag 
 of a sweet singer to whose voice I had listened in its 
 first freshness, and which is now only an echo in my 
 memory. If any reader of the periodical in which 
 these conversations are recorded can remember so far 
 back as the fi.rst year of its publication, he will find 
 among the papers contributed by a friend not yet 
 wholly forgotten a few verses, lively enough in their 
 way, headed "The Boys." The sweet singer was one 
 of this company of college classmates, the constancy 
 of whose friendship deserves a better tribute than the 
 annual offerings, kindly meant, as they are, which 
 for many years have not been wanting at their social 
 gatherings. The small company counts many noted 
 personages on its list, as is well known to those who 
 are interested in such local matters, but it is not 
 known that every fifth man of the whole number now 
 liviag is more or less of a poet, — using that word 
 with a generous breadth of significance. But it 
 should seem that the divine gift it implies is more 
 freely dispensed than some others, for while there are 
 (or were, for one has taken his Last Degree) eight 
 musical quills, there was but one pair of lips which 
 could claim any special consecration to vocal melody. 
 Not that one that should undervalue the half -recitative 
 of doubtful barytones, or the brilliant escapades of 
 slightly unmanageable falsettos, or the concentrated 
 efforts of the proprietors of two or three effective 
 notes, who may be observed lying in wait for them, 
 and coming down on them with all their might, and 
 the look on their countenances of "I too am a singer." 
 But the voice that led all, and that all loved to lis- 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 115 
 
 ten to, the voice that was at once fuU, rich, sweet, pen- 
 etrating, expressive, whose ample overflow drowned 
 all the imperfections and made up for all the short- 
 comings of the others, is silent henceforth f orevermore 
 for all earthly listeners. 
 
 And these were the lines that one of "The Boys," 
 as they have always called themselves for ever so many 
 years, read at the first meeting after the voice which 
 had never failed them was hushed in the stillness of 
 death. 
 
 J. A. 
 
 1871. 
 
 One memory trembles on our lips : 
 
 It throbs in every breast ; 
 In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse, 
 
 The shadow stands confessed. 
 
 O silent voice, that cheered so long 
 
 Ova manhood's marching day, 
 Without thy breath of heavenly song, 
 
 How weary seems the way ! 
 
 Vain every pictured phrase to tell 
 
 Our sorrowing hearts' desire ; 
 The shattered harp, the broken shell, 
 
 The silent unstrung lyre ; 
 
 For youth was round us while he sang ; 
 
 It glowed in every tone ; 
 With bridal chimes the echoes rang. 
 
 And made the past our own. 
 
 O blissful dream ! Our nursery joys 
 
 We know must have an end, 
 But love and friendship's broken toys 
 
 May God's good angels mend ! 
 
116 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 The cheering smile, the voice of mirth 
 
 And laughter's gay surprise 
 That please the children born of earth, 
 
 Why deem that Heaven denies ? 
 
 Methinks in that refulgent sphere 
 
 That knows not sun or moon, 
 An earth-born saint might long to hear 
 
 One verse of " Bonny Doon " ; 
 
 Or walking through the streets of gold 
 
 In Heaven's unclouded light. 
 His lips recall the song of old 
 
 And hum " The sky is bright." 
 
 And can we smile when thou art dead ? 
 
 Ah, brothers, even so ! 
 The rose of summer will be red. 
 
 In spite of winter's snow. 
 
 Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom 
 
 Because thy song is still, 
 Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom 
 
 With grief's untimely chill. 
 
 The sighing wintry winds complain, — 
 The singing bird has flown, — 
 
 Hark ! heard I not that ringing strain, 
 That clear celestial tone ? 
 
 How poor these pallid phrases seem. 
 How weak this tinkling line. 
 
 As warbles through my waking dream 
 That angel voice of thine ! 
 
 Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay ; 
 
 It falters on my tongue ; 
 For all we vainly strive to say. 
 
 Thou shouldst thyself have sung ! 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 117 
 
 I fear that I have done injustice in my conversation 
 and my report of it to a most worthy and promiskig 
 young man whom I should be very sorry to injure iu 
 any way. Dr. Benjamin Franklin got hold of my 
 account of my visit to him, and complained that I had 
 made too much of the expression he used. He did 
 not mean to say that he thought I was suffering from 
 the rare disease he mentioned, but only that the color 
 reminded him of it. It was true that he had shown 
 me various instruments, among them one for exploring 
 the state of a part by means of a puncture, but he did 
 not propose to make use of it upon my person. In 
 short, I had colored the story so as to make him look 
 ridiculous. 
 
 — I am afraid I did, — I said, — but wasn't I col- 
 ored myself so as to look ridiculous ? I 've heard it 
 said that people with the jaundice see everything yel- 
 low; perhaps I saw things looking a little queerly, 
 vidth that black and blue spot I could n't account for 
 threatening to make a colored man and brother of me. 
 But I am sorry if I have done you any wrong. I 
 hope you won't lose any patients by my making a lit- 
 tle fun of your meters and scopes and contrivances. 
 They seem so odd to us outside people. Then the 
 idea of being bronzed all over was such an alarming 
 suggestion. But I did not mean to damage your 
 business, which I trust is now considerable, and I 
 shall certainly come to you again if I have need of the 
 services of a physician. Only don't mention the 
 names of any diseases in English or Latin before me 
 next time. I dreamed about cutis cenea half the 
 night after I came to see you. 
 
118 THE POET AT THE BBEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 Dr. Benjamin took my apology very pleasantly. 
 He did not want to be touchy about it, he said, but 
 he had his way to make in the world, and found it 
 a little hard at first, as most young men did. People 
 were afraid to trust them, no matter how much they 
 knew. One of the old doctors asked him to come 
 in and examine a patient's heart for him the other 
 day. He went with him accordingly, and when they 
 stood by the bedside, he offered his stethoscope to the 
 old doctor. The old doctor took it and put the 
 wrong end to his ear and the other to the patient's 
 chest, and kept it there about two minutes, looking 
 all the time as wise as an old owl. Then he. Dr. 
 Benjamin, took it and applied it properly, and made out 
 where the trouble was iu no time at all. But what 
 was the use of a young man's pretending to know any- 
 thing in the presence of an old owl? I saw by their 
 looks, he said, that they all thought /used the stetho- 
 scope wrong end up, and was nothing but a 'prentice 
 hand to the old doctor. 
 
 — I am much pleased to say that since Dr. Benja- 
 min has had charge of a dispensary district, and been 
 visiting forty or fifty patients a day, I have reason to 
 think he has grown a great deal more practical than 
 when I made my visit to his office. I think I was 
 probably one of his first patients, and that he natu- 
 rally made the most of me. But my second trial was 
 much more satisfactory. I got an ugly cut from the 
 carving-knife in an affair with a goose of iron consti- 
 tution in which I came off second best. I at once 
 adjourned with Dr. Benjamin to his small office, and 
 put myself in his hands. It was astonishing to see 
 what a little experience of miscellaneous practice had 
 done for him. He did not ask me any more questions 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 119 
 
 about my hereditary predispositions on the paternal 
 and maternal sides. He did not examine me with the 
 stethoscope or the laryngoscope. He only strapped 
 Tip my cut, and informed me that it would speedily 
 get well by the "first intention," — an odd phrase 
 enough, but sounding much less formidable than cutis 
 <miea. 
 
 I am afraid I have had something of the French 
 prejudice which embodies itself in the maxim " young 
 surgeon, old physician." But a young physician who 
 has been taught by great masters of the profession, in 
 ample hospitals, starts in his profession knowing more 
 than some old doctors have learned in a lifetime. 
 Give him a little time to get the use of his wits in 
 emergencies, and to know the little arts that do so 
 much for a patient's comfort, — just as you give a 
 young sailor time to get his sea-legs on and teach his 
 stomach to behave itself, — and he will do well enough. 
 
 The old Master knows ten times more about this 
 matter and about all the professions, as he does about 
 everything else, than I do. My opinion is that he 
 has studied two, if not three, of these professions in 
 a regular course. I don't know that he has ever 
 preached, except as Charles Lamb said Coleridge al- 
 ways did, for when he gets the bit in his teeth he runs 
 away with the conversation, and if he only took a text 
 his talk woiold be a sermon; but if he has not 
 preached, he has made a study of theology, as many 
 laymen do. I know he has some shelves of medical 
 books in his library, and has ideas on the subject of 
 the healing art. He confesses to having attended law 
 lectures and having had much Intercourse with law- 
 yers. So he has something to say on almost any sub- 
 ject that happens to come up. I told him my story 
 
120 THE POET AT THE BBEAKEAST-TABLE. 
 
 about my visit to the young doctor, and asked him 
 what he thought of youthful practitioners in general 
 and of Dr. Benjamin in particular. 
 
 I '11 teU you what, — the Master said, — I know 
 something about these young fellows that come home 
 with their heads full of " science," as they call it, and 
 stick up their signs to tell people they know how to 
 cure their headaches and stomach-aches. Science is 
 a first-rate piece of furniture for a man's upper cham- 
 ber, if he has common sense on the ground-floor. 
 But if a man has n't got plenty of good common sense, 
 the more science he has the worse for his patient. 
 
 — I don't know that I see exactly how it is worse 
 for the patient, — I said. 
 
 — Well, I '11 tell you, and you '11 find it 's a mighty 
 simple matter. When a person is sick, there is al- 
 ways something to be done for him, and done at once. 
 If it is only to open or shut a window, if it is only 
 to tell him to keep on doing just what he is doing 
 already, it wants a man to bring his mind right 
 down to the fact of the present case and its immedi- 
 ate needs. Now the present case, as the doctor sees 
 it, is just exactly such a collection of paltry individ- 
 ual facts as never was before, — a snarl and tangle 
 of special conditions which it is his business to wind 
 as much thread out of as he can. It is a good deal as 
 when a painter goes to take the portrait of any sitter 
 who happens to send for him. He has seen just such 
 noses and just such eyes and just such mouths, but he 
 never saw exactly such a face before, and his business 
 is with that and no other person's, — with the features 
 of the worthy father of a family before him, and not 
 with the portraits he has seen in galleries or books, 
 or Mr. Copley's grand pictures of the fine old Tories, 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 121 
 
 or the Apollos and Jupiters of Greek sculpture. It 
 is the same thing with the patient. His disease has 
 features of its own ; there never was and never will he 
 another ease in all respects exactly like it. If a doctor 
 has science without conumon sense, he treats a fever, 
 but not this man's fever. If he has common sense 
 without science, he treats this man's fever without 
 knowing the general laws that govern all fevers and 
 all vital movements. I '11 tell you what saves these 
 last fellows. They go for weakness whenever they 
 see it, with stimulants and strengtheners, and they go 
 for overaction, heat, and high pulse, and the rest, 
 with cooling and reducing remedies. That is three 
 quarters of medical practice. The other quarter wants 
 science and common sense too. But the men that 
 have science only, hegia too far back, and, before iiiej 
 get as far as the case in hand, the patient has very 
 likely gone to visit his deceased relatives. You re- 
 member Thomas Prince's "Chronological History of 
 New England," I suppose? He begins, you recollect, 
 with Adam, and has to work down five thousand six 
 hundred and twenty -four years before he gets to the 
 Pilgrim fathers and the Mayflower. It was all very 
 well, only it did n't belong there, but got in the way 
 of something else. So it is with " science " out of 
 place. By far the larger part of the facts of structure 
 and function you find in the books of anatomy and 
 physiology have no immediate application to the daily 
 duties of the practitioner. You must learn systemat- 
 ically, for all that; it is the easiest way and the only 
 way that takes hold of the memory, except mere em- 
 pirical repetition, like that of the handicraftsman. 
 Did you ever see one of those Japanese figures with 
 the points for acupuncture marked upon it? 
 
122 THE POET AT THE BREAKEAST-TABLE. 
 
 — I had to own that my schooling had left out 
 "that piece of information. 
 
 WeU, I 'U teU you about it. You see they have a 
 way of pushing long, slender needles into you for the 
 cure of rheumatism and other complaints, and it seems 
 there is a choice of spots for the operation, though it is 
 very strange how little mischief it does in a good many 
 places one would think unsafe to meddle with. So 
 they had a doll made, and marked the spots where 
 they had put in needles without doing any harm. 
 They must have had accidents from sticking the nee- 
 dles into the wrong places now and then, but I sup- 
 pose they did n't say a great deal about those. After 
 a time, say a few centuries of experience, they had 
 their doll all spotted over with safe places for sticking 
 in the needles. That is their way of registering prac- 
 tical knowledge. We, on the other hand, study the 
 structure of the body as a whole, systematically, and 
 have no difficulty at all in remembering the track of 
 the great vessels and nerves, and knowing just what 
 tracks will be safe and what xmsafe. It is just the 
 same thing with the geologists. Here is a man close 
 by us boring for water through one of our ledges, be- 
 cause somebody else got water somewhere else in that 
 way; and a person who knows geology or ought to 
 know it, because he has given his life to it, tells me he 
 might as well bore there for lager-beer as for water. 
 
 — I thought we had had enough of this particular 
 matter, and that I shoidd like to hear what the Master 
 had to say about the three professions he knew some- 
 thing about, each compared with the others. 
 
 What is your general estimate of doctors, lawyers, 
 ■and ministers? — said I. 
 
 — Wait a minute, tiU I have got through with your 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 123 
 
 first question, — said the Master. — One thing at a 
 time. You asked me about the young doctors, and 
 about our young doctor. They come home tres bien 
 chausses, as a Frenchman would say, mighty well 
 shod with professional knowledge. But when they 
 begin walking round among their poor patients, — 
 they don't commonly start with milliomiaires, — they 
 find that their new shoes of scientific acquirements 
 have got to be broken in just like a pair of boots or 
 brogans. I don't know that I have put it quite 
 strong enough. Let me try again. You 've seen 
 those fellows at the circus that get up on horseback 
 so big that you wonder how they could climb into the 
 saddle. But pretty soon they throw off their outside 
 coat, and the next minute another one, and then the 
 one under that, and so they keep peeling off one gar- 
 ment after another tiU people begin to look queer and 
 think they are going too far for strict propriety. 
 Well, that is the way a fellow with a real practical 
 turn serves a good many of his scientific wrappers, — 
 flings 'em off for other people to pick up, and goes 
 right at the work of curing stomach-aches and all the 
 other little mean unscientific complaints that make up 
 the larger part of every doctor's business. I think 
 our Dr. Benjamin is a worthy young man, and if you 
 are in need of a doctor at any time I hope you will go 
 to him; and if you come off without harm, I will — 
 recommend some other friend to try him. 
 
 — I thought he was going to say he would try him 
 in his own person, but the Master is not fond of com- 
 mitting himself. 
 
 Now, I will answer your other question, he said. — 
 The lawyers are the cleverest men, the ministers are 
 the most learned, and the doctors are the most sensible. 
 
124 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 The lawyers are a picked lot, "first scholars" and 
 the like, but their business is as unsympathetic as 
 Jack Ketch's. There is nothing humanizing in their 
 relations with their fellow-creatures. They go for the 
 side that retains them. They defend the man they 
 know to be a rogue, and not very rarely throw suspi- 
 cion on the man they know to be innocent. Mind you, 
 I am not finding fault with them; every side of a case 
 has a right to the best statement it admits of; but I 
 say it does not tend to make them sympathetic. 
 Suppose in a case of Fever vs. Patient, the doctor 
 should side with either party according to whether 
 the old miser or his expectant heir was his employer. 
 Suppose the minister should side with the Lord or the 
 Devil, according to the salary offered and other inci- 
 dental advantages, where the soul of a sinner was in 
 question. You can see what a piece of work it would 
 make of their sympathies. But the lawyers are 
 quicker witted than either of the other professions, 
 and abler men generally. They are good-natured, or, 
 if they quarrel, their quarrels are above-board. I 
 don't think they are as accomplished as the ministers, 
 but they have a way of cramming with special know- 
 ledge for a case which leaves a certain shallow sedi- 
 ment of intelligence in their memories about a good 
 many things. They are apt to talk law in mixed 
 company, and they have a way of looking round when 
 they make a point, as if they were addressing a jury, 
 that is mighty aggravating, as I once had occasion to 
 see when one of 'em, and a pretty famous one, put me 
 on the witness-stand at a dinner-party once. 
 
 The ministers come next in point of talent. They 
 are far more curious and widely interested outside 
 of their own calling than either of the other profes- 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 125 
 
 sions. I like to talk witli 'em. They are interest- 
 ing men, full of good feelings, hard workers, always 
 foremost in good deeds, and on the whole the most 
 efficient civilizing class, working downwards from 
 knowledge to ignorance, that is, — not so much up- 
 wards, perhaps, — that we have. The trouble is, that 
 so many of 'em work in harness, and it is pretty sure 
 to chafe somewhere. They feed us on canned meats 
 mostly. They cripple our instincts and reason, and 
 give us a crutch of doctrine. I have talked with a 
 great many of 'em of all sorts of belief, and I don't 
 think they are quite so easy in their minds, the greater 
 number of them, nor so clear in their convictions, as 
 one would think to hear 'em lay down the law in the 
 pulpit. They used to lead the intelligence of their 
 parishes; now they do pretty well if they keep up 
 with it, and they are very apt to lag behind it. Then 
 they must have a colleague. The old minister thinks 
 he can hold to his old course, sailing right into the 
 wind's eye of human nature, as straight as that fa- 
 mous old skipper John Bunyan; the young minister 
 falls off three or four points and catches the breeze that 
 left the old man's sails all shivering. By and by the 
 congregation will get ahead of him, and then it must 
 have another new skipper. The "priest holds his own 
 pretty well; the minister is coming down every gener- 
 ation nearer and nearer to the common level of the 
 useful citizen, — no oracle at all, but a man of more 
 than average moral instincts, who, if he knows any- 
 thing, knows how little he knows. The ministers are 
 good talkers, only the struggle between nature and 
 grace makes some of 'em a little awkward occasion- 
 ally. The women do their best to spoil 'em, as they 
 do the poets ; you find it very pleasant to be spoiled, 
 
126 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLB. 
 
 no doubt; so do they. Now and then one of 'em. 
 goes over the dam; no wonder, they 're always in the 
 rapids. 
 
 By this time our three ladies had their faces all 
 turned toward the speaker, like the weathercocks in 
 a northeaster, and I thought it best to switch o£E the 
 talk on to another rail. 
 
 How about the doctors? — I said. 
 
 — Theirs is the least learned of the professions, in 
 this country at least. They have not half the general 
 culture of the lawyers, nor a quarter of that of the 
 ministers. I rather think, though, they are more 
 agreeable to the common run of people than the men 
 with black coats or the men with green bags. People 
 can swear before 'em if they want to, and they can't 
 very well before ministers. I don't care whether they 
 want to swear or not, they don't want to be on their 
 good behavior. Besides, the minister has a little 
 smack of the sexton about him ; he comes when people 
 are in extremis, but they don't send for him every 
 time they make a slight moral slip, — tell a lie for 
 instance, or smuggle a silk dress through the custom- 
 house ; but they call in the doctor when a child is cut- 
 ting a tooth or gets a splinter in its finger. So it 
 does n't mean much to send for him, only a pleasant 
 chat about the news of the day; for putting the baby 
 to rights doesn't take long. Besides, everybody 
 does n't like to talk about the next world ; people are 
 modest in their desires, and find this world as good 
 as they deserve ; but everybody loves to talk physic. 
 Everybody loves to hear of strange cases ; people are 
 eager to tell the doctor of the wonderful cures they 
 have heard of ; they want to know what is the matter 
 with somebody or other who is said to be suffering 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKTAST-TABLE. 127 
 
 from "a complication of diseases," and above all to 
 get a hard name, Greek or Latin, for some complaint 
 wMcli sounds altogether too commonplace in plain 
 English. If you will only call a headache a Cepha- 
 lalgia, it acquires dignity at once, and a patient be- 
 comes rather proud of it. So I think doctors are 
 generally welcome in most companies. 
 
 In old times, when people were more afraid of the 
 Devil and of witches than they are now, they liked to 
 have a priest or a minister somewhere near to scare 
 'em off; but nowadays, if you could find an old woman 
 that would ride round the room on a broomstick, Bar- 
 num would build an amphitheatre to exhibit her in ; 
 and if he could come across a young imp, with hoofs, 
 tail, and budding horns, a lineal descendant of one of 
 those "daemons " which the good people of Gloucester 
 fired at, and were fired at by "for the best part of a 
 month together " in the year 1692, the great showman 
 would have him at any cost for his museum or me- 
 nagerie. Men are cowards, sir, and are driven by fear 
 as the sovereign motive. Men are idolaters, and want 
 something to look at and kiss and hug, or throw them- 
 selves down before; they always did, they always will; 
 and if you don't make it of wood, you must make it 
 of words, which are just as much used for idols as 
 promissory notes are used for values. The ministers 
 have a hard time of it without bell and hook and holy 
 water ; they are dismounted men in armor since Luther 
 cut their saddle-girths, and you can see they are .qui- 
 etly taking off one piece of iron after another until 
 some of the best of 'em are fighting the devil (not the 
 zoological Devil with the big D) with the sword of 
 the Spirit, and precious little else in the way of wea- 
 pons of offence or defence. But we could n't get on 
 
128 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 without the spiritual brotherhood, whatever became of 
 our special creeds. There is a genius for religion, 
 just as there is for painting or sculpture. It is half- 
 sister to the genius for music, and has some of the 
 features which remind us of earthly love. But it lifts 
 us all by its mere presence. To see a good man and 
 hear his voice once a week would be reason enough 
 for building churches and pulpits. — The Master 
 stopped aU at once, and after about half a minute 
 laughed his pleasant laugh. 
 
 What is it? — I asked him. 
 
 I was thinking of the great coach and team that is 
 carrying us fast enough, I don't know but too fast, 
 somewhere or other. The D. D.'s used to be the 
 leaders, but now they are the wheel-horses. It 's 
 pretty hard to tell how much they pull, but we know 
 they can hold back like the — 
 
 — When we 're going down hiU, — I said, as 
 neatly as if I had been a High-Church curate trained 
 to snap at the last word of the response, so that you 
 could n't wedge in the tail of a comma between the 
 end of the congregation's closing syllable and the be- 
 ginning of the next petition. They do it well, but it 
 always spoils my devotion. To save my life, I can't 
 help watching them, as I watch to see a duck dive 
 at the flash of a gun, and that is not what I go 
 to church for. It is a juggler's trick, and there is 
 no more religion in it than in catching a baU on 
 the fly. 
 
 I was looking at our Scheherezade the other day, 
 and thinking what a pity it was that she had never 
 had fair play in the world. I wish I knew more of 
 her history. There is one way of learning it, — mak- 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 129 
 
 ing love to her. I wonder wtetlier she would let me 
 and like it. It Is an absurd tiling, and I ought not 
 to confess, but I tell you and you only. Beloved, my 
 heart gave a perceptible jump when it heard the whis- 
 per of that possibility overhead ! Every day has its 
 ebb and flow, but such a thought as that is like one 
 of those tidal waves they talk about, that rolls in like 
 a great wall and overtops and drowns out aU your 
 landmarks, and you, too, if you don't mind what you 
 are about and stand ready to run or climb or swim. 
 Not quite so bad as that, though, this time. I take 
 an interest in our Scheherezade. I am glad she 
 didn't smile on the pipe and the Bohemian -looking 
 fellow that finds the best part of his life in sucking at 
 it. A fine thing, isn't it, for a young woman to 
 marry a man who will hold her 
 
 *' Something better than Ms dog, a little dearer than his horse," 
 
 but not quite so good as his meerschaum? It isn't 
 for me to throw stones, though, who have been a Ni- 
 cotian a good deal more than halE my days. Cigar- 
 stimip out now, and consequently have become very 
 bitter on more persevering sinners. I say I take an 
 interest in our Scheherezade, but I rather think it is 
 more paternal than anything else, though my heart 
 did give that jump. It has jumped a good many 
 times without anything very remarkable coming of it. 
 This visit to the Observatory is going to bring us 
 all, or most of us, together in a new way, and it 
 wouldn't be very odd if some of us should become 
 better acquainted than we ever have been. There is 
 a chance for the elective affinities. What tremendous 
 forces they are, if two subjects of them come within 
 range ! There lies a bit of iron. All the dynamic 
 
130 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 agencies of the universe are pledged to hold it just in 
 that position, and there it wiU lie until it becomes a 
 heap of red-brown rust. But see, I hold a magnet to 
 it, — it looks to you like just such a bit of iron as the 
 other, — and lo ! it leaves them aU, — the tugging of 
 the mighty earth; of the ghostly moon that walks in 
 white, trailing the snaky waves of the ocean after her; 
 of the awful sun, twice as large as a sphere that the 
 whole orbit of the moon would but just girdle, — it 
 leaves the wrestling of all their forces, which are at 
 a dead lock with each other, all fighting for it, and 
 springs straight to the magnet. What a lucky thing 
 it is for well-conducted persons that the maddening 
 elective affinities don't come into play in fuU force 
 very often! 
 
 I suppose I am making a good deal more of our 
 prospective visit than it deserves. It must be because 
 I have got it into my head that we are bound to have 
 some kind of sentimental outbreak amongst us, and 
 that this win give a chance for advances on the part 
 of anybody disposed in that direction. A little 
 change of circumstance often hastens on a movement 
 that has been long in preparation. A chemist will 
 show you a flask containing a clear liquid; he will 
 give it a shake or two, and the whole contents of the 
 flask will become solid in an instant. Or you may 
 lay a little heap of iron-filings on a sheet of paper 
 with a magnet beneath it, and they wiU be quiet 
 enough as they are, but give the paper a slight jar 
 and the specks of metal will suddenly find their way 
 to the north or the south pole of the magnet and take 
 a definite shape not unpleasing to contemplate, and 
 curiously illustrating the laws of attraction, antago- 
 nism, and average, by which the worlds, conscious and 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLB. 131 
 
 unconscious, are alike governed. So with our little 
 party, with any little party of persons who have got 
 used to each other; leave them undisturbed and they 
 might remain in a state of equilibrium forever; but 
 let anything give them a shake or a jar, and the long- 
 striving but hindered affinities come all at once into 
 play and finish the work of a year in five minutes. 
 
 We were all a good deal excited by the anticipation 
 of this visit. The Capitalist, who for the most part 
 keeps entirely to himself, seemed to take an interest 
 in it and joined the group in the parlor who were 
 making arrangements as to the details of the eventful 
 expedition, which was very soon to take place. The 
 Young Girl was full of enthusiasm; she is one of those 
 young persons, I think, who are impressible, and of 
 necessity depressible when their nervous systems are 
 overtasked, but elastic, recovering easily from mental 
 worries and fatigues, and only wanting a little change 
 of their conditions to get back their bloom and cheer- 
 fulness. I could not help being pleased to see how 
 much of the child was left in her, after all the drudg- 
 ery she had been through. What is there that youth 
 will not endure and triumph over? Here she was; 
 her story for the week was done in good season ; she 
 had got rid of her villain by a new and original ca- 
 tastrophe; she had received a sum of money for an 
 extra string of verses, — painfully small, it is true, but 
 it would buy her a certain ribbon she wanted for the 
 great excursion; and now her eyes sparkled so that 
 I forgot how tired and hoUow they sometimes looked 
 when she had been sitting up half the night over her 
 endless manuscript. 
 
 The morning of the day we had looked forward to 
 promised as good an evening as we could wish. The 
 
132 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Capitalist, whose courteous and bland demeanor would 
 never have suggested the thought that he was a robber 
 and an enemy of his race, who was to be trampled 
 underfoot by the beneficent regenerators of the social 
 order as preliminary to the universal reign of peace 
 on earth and good-will to men, astonished us all with 
 a proposal to escort the three ladies and procure a car- 
 riage for their conveyance. The Lady thanked him 
 in a very cordial way, but said she thought nothing 
 of the walk. The Landlady looked disappointed at 
 this answer. For her part she was on her legs all day 
 and should be glad enough to ride, if so be he was 
 going to have a carriage at any rate. It would be a 
 sight pleasanter than to trudge afoot, but she would n't 
 have him go to the expense on her account. — Don't 
 mention it, madam, — said the Capitalist, in a gen- 
 erous glow of enthusiasm. As for the Young Girl, 
 she did not often get a chance for a drive, and liked 
 the idea of it for its own sake, as children do, and 
 she insisted that the Lady should go in the carriage 
 with her. So it was settled that the Capitalist should 
 take the three ladies in a carriage, and the rest of us 
 go on foot. 
 
 The evening behaved as it was bound to do on so 
 momentous an occasion. The Capitalist was dressed 
 with almost suspicious nicety. We pedestrians could 
 not help waiting to see them off, and I thought he 
 handed the ladies into the carriage with the air of a 
 French marquis. 
 
 I walked with Dr. Benjamin and That Boy, and we 
 had to keep the little imp on the trot a good deal of 
 the way in order not to be too long behind the car- 
 riage party. The Member of the Haouse walked with 
 our two dummies, — I beg their pardon, I mean the 
 Kegister of Deeds and the Salesman. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 133 
 
 The Man of Letters, hypothetically so called, 
 walked by himself, smoking a short pipe which was 
 very far from suggesting the spicy breezes that blow 
 soft from Ceylon's isle. 
 
 I suppose everybody who reads this paper has vis- 
 ited one or more observatories, and of course knows 
 all about them. But as it may hereafter be translated 
 into some foreign tongue and circulated among bar- 
 barous, but rapidly improving people, people who 
 have as yet no astronomers among them, it may be 
 well to give a little notion of what kind of place an 
 observatory is. 
 
 To begin then: a deep and solid stone foundation 
 is laid in the earth, and a massive pier of masonry is 
 built up on it. A heavy block of granite forms the 
 summit of this pier, and on this block rests the equa- 
 torial telescope. Around this structure a circular 
 tower is built, with two or more floors which come 
 close up to the pier, but do not touch it at any point. 
 It is crowned with a hemispherical dome, which, I may 
 remark, half realizes the idea of my egg-shell studio. 
 This dome is cleft from its base to its summit by a 
 narrow, ribbon-like opening, through which is seen 
 the naked sky. It revolves on cannon-balls, so easily 
 that a single hand can move it, and thus the opening 
 may be turned towards any point of the compass. 
 As the telescope can be raised or depressed so as to 
 be directed to any elevation from the horizon to the 
 zenith, and turned around the entire circle with the 
 dome, it can be pointed to any part of the heavens. 
 But as the star or other celestial object is always 
 apparently moving, in consequence of the real rota- 
 tory movement of the earth, the telescope is made to 
 foUow it automatically by an ingenious clock-work 
 
134 THE POET AT THE BKBAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 arrangement. No place, short of the temple of the 
 living God, can be more solemn. The jars of the 
 restless life around it do not disturb the serene in- 
 telligence of the half-reasoning apparatus. Nothing 
 can stir the massive pier but the shocks that shake 
 the solid earth itself. When an earthquake thrills the 
 planet, the massive turret shudders with the shudder- 
 ing rocks on which it rests, but it pays no heed to the 
 wildest tempest, and while the heavens are convulsed 
 and shut from the eye of the far-seeing instrument it 
 waits without a tremor for the blue sky to come back. 
 It is the type of the true and steadfast man of the 
 Homan poet, whose soul remains unmoved while the 
 firmament cracks and tumbles about him. It is the 
 material image of the Christian; his heart resting on 
 the Book of Ages, his eye fixed on the brighter world 
 above. 
 
 I did not say all this while we were looking roimd 
 among these wonders, quite new to many of us. 
 People don't talk in straight-o£E sentences like that. 
 They stumble and stop, or get interrupted, change a 
 word, begin again, miss connections of verbs and 
 nouns, and so on, tiU they blunder out their meaning. 
 But I did let fall a word or two, showing the impres- 
 sion the celestial laboratory produced upon me. I 
 rather think I must OAvn to the "Rock of Ages " com- 
 parison. Thereupon the "Man of Letters," so called, 
 took his pipe from his mouth, and said that he did n't 
 go in "for sentiment and that sort of thing. Gush 
 was played out." 
 
 The Member of the Haouse, who, as I think, is not 
 wanting in that homely good sense which one often 
 finds in plain people from the huckleberry districts, 
 but who evidently supposes the last speaker to be what 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 135 
 
 he calls "a taUented mahn," looked a little puzzled. 
 My remark seemed natural and harmless enough to 
 him, I suppose, but I had been distinctly snubbed, 
 and the Member of the Haouse thought I must defend 
 myself, as is customary in the deliberative body to 
 which he belongs, when one gentleman accuses another 
 gentleman of mental weakness or obliquity. I could 
 not make up my mind to oblige him at that moment 
 by showing fight. I suppose that would have pleased 
 my assailant, as I don't think he has a great deal to 
 lose, and might have made a little capital out of me if 
 he could have got a laugh out of the Member or either 
 of the dummies, — I beg their pardon again, I mean 
 the two undemonstrative boarders. But I will tell 
 you, Beloved, just what I think about this matter. 
 
 We poets, you know, are much given to indulging 
 in sentiment, which is a mode of consciousness at a 
 discoimt just now with the new generation of analysts 
 who are throwing everything into their crucibles. 
 Now we must not claim too much for sentiment. It 
 does not go a great way in deciding questions of arith- 
 metic, or algebra, or geometry. Two and two will 
 undoubtedly make four, irrespective of the emotions 
 or other idiosyncrasies of the calculator; and the three 
 angles of a triangle insist on being equal to two right 
 angles, in the face of the most impassioned rhetoric or 
 the most inspired verse. But inasmuch as religion 
 and law and the whole social order of civilized society, 
 to say nothing of literature and art, are so founded on 
 and pervaded by sentiment that they would all go to 
 pieces without it, it is a word not to be used too lightly 
 in passing judgment, as if it were an element to be 
 thrown out or treated with small consideration. Rea- 
 son may be the lever, but sentiment gives you the f ul- 
 
136 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 crum and the place to stand on if you want to move 
 the world. Even "sentimentality," which is senti- 
 ment overdone, is better than that affectation of supe- 
 riority to human weakness which is only tolerable as 
 one of the stage properties of full-blown dandyism, 
 and is, at best, but half -blown cynicism; which par- 
 ticiple and noun you can translate, if you happen to 
 remember the derivation of the last of them, by a sin- 
 gle familiar word. There is a great deal of false 
 sentiment in the world, as there is of bad logic and 
 erroneous doctrine; but it is very much less disagree- 
 able to hear a young poet overdo his emotions, or even 
 deceive himself about them, than to hear a caustic- 
 epithet flinger repeating such words as " sentimental- 
 ity" and "entusymusy," — one of the least admirable 
 of Lord Byron's bequests to our language, — for the 
 purpose of ridiculing him into silence. An over- 
 dressed woman is not so pleasing as she might be, but 
 at any rate she is better than the oil of vitriol squirter, 
 whose profession it is to teach young ladies to avoid 
 vanity by spoiling their showy silks and satins. 
 
 The Lady was the first of our party who was in- 
 vited to look through the equatorial. Perhaps this 
 world had proved so hard to her that she was pained 
 to think that other worlds existed, to be homes of suf- 
 fering and sorrow. Perhaps she was thinking it would 
 be a happy change when she should leave this dark 
 planet for one of those brighter spheres. She sighed, 
 at any rate, but thanked the Young Astronomer for 
 the beautiful sights he had shown her, and gave way 
 to the next comer, who was That Boy, now in a state 
 of irrepressible enthusiasm to see the Man in the 
 Moon. He was greatly disappointed at not making 
 out a colossal human figure moving roimd among the 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 137 
 
 shining summits and shadowy ravines of the "spotty- 
 globe." 
 
 The Landlady came next and wished to see the 
 moon also, in preference to any other object. She 
 was astonished at the revelations of the powerful tel- 
 escope. Was there any live creatures to be seen on 
 the moon? she asked. The Young Astronomer shook 
 his head, smiling a little at the question. Was there 
 any meet'n' -houses? There was no evidence, he said, 
 that the moon was inhabited. As there did not seem 
 to be either air or water on its surface, the inhabi- 
 tants would have a rather hard time of it, and if they 
 went to meeting the sermons would be apt to be rather 
 dry. If there were a building on it as big as York 
 minster, as big as the Boston Coliseum, the great tel- 
 escopes like Lord Eosse's would make it out. But it 
 seemed to be a forlorn place ; those who had studied 
 it most agreed in considering it a "cold, crude, silent, 
 and desolate " ruin of nature, without the possibility, 
 if life were on it, of articulate speech, of music, even 
 of sound. Sometimes a greenish tint was seen upon 
 its surface, which might have been taken for vegeta- 
 tion, but it was thought not improbably to be a reflec- 
 tion from the vast forests of South America. The 
 ancients had a fancy, some of them, that the face of 
 the moon was a mirror in which the seas and shores 
 of the earth were imaged. Now we know the geogra- 
 phy of the side toward us about as well as that of Asia, 
 better than that of Africa. The Astronomer showed 
 them one of the common smaU. photographs of the 
 moon. He assured them that he had received letters 
 inquiring in all seriousness if these alleged lunar pho- 
 tographs were not really taken from a peeled orange. 
 People had got angry with him for laughing at them 
 
138 THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 
 
 for asking such a question. Then he gave them an 
 account of the famous moon-hoax which came out, he 
 believed, in 1835. It was full of the most bare-faced 
 absurdities, yet people swallowed it all, and even 
 Arago is said to have treated it seriously as a thing 
 that could not well be true, for Mr. Herschel would 
 have certainly notified him of these marvellous discov- 
 eries. The writer of it had not troubled himself to 
 invent probabilities, but had borrowed his scenery 
 from the Arabian Nights and his lunar inhabitants 
 from Peter WiUdns. 
 
 After this lecture the Capitalist stepped forward 
 and applied his eye to the lens. I suspect it to have 
 been shut most of the time, for I observe a good many 
 elderly people adjust the organ of vision to any opti- 
 cal instrument in that way. I suppose it is from the 
 instinct of protection to the eye, the same instinct as 
 that which makes the raw mihtia-man close it when he 
 pulls the trigger of his musket the first time. He 
 expressed himself highly gratified, however, with what 
 he saw, and retired from the instrument to make room 
 for the Young Girl. 
 
 She threw her hair back and took her position at 
 the instrument. Saint Simeon Stylites the Younger 
 explained the wonders of the moon to her, — Tycho 
 and the grooves radiating from it, Kepler and Coper- 
 nicus with their craters and ridges, and aU the most 
 brilliant shows of this wonderful little world. I 
 thought he was more diffuse and more enthusiastic in 
 his descriptions than he had been with the older mem- 
 bers of the party. I don't doubt the old gentleman 
 who lived so long on the top of his pillar would have 
 kept a pretty sinner (if he could have had an elevator 
 to hoist her up to him) longer than he would have 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 139 
 
 kept her grandmotlier. These young people are so 
 ignorant, you know. As for our Scheherezade, her 
 delight was unbounded, and her curiosity insatiable. 
 If there were any living creatures there, what odd 
 things they must be. They cotdd n't have any lungs, 
 nor any hearts. What a pity ! Did they ever die ? 
 How could they expire if they did n't breathe? Burn 
 up ? No air to burn in. Tumble into some of those 
 horrid pits, perhaps, and break all to bits. She won- 
 dered how the young people there liked it, or whether 
 there were any young people there ; perhaps nobody 
 was young and nobody was old, but they were like 
 mummies all of them — what an idea — two mummies 
 making love to each other ! So she went on in a rat- 
 tling, giddy kind of way, for she was excited by the 
 strange scene in which she found herself, and quite 
 astonished the Young Astronomer with her vivacity. 
 All at once she turned to him. 
 
 Win you show me the double star you said I should 
 see? 
 
 With the greatest pleasure, — he said, and pro- 
 ceeded to wheel the ponderous dome, and then to ad- 
 just the instrument, I think to the one in Andromeda, 
 or that in Cygnus, but I should not know one of them 
 from the other. 
 
 How beautiful ! — she said as she looked at the won- 
 derful object. — One is orange red and one is emerald 
 green. 
 
 The young man made an explanation in which he 
 said something about complementary colors. 
 
 Goodness ! — exclaimed the Landlady. — What ! 
 complimentary to our party? 
 
 Her wits must have been a good deal confused by 
 the strange sights of the evening. She had seen tick- 
 
140 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 ets marked complimentary, she remembered, but she 
 could not for the life of her understand why our party- 
 should be particularly favored at a celestial exhibition 
 like this. On the whole, she questioned inwardly 
 whether it might not be some subtle pleasantry, and 
 smiled, experimentally, with a note of interrogation 
 in the smile, but, finding no encoxiragement, allowed 
 her features to subside gradually as if nothing had 
 happened. I saw all this as plainly as if it had all 
 been printed in great-primer type, instead of working 
 itself out in her features. I like to see other people 
 muddled now and then, because my own occasional 
 dulness is relieved by a good solid background of stu- 
 pidity in my neighbors. 
 
 — And the two revolve round each other? — said 
 the Young Girl. 
 
 — Yes, — he answered, — two suns, a greater and 
 a less, each shining, but with a different light, for the 
 other. 
 
 — How charming ! It must be so much pleasanter 
 than to be alone in such a great empty space ! I 
 should think one would hardly care to shine if its light 
 wasted itself in the monstrous solitude of the sky. 
 Does not a single star seem very lonely to you up 
 there? 
 
 — Not more lonely than I am myself, — answered 
 the Young Astronomer. 
 
 — I don't know what there was in those few words, 
 but I noticed that for a minute or two after they were 
 uttered I heard the ticking of the clock-work that 
 moved the telescope as clearly as if we had all been 
 holding our breath, and listening for the music of the 
 spheres. 
 
 The Young Girl kept her eye closely applied to the 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKEAST-TABLE. 141 
 
 eye-piece of the telescope a very long time, it seemed 
 to me. Those double stars interested her a good deal, 
 no doubt. When she looked off from the glass I 
 thought both her eyes appeared very much as if they 
 had been a little strained, for they were suffused and 
 glistening. It may be that she pitied the lonely 
 young man. 
 
 I know nothing in the world tenderer than the pity 
 that a kind-hearted young girl has for a young man 
 who feels lonely^ It is true that these dear creatures 
 are all compassion for every form of human woe, and 
 anxious to alleviate all human misfortunes. They wUl 
 go to Sunday-schools through storms their brothers 
 are afraid of, to teach the most unpleasant and intrac- 
 table classes of little children the age of Methuselah 
 and the dimensions of Og the King of Bashan's bed- 
 stead. They will stand behind a table at a fair all 
 day until they are ready to drop, dressed in their pret- 
 tiest clothes and their sweetest smiles, and lay hands 
 upon you, like so many Lady Potiphars, — perfectly 
 correct ones, of course, — to make you buy what you 
 do not want, at prices which you cannot afford; aU 
 this as cheerfully as if it were not martyrdom to them 
 as well as to you. Such is their love for all good ob- 
 jects, such their eagerness to sympathize with aU their 
 suffering f eUow-creatures ! But there is nothing they 
 pity as they pity a lonely young man. 
 
 I am sure, I sympathize with her in this instance. 
 To see a pale student burning away, like his own mid- 
 night lamp, with only dead men's hands to hold, 
 stretched out to him from the sepulchres of books, and 
 dead men's souls imploring him from their tablets to 
 warm them over again just for a little while in a hu- 
 man consciousness, when aU this time there are soft, 
 
142 THE POET AT THE BBEAKTAST-TABLE. 
 
 warm, living hands that would ask nothing better 
 than to bring the blood back into those cold thin fin- 
 gers, and gently caressing natures that would wind aU 
 their tendrils about the unawakened heart which knows 
 so little of itself, is pitiable enough and would be sad- 
 der still if we did not have the feeling that sooner or 
 later the pale student will be pretty sure to feel the 
 breath of a young girl against his cheek as she looks 
 over his shoulder ; and that he will come all at once to 
 an illuminated page in his book that never writer 
 traced in characters, and never printer set up in type, 
 and never binder enclosed within his covers ! But our 
 young man seems farther away from life than any stu- 
 dent whose head is bent downwards, over his books. 
 His eyes are turned away from all human things. 
 How cold the moonlight is that falls upon his fore- 
 head, and how white he looks in it! WiU not the 
 rays strike through to his brain at last, and send him 
 to a narrower cell than this egg-shell dome which is 
 his workshop and his prison? 
 
 I cannot say that the Young Astronomer seemed 
 particularly impressed with a sense of his miserable 
 condition. He said he was lonely, it is true, but he 
 said it in a manly tone, and not as if he were repiaing 
 at the inevitable condition of his devoting himself to 
 that particular branch of science. Of course, he is 
 lonely, the most lonely being that lives in the midst 
 of our breathing world. If he would only stay a little 
 longer with us when we get talking; but he is busy 
 almost always either in observation or with his calcu- 
 lations and studies, and when the nights are fair loses 
 so much sleep that he must make it up by day. He 
 wants contact with human beings. I wish he would 
 change his seat and come round and sit by oux Sche- 
 herezade ! 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 143 
 
 The rest of the visit went off well enough, except 
 that the "Man of Letters," so called, rather snubbed 
 some of the heavenly bodies as not quite up to his 
 standard of brilliancy. I thought myself that the 
 double-star episode was the best part of it. 
 
 I have an unexpected revelation to make to the 
 reader. Not long after our visit to the Observatory, 
 the Young Astronomer put a package into my hands, 
 a manuscript, evidently, which he said he would like 
 to have me glance over. I found something in it 
 which interested me, and told him the next day that 
 I should like to read it with some care. He seemed 
 rather pleased at this, and said that he wished I would 
 criticise it as roughly as I liked, and if I saw any- 
 thing in it which might be dressed to better advantage 
 to treat it freely, just as if it were my own produc- 
 tion. It had often happened to him, he went on to 
 say, to be interrupted in his observations by clouds 
 covering the objects he was examining for a longer or 
 shorter time. In these idle moments he had put down 
 many thoughts, unskilfully he feared, but just as they 
 came into his mind. His blank verse he suspected 
 was often faulty. His thoughts he knew must be 
 crude, many of them. It would please him to have 
 me amuse myself by puttrag them into shape. He 
 was kind enough to say that I was an artist in words, 
 but he held himself as an unskilled apprentice. 
 
 I confess I was appalled when I cast my eye upon 
 the title of the manuscript, "Cirri and Nebulae." 
 
 — Oh ! oh ! — I said, — that will never do. Peo- 
 ple don't know what Cirri are, at least not one out of 
 fifty readers. "Wind-Clouds and Star-Drifts" will 
 do better than that. 
 
144 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 — Anything you like, — he answered, — what dif- 
 ference does it make how you christen a foundling? 
 These are not my legitimate scientific offspring, and 
 you may consider them left on your doorstep. 
 
 — I will not attempt to say just how much of the 
 diction of these lines belongs to him, and how much 
 to me. He said he would never claim them, after I 
 read them to him in my version. I, on my part, do 
 not wish to be held responsible for some of Ms more 
 daring thoughts, if I should see fit to reproduce them 
 hereafter. At this time I shall give only the first part 
 of the series of poetical outbreaks for which the young 
 devotee of science must claim his share of the respon- 
 sibility. I may put some more passages into shape 
 by and by. 
 
 WIND-CLOUDS AND STARr-DRIFTS. 
 
 Another clouded night ; the stars are hid, 
 
 The orb that waits my search is hid with them. 
 
 Patience ! Why grudge an hour, a month, a year, 
 
 To plant my ladder and to gain the round 
 
 That leads my footsteps to the heaven of fame, 
 
 Where waits the wreath my sleepless midnights won ? 
 
 Not the stained laurel such as heroes wear 
 
 That withers when some stronger conqueror's heel 
 
 Treads down their shrivelling trophies in the dust ; 
 
 But the fair garland whose undying green 
 
 Not time can change, nor wrath of gods or men ! 
 
 With quickened heart-beats I shall hear the tongues 
 That speak my praise ; but better far the sense 
 That in the unshaped ages, buried deep 
 In the dark mines of unaccomplished time 
 Yet to be stamped with morning's royal die 
 And coined in golden days, — in those dim years 
 I shall be reckoned with the undying dead, 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 145 
 
 My name emblazoned on the fiery arch, 
 
 Unfading till the stars themselves shall fade. 
 
 Then, as they call the roll of shining worlds, 
 
 Sages of race unborn in accents new 
 
 Shall count me with the Olympian ones of old. 
 
 Whose glories kindle through the midnight sky : 
 
 Here glows the God of Battles ; this recalls 
 
 The Lord of Ocean, and yon far-off sphere 
 
 The Sire of Him who gave his ancient name 
 
 To the dim planet with the wondrous rings ; 
 
 Here flames the Queen of Beauty's silver lamp, 
 
 And there the moon-girt orb of mighty Jove ; 
 
 But this, unseen through all earth's aeons past, 
 
 A youth who watched beneath the western star 
 
 Sought in the darkness, found, and showed to men ; 
 
 Linked with his name thenceforth and evermore 1 
 
 So shall that name be syllabled anew 
 
 In all the tongues of all the tribes of men : 
 
 I that have been through immemorial years 
 
 Djist in the dust of my forgotten time 
 
 Shall live in accents shaped of blood-warm breath, 
 
 Tea, rise in mortal semblance, newly born 
 
 In shining stone, in undecaying bronze. 
 
 And stand on high, and look serenely down 
 
 On the new race that calls the earth its own. 
 
 Is this a cloud, that, blown athwart my soid. 
 Wears a false seeming of the pearly stain 
 Where worlds beyond the world their mingling rays 
 Blend in soft white, — a cloud that, born of earth. 
 Would cheat the soul that looks for light from heaven ? 
 Must every coral-insect leave his sign 
 On each poor grain he lent to build the reef. 
 As Babel's builders stamped their sunburnt clay. 
 Or deem his patient service all in vain ? 
 What if another sit beneath the shade 
 Of the broad elm I planted by the way, — 
 What if another heed the beacon light 
 I set upon the rock that wrecked my keel, — 
 Have I not done my task and served my kind ? 
 Nay, rather act thy part, unnamed, unknown. 
 
146 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 And let Fame blow her trumpet through the world 
 
 With noisy wind to swell a fool's renown, 
 
 Joined with some truth he stumbled blindly o'er, 
 
 Or coupled with some siugle shining deed 
 
 That in the great account of all his days 
 
 Will stand alone upon the bankrupt sheet 
 
 His pitying angel shows the clerk of Heaven. 
 
 The noblest service comes from nameless hands, 
 
 And the best servant does his work unseen. 
 
 Who found the seeds of fire and made them shoot. 
 
 Fed by his breath, in buds and flowers of flame ? 
 
 Who forged in roaring flames the ponderous stone, 
 
 And shaped the moulded metal to his need ? 
 
 Who gave the dragging car its rolling wheel. 
 
 And tamed the steed that whirls its circling round ? 
 
 All these have left their work and not their names, — 
 
 Why should I murmur at a fate like theirs ? 
 
 This is the heavenly light ; the pearly stain 
 
 Was but a wind-cloud drifting o'er the stars ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 I find I have so many things in conunon with the 
 old Master of Aits, that I do not always know 
 whether a thought was originally his or mine. That 
 is what always happens where two persons of a similar 
 cast of mind talk much together. And both of thent 
 often gain by the interchange. Many ideas grow bet- 
 ter when transplanted into another mind than ia the 
 one where they sprang up. That which was a weed 
 ia one iatelligence becomes a flower in the other. A 
 flower, on the other hand, may dwindle down to a 
 mere weed by the same change. Healthy growths 
 may become poisonous by falling upon the wrong 
 mental soil, and what seemed a night-shade in one 
 mind unfold as a morning-glory in the other. 
 
 — I thank God, — the Master said, — that a great 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 147 
 
 many people believe a great deal more than I do. I 
 think, when it comes to serious matters, I like those 
 who believe more than I do better than those who be- 
 lieve less. 
 
 — Why, — said I, — you have got hold of one of 
 my own working axioms. I should like to hear you 
 develop it. 
 
 The Member of the Haouse said he should be glad 
 to listen to the debate. The gentleman had the floor. 
 The Scarabee rose from his chair and departed ; — I 
 thought his joints creaked as he straightened himself. 
 
 The Young Girl made a slight movement; it was 
 a purely accidental coincidence, no doubt, but I saw 
 That Boy put his hand in his pocket and pull out his 
 popgun, and begin loading it. It cannot be that our 
 Scheherezade, who looks so quiet and proper at the 
 table, can make use of That Boy and his catapult to 
 control the course of conversation and change it to 
 suit herself! She certainly looks innocent enough; 
 but what does a blush prove, and what does its absence 
 prove, on one of these innocent faces ? There is no- 
 thing in all this world that can lie and cheat like the 
 face and the tongue of a young girl. Just give her a 
 little touch of hysteria, — I don't mean enough of it 
 to make her friends call the doctor in, but a slight 
 hint of it in the nervous system, — and "Machiavel 
 the waiting-maid" might take lessons of her. But 
 I cannot think our Scheherezade is one of that kind, 
 and I am ashamed of myself for noting such a trifling 
 coincidence as that which excited my suspicion. 
 
 — I say, — the Master continued, — that I had 
 rather be in the company of those who believe more 
 than I do, in spiritual matters at least, than of those 
 who doubt what I accept as a part of my belief. 
 
148 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLB. 
 
 — To tell the truth, —said I,— I find that diffi- 
 culty sometimes in talking with you. You have not 
 quite so many hesitations as I have in following out 
 your logical conclusions. I suppose you woiild bring 
 some things out into daylight questioning that I had 
 rather leave in that twilight of half -belief peopled with 
 shadows — if they are only shadows — more sacred to 
 me than many realities. 
 
 There is nothing I do not question, — said the 
 Master; — I not only begin with the precept of Des- 
 cartes, but I hold all my opinions involving any chain 
 of reasoning always open to revision. 
 
 — I confess that I smiled internally to hear him 
 say that. The old Master thinks he is open to con- 
 viction on all subjects ; but if you meddle with some 
 of his notions and don't get tossed on his horns as if 
 a bull had hold of you, I should call you lucky. 
 
 — You don't mean you doubt everything ? — I said. 
 
 — What do you think I question everything for, — 
 the Master replied, — if I never get any answers? 
 You 've seen a blind man with a stick, feeling his 
 way along? Well, I am a blind man with a stick, 
 and I find the world pretty full of men just as blind 
 as I am, but without any stick. I try the ground to 
 find out whether it is firm or not before I rest my 
 weight on It; but after it has borne my weight, that 
 question at least is answered. It very certainly was 
 strong enough once; the presumption is that it is 
 strong enough now. Still the soil may have been im- 
 dermined, or I may have grown heavier. Make as 
 much of that as you wiU. I say I question every- 
 thiag; but if I find Bunker HiU Monument standing 
 as straight as when I leaned against it a year or ten 
 years ago, I am not very much afraid that Bunker 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 149 
 
 Hill will cave in if I trust myseK again on the soil 
 of it. 
 
 I glanced off, as one often does in talk. 
 
 The Monument is an awful place to visit, — I said. 
 — The waves of time are like the waves of the ocean; 
 the only thing they beat against without destroying 
 it is a rock; and they destroy that at last. But it 
 takes a good while. There is a stone nowstanding in 
 very good order that was as old as a monument of 
 Louis XrV. and Queen Anne's day is now when Jo- 
 seph went down into Egypt. Think of the shaft on 
 Bunker HiU standing in the sunshine on the morning 
 of January 1st in the year 5872 ! 
 
 It won't be standing, — the Master said. — We are 
 poor bunglers compared to those old Egyptians. 
 There are no joints in one of their obelisks. They 
 are our masters in more ways than we know of, and 
 in more ways than some of us are wiUing to know. 
 That old Lawgiver was n't learned in all the wisdom 
 of the Egyptians for nothing. It scared people well a 
 couple of hundred years ago when Sir John Marsham 
 and Dr. John Spencer ventured to tell their stories 
 about the sacred ceremonies of the Egyptian priest- 
 hood. People are beginning to find out now that 
 you can't study any religion by itself to any good pur- 
 pose. You must have comparative theology as you 
 have comparative anatomy. What would you make 
 of a cat's foolish little good-for-nothing collar-bone, 
 if you did not know how the same bone means a good 
 deal in other creatures, — in yourself, for instance, 
 as you 'U find out if you break it ? You can't know 
 too much of your race and its beliefs, if you want to 
 know anything about your Maker. I never found but 
 one sect large enough to hold the whole of me. 
 
150 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 — And may I ask what that was? — I said. 
 
 — The Human sect, — the Master answered. — 
 That has about room enough for me, — at present, I 
 mean to say. 
 
 — Including cannibals and all? — said I. 
 
 — Oh, as to that, the eating of one's kind is a mat- 
 ter of taste, but the roasting of them has been rather 
 more a specialty of our own particular belief than of 
 any other I am acquainted with. If you broil a saint, 
 I don't see why, if you have a mind, you shouldn't 
 serve him up at your — 
 
 Pop ! went the little piece of artillery. Don't tell 
 me it was accident. I know better. You can't sup- 
 pose for one minute that a boy like that one would 
 time his interruptions so cleverly. Now it so hap- 
 pened that at that particular moment Dr. B. Frank- 
 lin was not at the table. You may draw your own 
 conclusions. I say nothing, but I think a good deal. 
 
 — I came back to the Bunker HUl Monument. — I 
 often think — I said — of the dynasty which is to 
 reign in its shadow for some thousands of years, it 
 may be. 
 
 The "Man of Letters," so called, asked me, in a 
 tone I did not exactly like, whether I expected to live 
 long enough to see a monarchy take the place of a re- 
 public in this country. 
 
 — No, — said I, — I was thinking of something 
 very different. I was indulging a fancy of mine 
 about the Man who is to sit at the foot of the monu- 
 ment for one, or it may be two or three thousand 
 years. As long as the monument stands and there is 
 a city near it, there wiU always be a man to take the 
 names of visitors and extract some small tribute from 
 their pockets, I suppose. I sometimes get thinking 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 151 
 
 •of the long, unbroken succession of these men, until 
 they come to look like one Man ; continuous in being, 
 unchanging as the stone he watches, looking upon the 
 successive generations of human beings as they come 
 and go, and outHviag aU the dynasties of the world in 
 all probability. It has come to such a pass that I 
 never speak to the Man of the Monument without 
 wanting to take my hat off and feeling as i£ I were 
 looking down a vista of twenty or thirty centuries. 
 
 The "Man of Letters," so called, said, in a rather 
 contemptuous way, I thought, that he had n't got so 
 far as that. He was n't quite up to moral reflections 
 on toll-men and ticket-takers. Sentiment was n't his 
 tap. 
 
 He looked round triumphantly for a response : but 
 the Capitalist was a little hard of hearing just then; 
 the Eegister of Deeds was browsing on his food in the 
 calm bovine abstraction of a quadruped, and paid no 
 attention; the Salesman had bolted his breakfast, and 
 whisked himself away with that peculiar alacrity which 
 belongs to the retail dealer's assistant; and the Mem- 
 ber of the Haouse, who had sometimes seemed to be 
 impressed with his "tahlented mahn's " air of superi- 
 ority to the rest of us, looked as if he thought the 
 speaker was not exactly parliamentary. So he failed 
 to make his point, and reddened a little, and was not 
 in the best humor, I thought, when he left the table. 
 I hope he will not let off any of his irritation on our 
 poor little Scheherezade ; but the truth is, the first 
 person a man of this sort (if he is what I think him) 
 meets, when he is out of humor, has to be made a 
 victim of, and I only hope our Young Girl wiU not 
 have to play Jephthah's daughter. 
 
 And that leads me to say, I cannot help thinking 
 
152 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 tliat the kind of criticism to which this Young Girl 
 has been subjected from some person or other, who is 
 willing to be smart at her expense, is hurtful and 
 not wholesome. The question is a delicate one. So 
 many foolish persons are rushing into print, that it 
 requires a kind of literary police to hold them back 
 and keep them in order. Where there are mice there 
 must be cats, and where there are rats we may think 
 it worth our while to keep a terrier, who will give 
 them a shake and let them drop, with aU the mischief 
 taken out of them. But the process is a rude and 
 cruel one at best, and it too often breeds a love of 
 destructiveness for its own sake in those who get their 
 living by it. A poor poem or essay does not do 
 much harm after all; nobody reads it who is like to 
 be seriously hurt by it. But a sharp criticism with 
 a drop of witty venom in it stings a young author 
 almost to death, and makes an old one uncomfortable 
 to no purpose. If it were my business to sit in judg- 
 ment on my neighbors, I would try to be courteous, 
 at least, to those who had done any good service, 
 but, above all, I would handle tenderly those young 
 authors who are coming before the public in the flut- 
 ter of their first or early appearance, and are in the 
 trembling delirium of stage-fright already. Before 
 you write that brilliant notice of some alliterative 
 Angelina's book of verses, I wish you would try this 
 experiment. 
 
 Take half a sheet of paper and copy upon it any of 
 Angelina's stanzas, — the ones you were going to 
 make fun of, if you will. Now go to your window, 
 if it is a still day, open it, and let the half -sheet of 
 paper drop on the outside. How gently it falls 
 through the soft air, always tending downwards, but 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 153 
 
 sliding softly, from side to side, wavering, hesitating, 
 balancing, until it settles as noiselessly as a snow-flake 
 upon the all-receiving bosom of the earth! Just such 
 would have been the fate of poor Angelina's fluttering 
 effort, if you had left it to itself. It would have 
 slanted downward into oblivion so sweetly and softly 
 that she would have never known when it reached 
 that harmless consummation. 
 
 Our epizoic literature is becoming so extensive that 
 nobody is safe from its ad infinitum progeny. A 
 man writes a book of criticisms. A Quarterly Review 
 criticises the critic. A Monthly Magazine takes up 
 the critic's critic. A Weekly Journal criticises the 
 critic of the critic's critic, and a daily paper favors us 
 with some critical remarks on the performance of the 
 writer in the Weekly, who has criticised the critical 
 notice in the Monthly of the critical essay in the 
 Quarterly on the critical work we started with. And 
 thus we see that as each flea "has smaller fleas that on 
 biTTi prey," even the critic himself cannot escape the 
 common lot of being bitten. Whether aU this is a 
 blessing or a curse, like that one which made Pharaoh 
 and all his household run to their toilet-tables, is a 
 question about which opinions might differ. The 
 physiologists of the time of Moses — if there were 
 vivisectors other than priests in those days — would 
 probably have considered that other plague, of the 
 frogs, as a fortunate opportunity for science, as this 
 poor little beast has been the soufre-doideur of ex- 
 perimenters and schoolboys from time immemorial. 
 
 But there is a form of criticism to which none will 
 object. It is impossible to come before a public so 
 alive with sensibilities as this we live in, with the 
 smallest evidence of a sympathetic disposition, with- 
 
154 THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 
 
 out making friends in a very unexpected way. Every- 
 where there are minds tossing on the unquiet waves 
 of doubt. If you confess to the same perplexities and 
 uncertainties that torture them, they are grateful for 
 your companionship. If you have groped your way 
 out of the wilderness in which you were once wander- 
 ing with them, they wiU foUow your footsteps, it may 
 be, and bless you as their deliverer. So, all at once, 
 a writer finds he has a parish of devout listeners, 
 scattered, it is true, beyond the reach of any summons 
 but that of a trumpet like the archangel's, to whom 
 his slight discourse may be of more value than the 
 exhortations they hear from the pidpit, if these last do 
 not happen to suit their special needs. Young men 
 with more ambition and intelligence than force of 
 character, who have missed their first steps in life and 
 are stumbling irresolute amidst vague aims and chang- 
 ing purposes, hold out their hands, imploring to be 
 led into, or at least pointed towards, some path where 
 they can find a firm foothold. Young women bom 
 into a chilling atmosphere of circTunstance which 
 keeps aU the buds of their nature unopened and al- 
 ways striving to get to a ray of sunshine, if one 
 finds its way to their neighborhood, tell their stories, 
 sometimes simply and touchingly, sometimes in a more 
 or less affected and rhetorical way, but still stories of 
 defeated and disappointed instincts which ought to 
 make any moderately impressible person feel very 
 tenderly toward them. 
 
 In speaking privately to these young persons, many 
 of whom have literary aspirations, one should be very 
 considerate of their human feelings. But addressing 
 them collectively a few plain truths wiU not give any 
 one of them much pain. Indeed, almost every indi- 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 155 
 
 -vidual among them will feel sure that he or she is an 
 exception to those generalities which apply so well to 
 the rest. 
 
 If I were a literary Pope sending out an Encyclical, 
 I would teU these inexperienced persons that nothing 
 is so frequent as to mistake an ordinary human gift 
 for a special and extraordinary endowment. The 
 mechanism of breathing and that of swallowing are 
 Tery wonderful, and if one had seen and studied them 
 in his own person only, he might well think himself a 
 prodigy. Everybody knows these and other bodily 
 faculties are common gifts; but nobody except edi- 
 tors and school-teachers and here and there a literary 
 man knows how common is the capacity of rhyming 
 and prattling in readable prose, especially among 
 young women of a certain degree of education. In 
 my character of Pontiff, I should tell these young 
 persons that most of them labored under a delusion. 
 It is very hard to believe it; one feels so full of intel- 
 ligence and so decidedly superior to one's dull rela- 
 tions and schoolmates ; one writes so easily and the 
 lines sound so prettily to one's self; there are such 
 felicities of expression, just like those we hear quoted 
 from the great poets ; and besides one has been told 
 by so many friends that all one had to do was to print 
 and be famous ! Delusion, my poor dear, delusion at 
 least nineteen times out of twenty, yes, ninety-nine 
 times ia a hundred. 
 
 But as private father confessor, I always allow as 
 much as I can for the one chance in the hundred. I 
 try not to take away aU hope, unless the case is 
 clearly desperate, and then to direct the activities into 
 some other channel. 
 
 Using kind language, I can talk pretty freely. I 
 
156 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 have counselled more than one aspirant after literary- 
 fame to go back to his tailor's board or his lapstone. 
 I have advised the dilettanti, whose foolish friends 
 praised their verses or their stories, to give up all 
 their deceptive dreams of making a name by their 
 genius, and go to work ia the study of a profession 
 which asked only for the diligent use of average, 
 ordinary talents. It is a very grave responsibility 
 which these unknown correspondents throw upon their 
 chosen counsellors. One whom you have never seen, 
 who lives in a conmiunity of which you know nothing, 
 sends you specimens more or less painfully voluminous 
 of his writings, which he asks you to read over, think 
 over, and pray over, and send back an answer inform- 
 ing him whether fame and f ortime are awaiting him 
 as the possessor of the wonderful gifts his writings 
 manifest, and whether you advise him to leave all, 
 — the shop he sweeps out every morning, the ledger 
 he posts, the mortar in which he pounds, the bench 
 at which he urges the reluctant plane, — and follow 
 his genius whithersoever it may lead him. The next 
 correspondent wants you to mark out a whole course 
 of life for him, and the means of judgment he gives 
 you are about as adequate as the brick which the sim- 
 pleton of old carried round as an advertisement of the 
 house he had to sell. My advice to aU the young men 
 that write to me depends somewhat on the handwrit- 
 ing and spelling. If these are of a certain charac- 
 ter, and they have reached a mature age, I recom- 
 mend some honest manual calling, such as they have 
 very probably been bred to, and which wiU, at least, 
 give them a chance of becoming President of the 
 United States by and by, if that is any object to 
 them. What would you have done with the young 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 157 
 
 person wlio called on me a good many years ago, — 
 so many that he has probably forgotten his literary 
 effort, — and read as specimens of his literary work- 
 manship lines like those which I will favor you with 
 presently? He was an able-bodied, grown-up young 
 person, whose ingenuousness interested me; and I am 
 sure if I thought he would ever be pained to see his 
 maiden effort in print, I would deny myself the plea- 
 sure of submitting it to the reader. The following 
 is an exact transcript of the lines he showed me, and 
 which I took down on the spot : — 
 
 " Are you in the vein for cider ? 
 Are you in the tune for pork ? 
 Hist ! for Betty 's cleared the larder 
 And turned the pork to soap." 
 
 Do not judge too hastily this sincere effort of a maiden 
 muse. Here was a sense of rhythm, and an effort in 
 the direction of rhyme ; here was an honest transcript 
 of an occurrence of daily life, told with a certain ideal- 
 izing expression, recognizing the existence of impulses, 
 mysterious instincts, impelling us even in the selec- 
 tion of our bodily sustenance. But I had to teU him 
 that it wanted dignity of incident and grace of nar- 
 rative, that there was no atmosphere to it, nothing of 
 the light that never was and so forth. I did not say 
 this in these very words, but I gave him to under- 
 stand, without being too hard upon him, that he had 
 better not desert his honest toil in pursuit of the 
 poet's bays. This, it must be confessed, was a rather 
 discouraging case. A young person like this may 
 pierce, as the Frenchmen say, by and by, but the 
 chances are all the other way. 
 
 I advise aimless young men to choose some profes- 
 
158 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 sion without needless delay, and so get into a good 
 strong current of human affairs, and find themselves, 
 boimd up in interests with a compact body of their 
 fellow-men. 
 
 I advise young women who write to me for counsel, 
 — perhaps I do not advise them at all, only sympa- 
 thize a little with them, and listen to what they have 
 to say (eight closely written pages on the average, 
 which I always read from beginning to end, thinking 
 of the widow's cruse and myself in the character of 
 Elijah) and — and — come now, I don't believe Me- 
 thuselah would teU you what he said in his letters to 
 young ladies, written when he was in his nine hun- 
 dred and sixty-ninth year. 
 
 But, dear me ! how much work all this private crit- 
 icism involves ! An editor has only to say "respect- 
 fully declined," and there is the end of it. But the 
 confidential adiriser is expected to give the reasons of 
 his likes and dislikes in detail, and sometimes to enter 
 into an argument for their support. That is more 
 than any martyr can stand, but what trials he must 
 go through, as it is ! Great bundles of manuscripts, 
 verse or prose, which the recipient is expected to read, 
 perhaps to recommend to a publisher, at any rate to 
 express a well-digested and agreeably flavored opinion 
 about; which opinion, nine times out of ten, disguise 
 it as we may, has to be a bitter draught; every form 
 of egotism, conceit, false sentiment, hunger for noto- 
 riety, and eagerness for display of anserine plumage 
 before the admiring public; — all these come in by 
 mail or express, covered with postage-stamps of so 
 much more cost than the value of the waste words 
 they overlie, that one comes at last to groan and 
 change color at the very sight of a package, and to 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 159 
 
 dread the postman's knock as if it were that of the 
 other visitor whose naked knuckles rap at every door. 
 
 Still there are experiences which go far towards re- 
 paying all these inflictions. My last young man's case 
 looked desperate enough; some of his sails had blown 
 from the rigging, some were backing in the wind, and 
 some were flapping and shivering, but I told him 
 which way to head, and to my surprise he promised 
 to do just as I directed, and I do not doubt is under 
 full sail at this moment. 
 
 What if I should teU my last, my very recent ex- 
 perience with the other sex? I received a paper con- 
 taining the inner history of a young woman's life, the 
 evolution of her consciousness from its earliest record 
 of itself, written so thoughtfully, so sincerely, with so 
 much firmness and yet so much delicacy, with such 
 truth of detail and such grace in the manner of tell- 
 ing, that I finished the long manuscript almost at a 
 sitting, with a pleasure rarely, almost never experi- 
 enced in volumiaous communications which one has to 
 spell out of handwriting. This was from a correspon- 
 dent who made my acquaintance by letter when she 
 was little more than a child, some years ago. How 
 easy at that early period to have silenced her by in- 
 difference, to have wounded her by a careless epithet, 
 perhaps even to have crushed her as one puts his heel 
 on a weed ! A very little encouragement kept her 
 from despondency, and brought back one of those 
 overflows of gratitude which make one more ashamed 
 of himself for being so overpaid than he would be for 
 having committed any of the lesser sins. But what 
 pleased me most m the paper lately received was to see 
 how far the writer had outgrown the need of any 
 encouragement of mine; that she had strengthened out 
 
160 THE POET AT THE BREAKTAST-TABLE. 
 
 o£ her tremulous questionings into a self-reliance and 
 seK-poise wliicli I tad hardly dared to anticipate for 
 her. Some of my readers who are also writers have 
 very probably had more numerous experiences of this 
 kind than I can lay claim to; seK-revelations from 
 unknown and sometimes nameless friends, who write 
 from strange corners where the winds have wafted 
 some stray words of theirs which have lighted in the 
 minds and reached the hearts of those to whom they 
 were as the angel that stirred the pool of Bethesda. 
 Perhaps this is the best reward authorship brings ; it 
 may not imply much talent or literary excellence, but 
 it means that your way of thinking and feeling is just 
 what some one of your fellow-creatures needed. 
 
 — I have been putting into shape, according to his 
 request, some further passages from the Yoimg As- 
 tronomer's manuscript, some of which the reader will 
 have a chance to read if he is so disposed. The con- 
 flict in the yoimg man's mind between the desire for 
 fame and the sense of its emptiness as compared with 
 nobler aims has set me thinking about the subject 
 from a somewhat humbler point of view. As I am 
 in the habit of telling you. Beloved, many of my 
 thoughts, as well as of repeating what was said at our 
 table, you may read what follows as if it were ad- 
 dressed to you in the course of an ordinary conversa- 
 tion, where I claimed rather more than my share, as I 
 am afraid I am a little in the habit of doing. 
 
 I suppose we all, those of us who write in verse or 
 prose, have the habitual feeling that we should like 
 to be remembered. It is to be awake when all of 
 those who were round us have been long wrapped in 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 161 
 
 slumber. It is a pleasant thought enough that the 
 name by which we have been called shall be familiar 
 on the lips of those who come after us, and the 
 thoughts that wrought themselves out in our inteUi- 
 genee, the emotions that trembled through our frames, 
 shall live themselves over again In the minds and 
 hearts of others. 
 
 But is there not something of rest, of calm, in the 
 thought of gently and gradually fading away out of 
 human remembrance? What line have we written 
 that was on a level with our conceptions? What page 
 of ours that does not betray some weakness we would 
 fain have left unrecorded? To become a classic and 
 share the life of a language is to be ever open to crit- 
 icisms, to comparisons, to the caprices of successive 
 generations, to be called into court and stand a trial 
 before a new jury, once or more than once in every 
 century. To be forgotten is to sleep in peace with 
 the undisturbed myriads, no longer subject to the 
 chills and heats, the blasts, the sleet, the dust, which 
 assail in endless succession that shadow of a man 
 which we call his reputation. The line which dying 
 we could wish to blot has been blotted out for us by a 
 hand so tender, so patient, so used to its kindly task, 
 that the page looks as fair as if it had never borne the 
 record of our infirmity or our transgression. And 
 then so few would be wholly content with their legacy 
 of fame. You remember poor Monsieur Jacques's 
 complaint of the favoritism shown to Monsieur Ber- 
 thier, — it is in that exquisite " Week in a French 
 Country-House." "Have you seen his room? Have 
 you seen how large it is ? Twice as large as mine ! 
 He has two jugs, a large one and a little one. 1 have 
 only one small one. And a tea-service and a gilt 
 
162 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Cupid on the top of his looking-glass." The famous 
 survivor of himself has had his features preserved ia 
 a medallion, and the slice of his countenance seems 
 clouded -with the thought that it does not belong to a 
 bust; the bust ought to look happy in its niche, but 
 the statue opposite makes it feel as if it had been 
 cheated out of half its personality, and the statue looks 
 uneasy because another stands on a loftier pedestal. 
 But "Ignotus" and "Miserrimus" are of the great 
 majority in that vast assembly, that House of Com- 
 mons whose members are all peers, vfhere to be for- 
 gotten is the standing rule. The dignity of a silent 
 memory is not to be undervalued. Fame is after all 
 a kind of rude handling, and a name that is often on 
 vulgar lips seems to borrow something not to be de- 
 sired, as the paper money that passes from hand to 
 hand gains somewhat which is a loss thereby. O 
 sweet, tranquil refuge of oblivion, so far as earth is 
 concerned, for us poor blundering, stammering, mis- 
 behaving creatures who cannot turn over a leaf of our 
 life's diary without feeling thankful that its failure 
 can no longer stare us in the face ! Not unwelcome 
 shall be the baptism of dust which hides forever the 
 name that was given in the baptism of water ! We 
 shall have good company whose names are left im- 
 spoken by posterity. "Who knows whether the best 
 of men be known, or whether there be not more re- 
 markable persons forgot than any that stand remem- 
 bered in the known account of time? The greater 
 part must be content to be as though they had not 
 been; to be found in the register of God, not in the 
 record of man. Twenty-seven names make up the 
 first story before the flood, and the recorded names 
 ever since contain not one living century." 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 163 
 
 I have my moods about such things as the Young 
 Astronomer has, as we all have. There are times 
 when the thought of becoming utterly nothing to the 
 world we knew so well and loved so much is painful 
 and oppressive; we gasp as if in a vacuum, missing 
 the atmosphere of life we have so long been in the habit 
 of breathing. Not the less are there moments when 
 the aching need of repose comes over us and the re- 
 quiescat in pace, heathen benediction as it is, sounds 
 more sweetly in our ears than all the promises that 
 Fame can hold out to us. 
 
 I wonder whether it ever occurred to you to reflect 
 upon another horror there must be in leaving a name 
 behind you. Think what a horrid piece of work the 
 biographers make of a man's private history! Just 
 imagine the subject of one of those extraordinary fic- 
 tions called biographies coming back and reading the 
 life of himself, written very probably by somebody or 
 other who thought he could turn a penny by doing it, 
 and having the pleasure of seeing 
 
 " His little bark attendant saU, 
 Pursue the triumph and partake the gale." 
 
 The ghost of the person condemned to walk the earth 
 in a biography glides into a public library, and goes 
 to the shelf where his mummied life lies in its pa- 
 per cerements. I can see the pale shadow glancing 
 through the pages and hear the comments that shape 
 themselves in the bodiless intelligence as if they were 
 made vocal by living lips. 
 
 "Born in July, 1776!" And my honored father 
 killed at the battle of Bunker Hill ! Atrocious libel- 
 ler! to slander one's family at the start after such a 
 fashion ! 
 
164 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 "The death of his parents left him in charge of his 
 Aunt Nancy, whose tender care took the place of those 
 parental attentions which should have guided and pro- 
 tected his infant years, and consoled him for the sever- 
 ity of another relative." 
 
 — AvaatWancy/ It was Aunt Betsey, you fool! 
 Aunt Nancy used to — she has been dead these eighty 
 years, so there is no use in mincing matters — she 
 used to keep a bottle and a stick, and when she had 
 been tasting a drop out of the bottle the stick used to 
 come off the shelf and I had to taste that. And here 
 she is made a saint of, and poor Aunt Betsey, that 
 did everything for me, is slandered by implication as 
 a horrid tyrant ! 
 
 "The subject of this commemorative history was 
 remarkable for a precocious development of intelli- 
 gence. An old nurse who saw him at the very earli- 
 est period of his existence is said to have spoken of 
 him as one of the most promising infants she had seen 
 in her long experience. At school he was equally 
 remarkable, and at a tender age he received a paper 
 adorned with a cut, inscribed Reward of Merit." 
 
 — I don't doubt the nurse said that, — there were 
 several promising children born about that time. As 
 for cuts, I got more from the schoolmaster's rattan 
 than in any other shape. Did n't one of my teach- 
 ers split a Gunter's scale into three pieces over the 
 pahn of my hand? And didn't I grin when I saw 
 the pieces fly ? No humbug, now, about my boyhood ! 
 
 "His personal appearance was not singularly pre- 
 possessing. Inconspicuous in stature and unattrac- 
 tive in features " — 
 
 — You misbegotten son of an ourang and grandson 
 of an ascidian (ghosts keep up with science, you ob- 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 165 
 
 serve), what business have you to be holding up my 
 person to the contempt of my posterity? Haven't I 
 been sleeping for this many a year in quiet, and don't 
 the dandelions and buttercups look as yellow over me 
 as over the best-looking neighbor I have in the dor- 
 mitory? Why do you want to people the minds of 
 everybody that reads your good-for-nothing libel which 
 you call a "biography" with your impudent carica- 
 tures of a man who was a better-looking fellow than 
 yourself, I 'U bet you ten to one, a man whom his 
 Latin tutor called j'^rmosws 'j^er when he was only a 
 freshman? If that 's what it means to make a repu- 
 tation, — to leave your character and your person, and 
 the good name of your saiated relatives, and all you 
 were, and all you had and thought and felt, so far as 
 can be gathered by digging you out of your most pri- 
 vate records, to be manipulated and bandied about 
 and cheapened lq the literary market as a chicken or 
 a turkey or a goose is handled and bargained over at 
 a provision stall, is n't it better to be content with the 
 honest blue slate-stone and its inscription informing 
 posterity that you were a worthy citizen and a re- 
 spected father of a family? 
 
 — I should like to see any man's biography with 
 corrections and emendations by his ghost. We don't 
 know each other's secrets quite so well as we flatter 
 ourselves we do. We don't always know our own se- 
 crets as well as we might. You have seen a tree with 
 different grafts upon it, an apple or a pear tree we 
 wiU say. In the late summer months the fruit on one 
 bough wiU ripen; I remember just such a tree, and 
 the early ripening fruit was the Jargonelle. By and 
 by the fruit of another bough wiU begin to come into 
 condition; the lovely Saint Michael, as I remember, 
 
166 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLB. 
 
 grew on the same stock as the Jargonelle in the tree 
 I am thinking of ; and then, when these have aU f aUen 
 or been gathered, another, we will say the Winter 
 Nelis, has its turn, and so out of the same juices have 
 come in succession fruits of the most varied aspects 
 and flavors. It is the same thing with ourselves, but 
 it takes us a long while to find it out. The various 
 inherited instincts ripen in succession. You may be 
 nine tenths paternal at one period of your life, and 
 nine tenths maternal at another. All at once the 
 traits of some immediate ancestor may come to matu- 
 rity unexpectedly on one of the branches of your char- 
 acter, just as your features at different periods of your 
 life betray different resemblances to your nearer or 
 more remote relatives. 
 
 But I want you to let me go back to the Bunker 
 Hill Monument and the dynasty of twenty or thirty 
 centuries whose successive representatives are to sit 
 in the gate, like the Jewish monarchs, while the peo- 
 ple shall come by hundreds and by thousands to visit 
 the memorial shaft imtil the story of Bunker's Hill is 
 as old as that of Marathon. 
 
 Would not one like to attend twenty consecutive 
 soirees, at each one of which the lion of the party 
 should be the Man of the Monument, at the beginning 
 of each century, all the way, we will say, from Anno 
 Domini 2000 to Ann. Dom. 4000, — or, if you think 
 the style of dating will be changed, say to Ann. Dar- 
 winii (we can keep A. D. you see) 1872? WOl the 
 Man be of the Indian type, as President Samuel Stan- 
 hope Smith and others have supposed the transplanted 
 European will become by and by? Will he have 
 shortened down to four feet and a little more, like the 
 Esquimaux, or wiU he have been bred up to seven feet 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 167 
 
 by the use of new chemical diets, ozonized and other- 
 wise improved atmospheres, and animal fertilizers? 
 Let us summon him in imagination and ask him a few 
 questions. 
 
 Is n't it like splitting a toad out of a rock to think 
 of this man of nineteen or twenty centuries hence 
 coming out from his stony dwelling-place and speaking 
 with us? What are the questions we shoidd ask him? 
 He has but a few minutes to stay. Make out your 
 own list; I wiU set down a few that come up to me as 
 I write. 
 
 — What is the prevalent religious creed of civiliza- 
 tion? 
 
 — Has the planet met with any accident of impor- 
 tance? 
 
 — How general is the republican form of govern- 
 ment? 
 
 — Do men fly yet? 
 
 — Has the universal language come into use ? 
 
 — Is there a new fuel since the English coal-mines 
 have given out? 
 
 — Is the euthanasia a recognized branch of medical 
 science? 
 
 — Is the oldest inhabitant still living? 
 
 — Is the Daily Advertiser still published? 
 
 — And the Evening Transcript? 
 
 — Is there much inquiry for the works of a writer 
 of the nineteenth century (Old Style) by — the — 
 name of — of — 
 
 My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. I 
 cannot imagine the putting of that question without 
 feeling the tremors which shake a wooer as he falters 
 out the words the answer to which wiU make him 
 happy or wretched. 
 
168 THE POET AT THE BKBAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Whose works was I going to question him about, do 
 you ask me? 
 
 Oh, the writings of a friend of mine, much esteemed 
 by his relatives and others. But it's of no conse- 
 quence, after all; I think he says he does not care 
 much for posthumous reputation. 
 
 I find something of the same interest in thinking 
 about one of the boarders at our table that I find in 
 my waking dreams concerning the Man of the Monu- 
 ment. This personage is the Register of Deeds. He 
 is an unemotional character, living in his business 
 almost as exclusively as the Scarabee, but without any 
 of that eagerness and enthusiasm which belong to 
 our scientific specialist. His work is largely, prin- 
 cipally, I may say, mechanical. He has developed, 
 however, a certain amoimt of taste for the antiquities of 
 his department, and once in a while brings out some 
 curious result of his investigations into ancient docu- 
 ments. He too belongs to a dynasty which will last 
 as long as there is such a thing as property in land 
 and dwellings. When that is done away with, and we 
 return to the state of villanage, holding our tenement- 
 houses, aU to be of the same pattern, of the State, — 
 that is to say, of the Tanmiany Ring which is to take 
 the place of the feudal lord, — the office of Register 
 of Deeds wiU, I presume, become useless, and the 
 dynasty will be deposed. 
 
 As we grow older we think more and more of old 
 persons and of old things and places. As to old per- 
 sons, it seems as if we never know how much they 
 have to tell until we are old ourselves and they have 
 been gone twenty or thirty years. Once in a while we 
 come upon some siirvivor of his or her generation that 
 we have overlooked, and feel as if we had recovered 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 169 
 
 one of the lost books of Livy or fished up the golden 
 candlestick from the ooze of the Tiber. So it was the 
 other day after my reminiscences of the old gambrel- 
 roofed house and its visitors. They found an echo in 
 the recollections of one of the brightest and liveliest of 
 my suburban friends, whose memory is exact about 
 everything except her own age, which, there can be 
 no doubt, she makes out a score or two of years more 
 than it really is. Still she was old enough to touch 
 some lights — and a shadow or two — into the portraits 
 I had drawn, which made me wish that she and not 
 I had been the artist who sketched the pictures. 
 Am.ong the lesser regrets that mingle with graver sor- 
 rows for the friends of an earlier generation we have 
 lost, are our omissions to ask them so many questions 
 they could have answered easily enough, and would 
 have been pleased to be asked. There ! I say to my- 
 self sometimes, in an absent mood, I must ask her 
 about that. But she of whom I am now thinking has 
 long been beyond the reach of any earthly question- 
 ing, and I sigh to think how easily I could have 
 learned some fact which I should have been happy to 
 have transmitted with pious care to those who are to 
 come after me. How many times I have heard her 
 quote the line about blessings brightening as they take 
 their flight, and how true it proves in many little ways 
 that one never thinks of until it is too late ! 
 
 The Register of Deeds is not himself advanced in 
 years. But he borrows an air of antiquity from the 
 ancient records which are stored in his sepulchral 
 archives. I love to go to his ossuary of dead transac- 
 tions, as I would visit the catacombs of Rome or 
 Paris. It is like wandering up the Nile to stray 
 among the shelves of his monumental folios. Here 
 
170 THE POET AT THE BEEAKTAST-TABLE. 
 
 stands a series of volumes, extending over a consider- 
 able number of years, all of wbich volumes are in his 
 handwriting. But as you go backward there is a 
 break, and you come upon the writing of another per- 
 son, who was getting old apparently, for it is begin- 
 ning to be a little shaky, and then you know that you 
 have gone back as far as the last days of his predeces- 
 sor. Thirty or forty years more carry you to the time 
 when this incumbent began the duties of his office; 
 his hand was steady then; and the next volume be- 
 yond it in date betrays the work of a still different 
 writer. All this interests me, but I do not see how it 
 is going to interest my reader. I do not feel very 
 happy about the Register of Deeds. What can I do 
 with him? Of what use is he going to be in my rec- 
 ord of what I have seen and heard at the breakfast- 
 table? The fact of his being one of the boarders was 
 not so important that I was obliged to speak of him, 
 and I might just as well have drawn on my imagina- 
 tion and not allowed this dummy to take up the room 
 which another guest might have profitably filled at our 
 breakfast-table. 
 
 I suppose he will prove a superfluity, but I have 
 got him on my hands, and I mean that he shall be 
 as little in the way as possible. One always comes 
 across people in actual life who have no particular 
 business to be where we find them, and whose right to 
 be at aU is somewhat questionable. 
 
 I am not going to get rid of the Register of Deeds 
 by putting him out of the way; but I confess I do not 
 see of what service he is going to be to me in my rec- 
 ord. I have often found, however, that the Disposer 
 of men and things understands much better than we 
 do how to place his pawns and other pieces on the 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 171 
 
 chess-board of life. A fist more or less in the ocean 
 does not seem to amoimt to much. It is not extrava- 
 gant to say that any one fish may be considered 
 a supernumerary. But when Captain Coram 's ship 
 sprung a leak and the carpenter could not stop it, and 
 the passengers had made up their minds that it was 
 all over with them, all at once, without any apparent 
 reason, the pumps began gaining on the leak, and the 
 sinking ship to lift herself out of the abyss which was 
 swallowing her up. And what do you think it was 
 that saved the ship, and Captain Coram, and so in due 
 time gave to London that Foundling Hospital which 
 he endowed, and under the floor of which he lies 
 buried? Why, it was that very supernumerary fish, 
 which we held of so little account, but which had 
 wedged itself into the rent of the yawning planks, 
 and served to keep out the water until the leak was 
 finally stopped. 
 
 I am very sure it was Captain Coram, but I almost 
 hope it was somebody else, in order to give some poor 
 fellow who is lying in wait for the periodicals a chance 
 to correct me. That wiU make him happy for a 
 month, and besides, he wiU not want to pick a quarrel 
 about anything else if he has that splendid triumph. 
 You remember Alcibiades and his dog's tail. 
 
 Here you have the extracts I spoke of from the 
 manuscript placed in my hands for revision and emen- 
 dation. I can understand these alternations of feel- 
 ing in a young person who has been long absorbed 
 in a single pursuit, and in whom the human instincts 
 which have been long silent are now beginning to 
 find expression. I know well what he wants ; a great 
 deal better, I think, than he knows himself. 
 
172 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DKIFTS. 
 
 Brief glimpses of the bright celestial spheres, 
 False lights, false shadows, vague, uncertain gleams, 
 Pale vaporous mists, wan streaks of lurid flame. 
 The climbing of the upward-sailing cloud. 
 The sinking of the downward-falling star, — 
 All these are pictures of the changing moods 
 Borne through the midnight stUluess of my soul. 
 
 Here am I, bound upon this pillared rock, 
 
 Prey to the vulture of a vast desire 
 
 That feeds upon my life. I burst my bands 
 
 And steal a moment's freedom from the beak, 
 
 The clinging talons and the shadowing plumes ; 
 
 Then comes the false enchantress, with her song ; 
 
 " Thou wouldst not lay thy forehead in the dust 
 
 Like the base herd that feeds and breeds and dies ! 
 
 Lo, the fair garlands that I weave for thee. 
 
 Unchanging as the belt Orion wears. 
 
 Bright as the jewels of the seven-starred Crown, 
 
 The spangled stream of Berenice's hair ! " 
 
 And so she twines the fetters with the flowers 
 
 Around my yielding limbs, and the fierce bird 
 
 Stoops to his quarry, — then to feed his rage 
 
 Of ravening hunger I must drain my blood 
 
 And let the dew-drenched, poison-breeding night 
 
 Steal all the freshness from my fading cheek. 
 
 And leave its shadows round my eaverned eyes. 
 
 All for a line in some unheeded scroll ; 
 
 All for a stone that teUs to gaping clowns, 
 
 " Here lies a restless wretch beneath a clod 
 
 Where squats the jealous nightmare men call Fame ! " 
 
 I marvel not at him who scorns his kind 
 And thinks not sadly of the time foretold 
 When the old hulk we tread shall be a wreck, 
 A slag, a cinder drifting through the sky 
 
THK POET AT THE BKEAKPAST-TABLE. 173 
 
 "Without its crew of fools ! We live too long 
 
 And even so are not content to die, 
 
 But load the mould that covers up our bones 
 
 With stones that stand like beggars by the road 
 
 And show death's grievous wound and ask for teaxs ; 
 
 Write our great books to teach men who we are, 
 
 Sing our fine songs that tell in artful phrase 
 
 The secrets of our lives, and plead and pray 
 
 For alms of memory with the after time. 
 
 Those few swift seasons while the earth shall wear 
 
 Its leafy summers, ere its core grows cold 
 
 And the moist life of all that breathes shall die ; 
 
 Or as the new-born seer, perchance more wise. 
 
 Would have us deem, before its growing mass. 
 
 Pelted with star-dust, stoned with meteor-balls, 
 
 Heats like a hammered anvil, till at last 
 
 Man and his works and all that stirred itself 
 
 Of its own motion, in the fiery glow 
 
 Turns to a flaming vapor, and our orb 
 
 Shines a new sun for earths that shall be born. 
 
 I am as old as Egypt to myself. 
 
 Brother to them that squared the pyramids 
 
 By the same stars I watch. I read the page 
 
 Where every letter is a glittering world, 
 
 With them who looked from Shinar's clay-bmlt towei3, 
 
 Ere yet the wanderer of the Midland sea 
 
 Had missed the fallen sister of the seven. 
 
 I dwell in spaces vague, remote, unknown, 
 
 Save to the silent few, who, leaving earth. 
 
 Quit all communion with their living time. 
 
 I lose myself in that ethereal void. 
 
 Till I have tired my wings and long to flU 
 
 My breast with denser air, to stand, to walk 
 
 With eyes not raised above my fellow-men. 
 
 Sick of my unwalled, solitary realm, 
 
 I ask to change the myriad lifeless worlds 
 
 I visit as mine own for one poor patch 
 
 Of this dull spheroid and a little breath 
 
 To shape in word or deed to serve my kind. 
 
174 THE POET AT THE BEBAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Was ever giant's dungeon dug so deep, 
 Was ever tyrant's fetter forged so strong, 
 Was e'er such deadly poison in the draught 
 The false wife mingles for the trusting fool, 
 As he whose willing victim is himself, 
 Digs, forges, mingles, for his captive soul ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 I was very sure that the old Master was hard at 
 work about something, — he is always very busy with 
 something, — but I mean something particular. 
 
 Whether it was a question of history or of cosmo- 
 gony, or whether he was handling a test-tube or a 
 blow-pipe; what he was about I did not feel sure; 
 but I took it for granted that it was some crucial ques- 
 tion or other he was at work on, some point bearing 
 on the thought of the time. For the Master, I have 
 observed, is pretty sagacious in striking for the points 
 where his work will be like to tell. We all know that 
 class of scientific laborers to whom all facts are alike 
 nourishing mental food, and who seem to exercise no 
 choice whatever, provided only they can get hold of 
 these same indiscriminate facts in quantity sufficient. 
 They browse on them, as the animal to which they 
 would not like to be compared browses on his thistles. 
 But the Master knows the movement of the age he be- 
 longs to ; and if he seems to be busy with what looks 
 like a small piece of trivial experimentiag, one may 
 feel pretty sure that he knows what he is about, and 
 that his minute operations are looking to a result that 
 will help him towards attaining his great end in life, 
 — an insight, so far as his faculties and opportunities 
 win allow, into that order of things which he believes 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 175 
 
 he can study with some prospect of taking in its sig- 
 nificance. 
 
 I became so anxious to know what particular matter 
 he was busy with, that I had to call upon him to sat- 
 isfy my curiosity. It was with a little trepidation 
 that I knocked at his door. I felt a good deal as one 
 might have felt on disturbing an alchemist at his work, 
 at the very moment, it might be, when he was about 
 to make projection. 
 
 — Come in ! — said the Master in his grave, mas- 
 sive tones. 
 
 I passed through the library with him into a little 
 room evidently devoted to his experiments. 
 
 — You have come just at the right moment, — he 
 said. — Your eyes are better than mine. I have been 
 looking at this flask, and I should like to have you 
 look at it. 
 
 It was a small matrass, as one of the elder chemists 
 would have called it, containing a fluid, and hermeti- 
 cally sealed. He held it up at the window; perhaps 
 you remember the physician holding a flask to the 
 light in Gerard Douw's "Femme hydropique"; I 
 thought of that fine figure as I looked at him. — 
 Look! — said he, — is it clear or cloudy? 
 
 — You need not ask me that, — I answered. — 
 It is very plainly turbid. I should think that some 
 sediment had been shaken up in it. What is it, 
 Elixir Vitce or Aurum potahile ? 
 
 — Something that means more than alchemy ever 
 did! Boiled just three hours, and as clear as a bell 
 imtil within the last few days; since then has been 
 clouding up. 
 
 — I began to form a pretty shrewd guess at the 
 meaning of aU this, and to think I knew very nearly 
 
176 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 what was coining next. I was right in my conjecture. 
 The Master broke ofE the sealed end of his little flask, 
 took out a small portion of the fluid on a glass rod, 
 and placed it on a slip of glass in the usual way for a 
 microscopic examination. 
 
 — One thousand diameters, — he said, as he placed 
 it on the stage of the microscope. — We shall find 
 signs of life, of course. — He bent over the instrument 
 and looked but an instant. 
 
 — There they are ! — he exclaimed, — look in. 
 
 I looked in and saw some objects not very unlike 
 these : — 
 
 — — O O 
 
 The straight linear bodies were darting backward 
 and forward in every direction. The wavy ones were 
 wriggling about like eels or water-snakes. The round 
 ones were spinning on their axes and rolling in every 
 direction. All of them were in a state of incessant 
 activity, as if perpetually seeking something and never 
 finding it. 
 
 They are tough, the germs of these little bodies, — 
 said the Master. — Three hours' boiling has n't killed 
 'em. Now, then, let us see what has been the effect 
 of six hours' boiling. 
 
 He took up another flask just like the first, con- 
 taining fluid and hermetically sealed In the same way. 
 
 — Boiled just three hours longer than the other, — 
 he said, ■ — • six hours inaU. This is the experimentwm 
 crucis. Do you see any cloudiness in it? 
 
 — Not a sign of it ; it is as clear as crystal, except 
 that there may be a little sediment at the bottom. 
 
 — That is nothing. The liquid is clear. We shall 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 177 
 
 find no signs of life. — He put a minute drop of the 
 liquid under the microscope as before. Nothing 
 stirred. Nothing to be seen but a clear circle of light. 
 We looked at it again and again, but with the same 
 result. 
 
 — Six hours kiU 'em all, according to this experi- 
 ment, — said the Master. — Good as far as it goes. 
 One more negative result. Do you know what would 
 have happened if that liquid had been clouded, and we 
 had found Ufe in the sealed flask? Sir, if that liquid 
 had held life in it the Vatican would have trembled 
 to hear it, and there would have been anxious ques- 
 tionings and ominous whisperings in the halls of Lam- 
 beth palace ! The accepted cosmogonies on trial, sir ! 
 Traditions, sanctities, creeds, ecclesiastical establish- 
 ments, all shaking to know whether my little six- 
 penny flask of fluid looks muddy or not! I don't 
 know whether to laugh or shudder. The thought 
 of an oecumenical council having its leading feature 
 dislocated by my trifling experiment ! The thought, 
 again, of the mighty revolution in human beliefs and 
 affairs that might grow out of the same insignificant 
 Ettle phenomenon. A wineglassful of clear liquid 
 growing muddy. If we had found a wriggle, or a 
 zigzag, or a shoot from one side to the other, in this 
 last flask, what a scare there would have been, to be 
 sure, in the schools of the prophets ! Talk about your 
 megatherium and your megalosaurus, — what are 
 these to the bacterium and the mbrio ? These are the 
 dreadful monsters of to-day. If they show them- 
 selves where they have no business, the little rascals 
 frighten honest folks worse than ever people were 
 frightened by the Dragon of Rhodes ! 
 
 The Master gets going sometimes, there is no deny- 
 
178 THE POET AT THE BRBAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 ing it, until his imagination runs away with him. He 
 had been trying, as the reader sees, one of those 
 curious experiments in spontaneous generation, as it 
 is called, which have been so often instituted of late 
 years, and by none more thoroughly than by that 
 eminent American student of nature ^ whose process 
 he had imitated with a result like his. 
 
 We got talking over these matters among us the 
 next morning at the breakfast-table. 
 
 We must agree they couldn't stand six hours' 
 boiling, — I said. 
 
 — Good for the Pope of Rome! — exclaimed the 
 Master. 
 
 — The Landlady drew back with a certain expres- 
 sion of dismay in her countenance. She hoped he 
 did n't want the Pope to make any more converts ia 
 this country. She had heard a sermon only last Sab- 
 bath, and the minister had made it out, she thought, 
 as plain as could be, that the Pope was the Man of 
 Sin and that the Church of Rome was — Well, there 
 was very strong names applied to her in Scripture. 
 
 What was good for the Pope was good for your 
 minister, too, my dear madam, — said the Master. — 
 Good for everybody that is afraid of what people call 
 "science." If it should prove that dead things come 
 to life of themselves, it would be awkward, you know, 
 because then somebody will get up and say if one 
 dead thing made itself alive another might, and so per- 
 haps the earth peopled itself without any help. Pos- 
 sibly the difficulty would n't be so great as many peo- 
 ple suppose. We might perhaps find room for a 
 Creator after all, as we do now, though we see a little 
 brown seed grow tiU it sucks up the juices of half an 
 1 Professor Jeffries Wyman. 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKEAST-TABLE. 179 
 
 acre of ground, apparently all by its own inherent 
 power. That does not stagger us; I am not sure that 
 it would if Mr. Crosse's or Mr. Weekes's acarus 
 should show himself aU of a sudden, as they said he 
 did, in certain mineral mixtures acted on by electri- 
 city. 
 
 The Landlady was ofE soundings, and looking va- 
 cant enough by this time. 
 
 The Master turned to me. — Don't think too much 
 of the result of our one experiment. It means some- 
 thing, because it confirms those other experiments of 
 which it was a copy; but we must remember that a 
 hundred negatives don't settle such a question. Life 
 does get into the world somehow. You don't suppose 
 Adam had the cutaneous unpleasantness politely called 
 psora, do you? 
 
 — Hardly, — I answered. — He must have been a 
 walking hospital if he carried aU the maladies about 
 him which have plagued his descendants. 
 
 — Well, then, how did the little beast which is 
 peculiar to that special complaint intrude himself into 
 the Order of Things? You don't suppose there was 
 a special act of creation for the express purpose of 
 bestowing that little wretch on humanity, do you? 
 
 I thought, on the whole, I would n't answer that 
 question. 
 
 — You and I are at work on the same problem, — 
 said the Young Astronomer to the Master. — I have 
 looked into a microscope now and then, and I have 
 seen that perpetual dancing about of minute atoms in 
 a fluid, which you call molecular motion. Just so, 
 when I look through my telescope I see the star-dust 
 whirling about in the infinite expanse of ether; or 
 if I do not see its motion, I know that it is only on 
 
180 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 account of its immeasurable distance. Matter and 
 motion everywhere ; void and rest nowhere. You ask 
 why your restless microscopic atoms may not come 
 together and become self-conscious and self-moving 
 organisms. I ask why my telescopic star-dust may 
 not come together and grow and organize into habita- 
 ble worlds, — the ripened fruit on the branches of the 
 tree YggdrasU, if I may borrow from our friend the 
 Poet's province. It frightens people, though, to hear 
 the suggestion that worlds shape themselves from star- 
 mist. It does not trouble them at all to see the wa- 
 tery spheres that round themselves into being out of 
 the vapors floating over us; they are nothing but rain- 
 drops. But if a planet can grow as a rain-drop grows, 
 why then — It was a great comfort to these timid 
 folk when Lord Kosse's telescope resolved certain neb- 
 ulae into star-clusters. Sir John Herschel would have 
 told them that this made little difference in accounting 
 for the formation of worlds by aggregation, but at 
 any rate it was a comfort to them. 
 
 — These people have always been afraid of the as- 
 tronomers, — said the Master. — They were shy, you 
 know, of the Copernican system, for a long while ; 
 well they might be with an oubliette waiting for them 
 if they ventured to think that the earth moved round 
 the sun. Science settled that point finally for them, 
 at length, and then it was all right, — when there was 
 no use in disputing the fact any longer. By and by 
 geology began turning up fossils that told extraordi- 
 nary stories about the duration of life upon our planet. 
 What subterfuges were not used to get rid of their 
 evidence ! Think of a man seeing the fossilized skel- 
 eton of an animal split out of a quarry, his teeth worn 
 down by mastication, and the remains of food stiU vis- 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 181 
 
 ible in his interior, and, in order to get rid of a piece 
 of evidence contrary to the traditions he holds to, seri- 
 ously maintaining that this skeleton never belonged 
 to a living creature, but was created with just these 
 appearances; a make-believe, a sham, a Barnum's- 
 mermaid contrivance to amuse its Creator and impose 
 upon his intelligent children ! And now people talk 
 about geological epochs and hundreds of millions of 
 years in the planet's history as calmly as if they were 
 discussing the age of their deceased great-grandmo- 
 thers. Ten or a dozen years ago people said Sh! Sh! 
 if you ventured to meddle with any question supposed 
 to involve a doubt of the generally accepted Hebrew 
 traditions. To-day such questions are recognized as 
 perfectly fair subjects for general conversation ; not in 
 the basement story, perhaps, or among the rank and 
 file of the curbstone congregations, but among intelli- 
 gent and educated persons. You may preach about 
 them in your pulpit, you may lecture about them, you 
 may talk about them with the first sensible-looking 
 person you happen to meet, you may write magazine 
 articles about them, and the editor need not expect to 
 receive remonstrances from angry subscribers and with- 
 drawals of subscriptions, as he would have been sure 
 to not a great many years ago. Why, you may go to 
 a tea-party where the clergyman's wife shows her best 
 cap and his daughters display their shining ringlets, 
 and you wiU hear the company discussing the Dar- 
 winian theory of the origin of the human race as if it 
 were as harmless a question as that of the lineage of a 
 spinster's lapdog. You may see a fine lady who is as 
 particular in her genuflections as any Buddhist or Ma- 
 hometan saint in his manifestations of reverence, who 
 wiU talk over the anthropoid ape, the supposed founder 
 
182 THE POET AT THE BREAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 of the famUy to which we belong, and even go back 
 with you to the acephalous mollusk, first cousin to 
 the clams and mussels, whose rudimental spine was the 
 hinted prophecy of humanity; all this time never 
 dreaming, apparently, that what she takes for a mat- 
 ter of curious speculation involves the whole future of 
 human progress and destiny. 
 
 I can't help thinking that if we had talked as freely 
 as we can and do now in the days of the first boarder 
 at this table, — I mean the one who introduced it to 
 the public, — it would have sounded a good deal more 
 aggressively than it does now. — The old Master got 
 rather warm in talking; perhaps the consciousness 
 of having a number of listeners had something to do 
 with it. 
 
 — This whole business is an open question, — he 
 said, — and there is no use in saying, "Hush! don't 
 talk about such things!" People do talk about 'em 
 everywhere; and if they don't talk about 'em they 
 think about 'em, and that is worse, — if there is any- 
 thing bad about such questions, that is. If for the 
 Fall of man, science comes to substitute the RISE of 
 man, sir, it means the utter disintegration of all the 
 spiritual pessimisms which have been like a spasm in 
 the heart and a cramp in the intellect of men for so 
 many centuries. And yet who dares to say that it is 
 not a perfectly legitimate and proper question to be 
 discussed, without the slightest regard to the fears or 
 the threats of Pope or prelate ? 
 
 Sir, I believe, — the Master rose from his chair as 
 he spoke, and said in a deep and solemn tone, but 
 without any declamatory vehemence, — sir, I believe 
 that we are at this moment in what will be recognized 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 183 
 
 not many centuries hence as one of the late watches in 
 the night of the dark ages. There is a twilight ray, 
 beyond question. We know somethirig of the uni- 
 verse, a very little, and, strangely enough, we know 
 most of what is farthest from us. We have weighed 
 the planets and analyzed the flames of the sun and 
 stars. We predict their movements as if they were 
 machines we ourselves had made and regulated. We 
 know a good deal about the earth on which we live. 
 But the study of man has been so completely sub- 
 jected to our preconceived opinions, that we have got 
 to begin all over again. We have studied anthropol- 
 ogy through theology; we have now to begin the 
 study of theology through anthropology. Until we 
 have exhausted the human element in every form of 
 belief, and that can only be done by what we may call 
 comparative spiritual anatomy, we cannot begin to 
 deal with the alleged extra-human elements without 
 blundering iato all imagiaable puerilities. If you 
 think for one moment that there is not a single reli- 
 gion in the world which does not come to us through 
 the medium of a preexisting language ; and if you re- 
 member that this language embodies absolutely noth- 
 ing but human conceptions and human passions, you 
 will see at once that every religion presupposes its own 
 elements as already existing in those to whom it is 
 addressed. I once went to a church in London and 
 heard the famous Edward Irving preach, and heard 
 some of his congregation speak in the strange words 
 characteristic of their miraculous gift of tongues. I 
 had a respect for the logical basis of this singular 
 phenomenon. I have always thought it was natural 
 that any celestial message should demand a language 
 of its own, only to be understood by divine illumina- 
 
184 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE, 
 
 tion. All human words tend, of course, to stop short 
 in human meaning. And the more I hear the most 
 sacred terms employed, the more I am satisfied that 
 they have entirely and radically different meanings in 
 the minds of those who use them. Yet they deal with 
 them as if they were as definite as mathematical quan- 
 tities or geometrical figures. What would become of 
 arithmetic if the figure 2 meant three for one man and 
 five for another and twenty for a third, and all the 
 other numerals were in the same way variable quan- 
 tities? Mighty intelligent correspondence business 
 men would have with each other! But how is this 
 any worse than the difference of opinion which led a 
 famous clergyman to say to a brother theologian, 
 "Oh, I see, my dear sir, your Ood is my Deoil." 
 
 Man has been studied proudly, contemptuously, 
 rather, from the point of view supposed to be author- 
 itatively settled. The self-sufficiency of egotistic na- 
 tures was never more fully shown than in the exposi- 
 tions of the worthlessness and wretchedness of their 
 fellow-creatures given by the dogmatists who have 
 "gone back," as the vulgar phrase is, on their race, 
 their own flesh and blood. Did you ever read what 
 Mr. Bancroft says about Calvin in his article on Jon- 
 athan Edwards? — and mighty well said it is too, in 
 my judgment. Let me remind you of it, whether 
 you have read it or not. "Setting himself up over 
 against the privileged classes, he, with a loftier pride 
 than thews, revealed the power of a yet higher order 
 of nobility, not of a registered ancestry of fifteen gen- 
 erations, but one absolutely spotless in its escutcheon, 
 preordained in the council chamber of eternity." I 
 think you '11 find I have got that sentence right, word 
 for word, and there 's a great deal more in it than 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 185 
 
 many good folks who call themselves after the re- 
 former seem to be aware of. The Pope put his foot 
 on the neck of kings, but Calvin and his cohort 
 crushed the whole himian race under their heels in 
 the name of the Lord of Hosts. Now, you see, the 
 point that people don't imderstand is the absolute and 
 utter humility of science, in opposition to this doc- 
 trinal self-sufficiency. I don't doubt this may sound 
 a little paradoxical at first, but I think you will find 
 it is all right. You remember the courtier and the 
 monarch, — Louis the Fourteenth, was n't it ? — never 
 mind, give the poor fellows that live by setting you 
 right a chance. "What o'clock is it?" says the 
 king. "Just whatever o'clock your Majesty pleases," 
 says the courtier. I venture to say the monarch was 
 a great deal more humble than the follower, who 
 pretended that his master was superior to such trifling 
 facts as the revolution of the planet. It was the same 
 thing, you remember, with King Canute and the tide 
 on the sea-shore. The king accepted the scientific 
 fact of the tide's rising. The loyal hangers-on, who 
 believed in divine right, were too proud of the com- 
 pany they found themselves in to make any such hu- 
 miliating admission. But there are people, and plenty 
 of them, to-day, who will dispute facts just as clear 
 to those who have taken the pains to learn what is 
 known about them, as that of the tide's rising. They 
 don't like to admit these facts, because they throw 
 doubt upon some of their cherished opinions. We 
 are getting on towards the last part of this nineteenth 
 century. What we have gained is not so much in 
 positive knowledge, though that is a good deal, as it 
 is in the freedom of discussion of every subject that 
 comes within the range of observation and inference. 
 
186 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 How long is it since Mrs. Piozzi wrote, — "Let me 
 hope that you will not pursue geology till it leads you 
 into doubts destructive of aU comfort in this world 
 and all happiness in the next"? 
 
 The Master paused and I remained silent, for I 
 was thinking things I could not say. 
 
 — It is well alwaye to have a woman near by when 
 one is talking on this class of subjects. Whether 
 there will be three or four women to one man in 
 heaven is a question which I must leave to those who 
 talk as if they knew all about the future condition of 
 the race to answer. But very certainly there is much 
 more of hearty faith, much more of spiritual life, 
 among women than among men, in this world. They 
 need faith to support them more than men do, for 
 they have a great deal less to call them out of them- 
 selves, and it comes easier to them, for their habitual 
 state of dependence teaches them to trust in others. 
 When they become voters, if they ever do, it may be 
 feared that the pews will lose what the ward-rooms 
 gaia. Relax a woman's hold on man, and her knee- 
 joints will soon begia to stiffen. Self-assertion brings 
 out many fine qualities, but it does not promote devo- 
 tional habits. 
 
 I remember some such thoughts as this were passing 
 through my mind while the Master was talking. I 
 noticed that the Lady was listening to the conver- 
 sation with a look of more than usual interest. We 
 men have the talk mostly to ourselves at this table; 
 the Master, as you have found out, is fond of mono- 
 logues, and I myself — weU, I suppose I must own to 
 a certain love for the reverberated music of my own 
 accents; at any rate, the Master and I do most of the 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 187 
 
 talking. But others help us do the listening. I think 
 I can show that they listen to some purpose. I am 
 going to surprise my reader with a letter which I re- 
 ceived very shortly after the conversation took place 
 which I have just reported. It is of course by a 
 special license, such as belongs to the supreme prerog- 
 ative of an author, that I am enabled to present it to 
 him. He need ask no questions : it is not his affair 
 how I obtained the right to give publicity to a private 
 communication. I have become somewhat more inti- 
 mately acquainted with the writer of it than in the 
 earlier period of my connection with this establish- 
 ment, and I think I may say have gained her confi- 
 dence to a very considerable degree. 
 
 Mt DEAR Sir : The conversations I have had with 
 you, limited as they have been, have convinced me 
 that I am quite safe in addressing you with freedom 
 on a subject which interests me, and others more than 
 myself. We at our end of the table have been listen- 
 ing, more or less intelligently, to the discussions going 
 on between two or three of you gentlemen on matters 
 of solemn import to us all. This is nothing very new 
 to me. I have been used, from an early period of 
 my life, to hear the discussion of grave questions, 
 both in politics and religion. I have seen gentlemen 
 at my father's table get as warm over a theological 
 point of dispute as in talking over their political dif- 
 ferences. I rather think it has always been very much 
 so, in bad as well as in good company; for you re- 
 member how Milton's fallen angels amused themselves 
 with disputing on "providence, foreknowledge, wiU., 
 and fate," and it was the same thing In that club 
 Goldsmith writes so pleasantly about. Indeed, why 
 
188 THE POET AT THE BBEAKEAST-TABLB. 
 
 should not people very often come, in the course of 
 conversation, to the one subject which lies beneath 
 aU else about which our thoughts are occupied? And 
 what more natural than that one should be inquiring 
 about what another has accepted and ceased to have 
 any doubts concerning? It seems tome all right that 
 at the proper time, in the proper place, those who are 
 less easily convinced than their neighbors should have 
 the fullest liberty of calling to account aU the opinions 
 which others receive without question. Somebody 
 must stand sentry at the outposts of belief, and it is 
 a sentry's business, I believe, to challenge every one 
 who comes near him, friend or foe. 
 
 I want you to imderstand fully that I am not one 
 of those poor nervous creatures who are frightened out 
 of their wits when any question is started that implies 
 the disturbance of their old beliefs. I manage to see 
 some of the periodicals, and now and then dip a little 
 way into a new book which deals with these curious 
 questions you were talking about, and others like them. 
 You know they find their way almost everywhere. 
 They do not worry me in the least. When I was a 
 little girl, they used to say that if you put a horsehair 
 into a tub of water It would turn into a snake in the 
 course of a few days. That did not seem to me so 
 very much stranger than it was that an egg should 
 turn into a chicken. What can I say to that f Only 
 that it is the Lord's doings, and marvellous in my 
 eyes ; and if our philosophical friend should find some 
 little live creatures, or what seem to be live creatures, 
 in any of his messes, I should say as much, and no 
 more. You do not think I would shut up my Bible 
 and Prayer-Book because there is one more thing I do 
 not understand in a world where I understand so very 
 little of all the wonders that surround me ? 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 189 
 
 It may be very wrong to pay any attention to those 
 speculations about the origin of mankind which seem 
 to conflict with the Sacred Record. But perhaps 
 there is some way of reconciling them, as there is of 
 making the seven days of creation harmonize with 
 modern geology. At least, these speculations are 
 curious enough in themselves; and I have seen so 
 many good and handsome children come of parents 
 who were anything but virtuous and comely, that I can 
 believe in almost any amount of improvement taking 
 place in a tribe of living beings, if time and oppor- 
 tunity favor it. I have read in books of natural his- 
 tory that dogs came originally from wolves. When I 
 remember my little Flora, who, as I used to think, 
 could do everything but talk, it does not seem to me 
 that she was much nearer her savage ancestors than 
 some of the horrid cannibal wretches are to their 
 neighbors the great apes. 
 
 You see that I am tolerably liberal in my habit of 
 looking at all these questions. We women drift 
 along with the current of the times, listening, in our 
 quiet way, to the discussions going on round us in 
 books and in conversation, and shift the phrases in 
 which we think and talk with something of the same 
 ease as that with which we change our style of dress 
 from year to year. I doubt if you of the other sex 
 know what an effect this habit of accommodating our 
 tastes to changing standards has upon us. Nothing 
 is fixed in them, as you know; the very law of fashion 
 is change. I suspect we learn from our dressmakers 
 to shift the costume of our minds, and slip on the 
 new fashions of thinking all the more easily because 
 we have been accustomed to new styles of dressing 
 every season. 
 
190 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 It frightens me to see how much I have written 
 without having yet said a word of what I began this 
 letter on purpose to say. I have taken so much space 
 in "defining my position," to borrow the politicians' 
 phrase, that I begin to fear you wiU be out of pa- 
 tience before you come to the part of my letter I care 
 most about your reading. 
 
 "What I want to say is this. "When these matters 
 are talked about before persons of different ages and 
 various shades of intelligence, I think one ought to be 
 very careful that his use of language does not injure 
 the sensibilities, perhaps blunt the reverential feel- 
 ings, of those who are listening to him. You of the 
 sterner sex say that we women have intuitions, but 
 not logic, as our birthright. I shall not commit my 
 sex by conceding this to be true as a whole, but I will 
 accept the first half of it, and I wiU go so far as to 
 say that we do not always care to follow out a train of 
 thought until it ends in a blind cul de sac, as some of 
 what are called the logical people are fond of doing. 
 
 Now I want to remind you that religion is not a 
 matter of intellectual luxury to those of us who are 
 interested in it, but something very different. It is 
 our life, and more than our life ; for that is measured 
 by pulse-beats, but our religious consciousness par- 
 takes of the Infinite, towards which it is constantly 
 yearning. It is very possible that a hundred or five 
 hundred years from now \hB forms of religious belief 
 may be so altered that we should hardly know them. 
 But the sense of dependence on DiAdne influence and 
 the need of communion with the unseen and eternal 
 will be then just what they are now. It is not the 
 geologist's hammer, or the astronomer's telescope, or 
 the naturalist's microscope, that is going to take away 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKPAST-TABLE. 191 
 
 the need of the hunHan soul for that Rock to rest upon 
 which is higher than itself, that Star which never sets, 
 that aU-pervading Presence which gives life to all the 
 least moving atoms of the immeasurable universe. 
 
 I have no fears for myself, and listen very quietly 
 to all your debates. I go from your philosophical dis- 
 cussions to the reading of Jeremy Taylor's "Eule and 
 Exercises of Holy Dying " without feeling that I have 
 unfitted myself in the least degree for its solemn re- 
 flections. And, as I have mentioned his name, I can- 
 not help saying that I do not believe that good man 
 himself would have ever shown the bitterness to those 
 who seem to be at variance with the received doc- 
 trines which one may see in some of the newspapers 
 that call themselves "religious." I have kept a few 
 old books from my honored father's library, and 
 among them is another of his which I always thought 
 had more true Christianity in its title than there is in 
 a good many whole volumes. I am going to take the 
 book down, or up, — for it is not a little one, — and 
 write out the title, which, I dare say, you remember, 
 and very likely you have the book. "Discourse of 
 the Liberty of Prophesying, showing the Unreason- 
 ableness of prescribing to other Men's Faith, and the 
 Iniquity of persecuting Different Opinions." 
 
 Now, my dear sir, I am sure you believe that I want 
 to be liberal and reasonable, and not to act like those 
 weak alarmists who, whenever the silly sheep begin 
 to skip as if something was after them, and huddle 
 together in their fright, are siire there must be a bear 
 or a lion comiag to eat them up. But for all that, I 
 want to beg you to handle some of these points, which 
 are so involved in the creed of a good many well-in- 
 tentioned persons that you cannot separate them from 
 
192 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 it without picking their whole belief to pieces, wiUi 
 more thought for them than you might think at first 
 they were entitled to. I have no doubt you gentlemen 
 are as wise as serpents, and I want you to be as harm- 
 less as doves. 
 
 The Yoimg Girl who sits by me has, I know, strong 
 religious instincts. Instead of setting her out to ask 
 all sorts of questions, I woidd rather, if I had my way, 
 encourage her to form a habit of attending to religious 
 duties, and make the most of the simple faith in which 
 she was bred. I think there are a good many ques- 
 tions young persons may safely postpone to a more 
 convenient season ; and as this yoxmg creature is over- 
 worked, I hate to have her excited by the fever of 
 doubt which it cannot be denied is largely prevailing 
 in our time. 
 
 I know you must have looked on our other young 
 friend, who has devoted himself to the sublimest of the 
 sciences, with as much interest as I do. When I was 
 a little girl I used to write out a line of Young's as a 
 copy in my writing-book, 
 
 " An undevout astronomer is mad " ; 
 
 but I do not now feel quite so sure that the contem- 
 plation of all the multitude of remote worlds does not 
 tend to weaken the idea of a personal Deity. It is 
 not so much that nebular theory which worries me, 
 when I think about this subject, as a kind of bewil- 
 derment when I try to conceive of a consciousness fill- 
 ing all those frightful blanks of space they talk about. 
 I sometimes doubt whether that young man worships 
 anything but the stars. They teU me that many 
 young students of science like him never see the inside 
 of a church. I cannot help wishing they did. It hu- 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKEAST-TABLE. 193 
 
 manizes people, quite apart from any higher influence 
 it exerts upon them. One reason, perhaps, why they 
 do not care to go to places of worship is that they are 
 liable to hear the questions they know something about 
 handled in sermons by those who know very much less 
 about them. And so they lose a great deal. Almost 
 every human being, however vague his notions of the 
 Power addressed, is capable of being lifted and sol- 
 emnized by the exercise of public prayer. When I 
 was a young girl we travelled in Europe, and I vis- 
 ited Ferney with my parents ; and I remember we all 
 stopped before a chapel, and I read upon its front, — 
 I knew Latin enough to understand it, I am pleased 
 to say, — Deo erexit Voltaire. I never forgot it ; and 
 knowing what a sad scoffer he was at most sacred 
 things, I could not but be impressed with the fact that 
 even he was not satisfied with himself, until he had 
 shown his devotion in a public and lasting form. 
 
 We all want religion sooner or later. I am afraid 
 there are some who have no natural turn for it, as 
 there are persons without an ear for music, to which, 
 if I remember right, I heard one of you comparing 
 what you called religious genius. But sorrow and 
 misery bring even these to know what it means, in a 
 great many instances. May I not say to you, my 
 friend, that I am one who has learned the secret of the 
 inner life by the discipline of trials in the life of out- 
 ward circumstance? I can remember the time when 
 I thought more about the shade of color in a ribbon, 
 whether it matched my complexion or not, than I did 
 about my spiritual interests in this world or the next. 
 It was needful that I should learn the meaning of that 
 text, "Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." 
 
 Since I have been taught in the school of trial I 
 
194 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 have felt, as I never could before, how precious an in- 
 heritance is the smallest patrimony of faith. When 
 everything seemed gone from me, I found I had stUl 
 one possession. The bruised reed that I had never 
 leaned on became my staff. The smoking flax which 
 had been a worry to my eyes burst iato flame, and I 
 lighted the taper at it which has since guided aU my 
 footsteps. And I am but one of the thousands who 
 have had the same experience. They have been 
 through the depths of affliction, and know the needs 
 of the human soul. It will find its God in the unseen, 
 — Father, Saviour, Divine Spirit, Virgin Mother, — 
 it must and will breathe its longings and its griefs 
 into the heart of a Being capable of understanding all 
 its necessities and sympathizing with aU its woes. 
 
 I am jealous, yes, I own I am jealous of any word, 
 spoken or written, that would tend to impair that 
 birthright of reverence which becomes for so many in 
 after years the basis of a deeper religious sentiment. 
 And yet, as I have said, I cannot and will not shut 
 my eyes to the problems which may seriously affect 
 our modes of conceiving the eternal truths on which, 
 and by which, our souls must live. What a fearful 
 time is this into which we poor sensitive and timid 
 creatures are born ! I suppose the ILEe of every cen- 
 tury has more or less special resemblance to that of 
 some particular Apostle. I cannot help thinking this 
 century has Thomas for its model. How do you sup- 
 pose the other Apostles felt when that experimental 
 philosopher explored the wounds of the Being who 
 to them was divine with his inquisitive forefinger? 
 In our time that finger has multiplied itself into ten 
 thousand thousand implements of research, challeng- 
 ing all mysteries, weighing the world as in a balance, 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TAELE. 195 
 
 and sifting through its prisms and spectroscopes the 
 light that comes from the throne of the Eternal. 
 
 Pity us, dear Lord, pity us ! The peace in believ- 
 ing which belonged to other ages is not for us. 
 Again Thy wounds are opened that we may know 
 whether it is the blood of one like ourselves which 
 flows from them, or whether it is a Divinity that is 
 bleeding for His creatures. Wilt Thou not take the 
 doubt of Thy children whom the time commands to try 
 all things in the place of the unquestioning faith of 
 earlier and simpler-hearted generations? We too 
 have need of Thee. Thy martyrs in other ages were 
 cast into the flames, but no fire could touch their im- 
 mortal and indestructible faith. We sit in safety and 
 in peace, so far as these poor bodies are concerned; 
 but our cherished beliefs, the hopes, the trust that 
 stayed the hearts of those we loved who have gone 
 before us, are cast into the fiery furnace of an age 
 which is fast turning to dross the certainties and the 
 sanctities once prized as our most precious inheri- 
 tance. 
 
 You will understand me, my dear sir, and aU my 
 solicitudes and apprehensions. Had I never been as- 
 sailed by the questions that meet aU thinking persons 
 in our time, I might not have thought so anxiously 
 about the risk of perplexing others. I know as weU 
 as you must that there are many articles of belief 
 clinging to the skirts of our time which are the be- 
 quests of the ages of ignorance that God winked at. 
 But for aU that I would train a child in the nurture 
 and admonition of the Lord, according to the sim- 
 plest and best creed I could disentangle from those 
 barbarisms, and I would in every way try to keep up 
 in young persons that standard of reverence for all 
 
196 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 sacred subjects which may, without any violent tran- 
 sition, grow and ripen into the devotion of later years. 
 Believe me, 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 I have thought a good deal about this letter and the 
 writer of it lately. She seemed at first removed to 
 a distance from all of us, but here I find myself in 
 somewhat near relations with her. What has sur- 
 prised me more than that, however, is to find that she 
 is becoming so much acquainted with the Register of 
 Deeds. Of all persons in the world, I should least 
 have thought of him as like to be interested in her, 
 and still less, if possible, of her fancying him. I can 
 only say they have been in pretty close conversation 
 several times of late, and, if I dared to think it of so 
 very calm and dignified a personage, I should say 
 that her color was a little heightened after one or 
 more of these interviews. No! that would be too 
 absurd ! But I begin to think nothing is absurd in 
 the matter of the relations of the two sexes; and if 
 this high-bred woman fancies the attentions of a piece 
 of human machinery like this elderly individual, it 
 is none of my business. 
 
 I have been at work on some more of the Young 
 Astronomer's liues. I find less occasion for meddling 
 with them as he grows more used to versification. I 
 think I could analyze the processes going on in his 
 mind, and the conflict of instincts which he cannot in 
 the nature of things understand. But it is as well to 
 give the reader a chance to find out for himself what 
 is going on in the yoimg man's heart and intellect. 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 197 
 
 WIND-CLOUDS AND STAK-DRIFTS. 
 
 The snows that glittered on the disk of Mars 
 
 Have melted, and the planet's fiery orb 
 
 Kolls in the crimson summer of its year ; 
 
 But what to me the summer or the snow 
 
 Of worlds that throb with life in forms unknown, 
 
 If life indeed be theirs ; I heed not these. 
 
 My heart is simply human ; all my care 
 
 For them whose dust is fashioned like mine own ; 
 
 These ache with cold and hunger, live in pain. 
 
 And shake with fear of worlds more full of woe ; 
 
 There may be others worthier of my love, 
 
 But such I know not save through these I know. 
 
 There are two veils of language, hid beneath 
 Whose sheltering folds, we dare to be ourselves ; 
 And not that other self which nods and smiles 
 And babbles in our name ; the one is Prayer, 
 Lending its licensed freedom to the tongue 
 That tells our sorrows and our sins to Heaven ; 
 The other, Verse, that throws its spangled web 
 Aroimd our naked speech and makes it bold. 
 I, whose best prayer is silence ; sitting dumb 
 In the great temple where I nightly serve 
 Him who is throned in light, have dared to claim 
 The poet's franchise, though I may not hope 
 To wear his garland ; hear me while I tell 
 My story in such form as poets use, 
 But breathed in fitful whispers, as the wind 
 Sighs and then slumbers, wakes and sighs again. 
 
 Thou Vision, floating in the breathless air 
 Between me and the fairest of the stars, 
 I tell my lonely thoughts as unto thee. 
 Look not for marvels of the scholar's pen 
 In my rude measure ; I can only show 
 A slender-margined, uniUumined page. 
 And trust its meaning to the flattering eye 
 
198 THE POET AT THE BEBAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 That reads it in the gracious light of love. 
 Ah, wouldst thou clothe thyself in breathing shape 
 And nestle at my side, my voice should lend 
 Whate'er my verse may lack of tender rhythm 
 To make thee listen. 
 
 I have stood entranced 
 When, with her fingers wandering o'er the keys, 
 The white enchantress with the golden hair 
 Breathed all her soul through some unvalued rhyme ; 
 Some flower of song that long had lost its bloom ; 
 Lo ! its dead summer kindled as she sang ! 
 The sweet contralto, like the ringdove's coo, 
 Thrilled it with brooding, fond, caressing tones. 
 And the pale minstrel's passion lived again, 
 Tearful and trembling as a dewy rose 
 The wind has shaken tiU it fills the air 
 With light and fragrance. Such the wondrous charm 
 A song can borrow when the bosom throbs 
 That lends it breath. 
 
 So from the poet's lips 
 His verse sounds doubly sweet, for none like him 
 Feels every cadence of its wave-like flow ; 
 He lives the passion over, while he reads. 
 That shook him as he sang his lofty strain. 
 And pours bis life through each resounding line. 
 As ocean, when the stormy winds are hushed, 
 StUl rolls and thunders through his billowy caves. 
 
 Let me retrace the record of the years 
 That made me what I am. A man most wise, 
 But overworn with toil and bent with age. 
 Sought me to be his scholar, — me, run wild 
 From books and teachers, — kindled in my soul 
 The love of knowledge ; led me to his tower, 
 Showed me the wonders of the midnight realm 
 His hollow sceptre ruled, or seemed to rule. 
 Taught me the mighty secrets of the spheres, 
 Trained me to find the glimmering specks of light 
 Beyond the unaided sense, and on my chart 
 To string them one by one, in order due, 
 As on a rosary a saint his beads. 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 199 
 
 I was his only scholax ; I became 
 
 The echo to his thought ; whate'er he knew 
 
 Was mine for asking ; so from year to year 
 
 We wrought together, till there came a time 
 
 When I, the learner, was the master half 
 
 Of the twinned being in the dome-crowned tower. 
 
 Minds roll in paths like planets ; they revolve 
 This in a larger, that a narrower ring. 
 But round they come at last to that same phase, 
 That self -same light and shade they showed before. 
 I learned his annual and his monthly tale, 
 His weekly axiom and his daily phrase, 
 I felt them coming in the laden air. 
 And watched them laboring up to vocal breath, 
 Even as the first-born at his father's board 
 Knows ere he speaks the too familiar jest 
 Is on its way, by some mysterious sign 
 Forewarned, the click before the striking bell. 
 
 He shrivelled as I spread my growing leaves, 
 Till trust and reverence changed to pitying care ; 
 He lived for me in what he once had been. 
 Bat I for him, a shadow, a defence, 
 The guardian of his fame, his guide, his staff. 
 Leaned on so long he fell if left alone. 
 I was his eye, his ear, his cunning hand. 
 Love was my spur and longing after fame. 
 But his the goading thorn of sleepless age 
 That sees its shortening span, its lengthening shades. 
 That clutches what it may with eager grasp. 
 And drops at last with empty, outstretched hands. 
 
 All this he dreamed not. He would sit him down 
 Thinking to work his problems as of old. 
 And find the star he thought so plain a blnr. 
 The columned figures labyrinthine wUds 
 Without my comment, blind and senseless scrawls 
 That vexed him with their riddles ; he would strive 
 And struggle for a while, and then his eye 
 Would lose its light, and over all his mind 
 
200 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 The cold gray mist would settle ; and erelong 
 The darkness fell, and I was left alone. 
 
 Alone ! no climber of an Alpine cliff. 
 No Arctic venturer on the waveless sea, 
 Feels the dread stillness round him as it ehilla 
 The heart of him who leaves the slumbering earth 
 To watch the silent worlds that crowd the sky. 
 
 Alone I And as the shepherd leaves his Hock 
 To feed upon the hillside, he meanwhile 
 Finds converse in the warblings of the pipe 
 Himself has fashioned for his vacant hour, 
 So have I grown companion to myself. 
 And to the wandering spirits of the air 
 That smUe and whisper round us in our dreams. 
 Thus have I learned to search if I may know 
 The whence and why of all beneath the stars 
 And all beyond them, and to weigh my life 
 As in a balance, — poising good and ill 
 Against each other, — asking of the Power 
 That flung me forth among the whirling worlds, 
 If I am heir to any inborn right. 
 Or only as an atom of the dust 
 That every wind may blow where'er it will. 
 
 I am not humble ; I was shown my place. 
 Clad in such robes as Nature had at hand ; 
 Took what she gave, not chose ; I know no shame, 
 No fear for being simply what I am. 
 I am not proud, I hold my every breath 
 At Nature's mercy. I am as a babe 
 Borne in a giant's arms, he knows not where ; 
 Each several heart-beat, counted like the coin 
 A miser reckons, is a special gift 
 As from an unseen hand ; if that withhold 
 Its bounty for a moment, I am left 
 A clod upon the earth to which I fall. 
 
 Something I find in me that well might claim 
 The love of beings in a sphere above 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKTAST-TABLE. 201 
 
 This doubtful twilight world of right and wrong ; 
 
 Something that shows me of the self-same clay 
 
 That creeps or swims or flies in humblest form. 
 
 Had I been asked, before I left my bed 
 
 Of shapeless dust, what clothing I would wear, 
 
 I would have said, More angel and less worm ; 
 
 But for their sake who are even such as I, 
 
 Of the same mingled blood, I would not choose 
 
 To hate that meaner portion of myself 
 
 Which makes me brother to the least of men. 
 
 I dare not be a coward with my lips 
 
 Who dare to question aU things in my soul ; 
 
 Some men may find their wisdom on their knees, 
 
 Some prone and groveUing in the dust like slaves ; 
 
 Let the meek glow-worm glisten in the dew ; 
 
 I ask to lift my taper to the sky 
 
 As they who hold their lamps above their heads, 
 
 Trusting the larger currents up aloft. 
 
 Rather than crossing eddies round their breast, 
 
 Threatening with every puff the flickering blaze. 
 
 My life shall be a challenge, not a truce ! 
 
 This is my homage to the mightier powers. 
 
 To ask my boldest question, undismayed 
 
 By muttered threats that some hysteric sense 
 
 Of wrong or insult will convulse the throne 
 
 Where wisdom reigns supreme ; and if I err. 
 
 They all must err who have to feel their way 
 
 As bats that fly at noon ; for what are we 
 
 But creatures of the night, dragged forth by day. 
 
 Who needs must stumble, and with stammering steps 
 
 Spell out their paths in syllables of pain ? 
 
 Thou wilt not hold in scorn the child who dares 
 Look up to Thee, the Father, — dares to ask 
 More than Thy wisdom answers. From Thy hand 
 The worlds were cast ; yet every leaflet claims 
 From that same hand its little shining sphere 
 Of star-lit dew ; thine image, the great sun. 
 Girt with his mantle of tempestuous flame, 
 
202 THE POET AT THE BBEAKEAST-TABLE. 
 
 Glares in mid-heaven ; but to his noontide blaze 
 The slender violet lifts its lidless eye, 
 And from his splendor steals its fairest hue, 
 Its sweetest perfume from his scorching Are. 
 
 I may just as weE stop here as anywhere, for there 
 is more of the manuscript to come, and I can only 
 give it in instahnents. 
 
 The Young Astronomer had told me I might read 
 any portions of his manuscript I saw fit to certain 
 friends. I tried this last extract on the old Master. 
 
 It 's the same story we all have to tell, — said he, 
 when I had done reading. — We are all asking ques- 
 tions nowadays. I should like to hear him read some 
 of his verses himself, and I think some of the other 
 boarders would like to. I wonder if he would n't do 
 it, if we asked him ! Poets read their own composi- 
 tions in a singsong sort of way; but they do seem to 
 love 'em so, that I always enjoy it. It makes me 
 laugh a little inwardly to see how they dandle their 
 poetical babies, but I don't let them know it. We 
 must get up a select party of the boarders to hear him 
 read. We '11 send him a regular invitation. I will 
 put my name at the head of it, and you shall write it. 
 
 — That was neatly done. How I hate writing such 
 things ! But I suppose I must do it. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Master and I had been thinking for some time 
 of trying to get the Young Astronomer round to our 
 side of the table. There are many subjects on which 
 both of us like to talk with him, and it would be con- 
 venient to have him nearer to us. How to manage it 
 was not quite so clear as it might have been. The 
 
THK POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 203 
 
 Scarabee wanted to sit with his back to the light, as 
 it was in his present position. He used his eyes so 
 much in studying minute objects, that he wished to 
 spare them all fatigue, and did not like facing a win- 
 dow. Neither of us cared to ask the Man of Letters, 
 so called, to change his place, and of course we could 
 not think of making such a request of the Young Girl 
 or the Lady. So we were at a stand with reference 
 to this project of ours. 
 
 But while we were proposing. Fate or Providence 
 disposed everything for us. The Man of Letters, 
 so called, was missing one morning, having folded 
 his tent — that is, packed his carpet-bag — with the 
 silence of the Arabs, and encamped — that is, taken 
 lodgings — in some locality which he had forgotten to 
 indicate. 
 
 The Landlady bore this sudden bereavement re- 
 markably well. Her remarks and reflections, though 
 borrowing the aid of homely imagery and doing occa- 
 sional violence to the nicer usages of speech, were not 
 without philosophical discrimination. 
 
 — I like a gentleman that is a gentleman. But 
 there 's a difference in what folks call gentlemen as 
 there is in what you put on table. There is cabbages 
 and there is cauliflowers. There is clams and there 
 is oysters. There is mackerel and there is salmon. 
 And there is some that knows the difference and 
 some that doos n't. I had a little account with that 
 boarder that he forgot to settle before he went off, so 
 all of a suddin. I sha'n't say anything about it. 
 I 've seen the time when I should have felt bad about 
 losing what he owed me, but it was no great matter; 
 and if he 'U only stay away now he 's gone, I can 
 stand losing it, and not cry my eyes out nor lay awake 
 
204 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 all night neither. I never had ought to have took 
 him. Where he come from and where he 's gone to 
 is unbeknown to me. If he 'd only smoked good to- 
 bacco, I would n't have said a word ; but it was such 
 dreadful stujBE, it '11 take a week to get his chamber 
 sweet enough to show them that asks for rooms. It 
 doos smell like all possest. 
 
 — Left any goods? — asked the Salesman. 
 
 — Or dockermunts? — added the Member of the 
 Haouse. 
 
 The Landlady answered with a faded smile, which 
 implied that there was no hope in that direction. Dr. 
 Benjamin, with a sudden recurrence of youthful feel- 
 ing, made a fan with the fingers of his right hand, the 
 second phalanx of the thumb resting on the tip of the 
 nose, and the remaining digits diverging from each 
 other, in the plane of the median line of the face, — I 
 suppose this is the way he would have described the 
 gesture, which is almost a specialty of the Parisian 
 gamin. That Boy immediately copied it, and added 
 greatly to its effect by extending the fingers of the 
 other hand in a line with those of the first, and vigo- 
 rously agitating those of the two hands, — a gesture 
 which acts like a puncture on the distended self- 
 esteem of one to whom it is addressed, and cheapens 
 the memory of the absent to a very low figure. 
 
 I wish the reader to observe that I treasure up with 
 interest all the words uttered by the Salesman. It 
 must have been noticed that he very rarely speaks. 
 Perhaps he has an inner life, with its own deep emo- 
 tional, and lofty contemplative elements, but as we 
 see him, he is the boarder reduced to the simplest 
 expression of that term. Yet, like most human crea- 
 tures, he has generic and specific characters not un- 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 205 
 
 ■worthy of being studied. I notice particularly a 
 certain electrical briskness of movement, such as one 
 may see in a squirrel, which clearly belongs to his 
 calling. The dry-goodsman's life behind his counter 
 is a succession of sudden, snappy perceptions and 
 brief series of coordinate spasms, as thus : — 
 "Purple calico, three quarters wide, six yards." 
 Up goes the arm; bang! tumbles out the flat roll 
 and turns half a dozen somersets, as if for the fun of 
 the thing; the six yards of calico hurry over the mea- 
 suring naUs, hunching their backs up, like six canker- 
 worms; out jump the scissors; snip, clip, rip; the 
 stuff is wisped up, brown - papered, tied, labelled, 
 delivered, and the man is himself again, like a child 
 just come out of a convulsion-fit. Think of a man's 
 having some hundreds of these semi-epileptic seizures 
 every day, and you need not wonder that he does not 
 say much; these fits take the talk all out of him. 
 
 But because he, or any other man, does not say 
 much, it does not follow that he may not have, as I 
 have said, an exalted and intense inner life. I have 
 known a number of cases where a man who seemed 
 thoroughly commonplace and unemotional has all at 
 once surprised everybody by telling the story of his 
 hidden life far more pointedly and dramatically than 
 any playwright or novelist or poet could have told it 
 for him. I will not insult your intelligence. Beloved, 
 by saying how he has told it. 
 
 — We had been talking over the subjects touched 
 upon in the Lady's letter. 
 
 — I suppose one man in a dozen — said the Master 
 — ought to be born a skeptic. That was the propor- 
 tion among the Apostles, at any rate. 
 
 — So there was one Judas among them, — I re- 
 marked. 
 
206 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 — Well, — said the Master, — they 've been white- 
 washing Judas of late. But never mind him. I did 
 not say there was not one rogue on the average among 
 a dozen men. I don't see how that woidd interfere 
 with my proposition. If I say that among a dozen 
 men you ought to find one that weighs over a hundred 
 and fifty pounds, and you tell me that there were 
 twelve men in your club, and one of 'em had red hair, 
 I don't see that you have materially damaged my 
 statement. 
 
 — I thought it best to let the old Master have his 
 easy victory, which was more apparent than real, 
 very evidently, and he went on. 
 
 — When the Lord sends out a batch of human 
 beings, say a hundred — Did you ever read my 
 book, the new edition of it, I mean? 
 
 It is rather awkward to answer such a question in 
 the negative, but I said, with the best grace I could, 
 "No, not the last edition." 
 
 — Well, I must give you a copy of it. My book 
 and I are pretty much the same thing. Sometimes I 
 steal from my book in my talk without mentioning it, 
 and then I say to myself, "Oh, that won't do; every- 
 body has read my book and knows it by heart." And 
 then the other / says, — you know there are two of us, 
 right and left, like a pair of shoes, — the other I says, 
 "You 're a — something or other — fool. They have 
 n't read your confounded old book; besides, if they 
 have, they have forgotten all about it." Another 
 time, I say, thinking I will be very honest, "I have 
 said something about that in my book"; and then 
 the other / says, "What a Balaam's quadruped you 
 are to tell 'em it's in your book; they don't care 
 whether it is or not, if it 's anything worth saying; 
 
THE POET AT THE BEBAKFAST-TABLE. 207 
 
 and if it isn't worth saying, what are you braying 
 for? " That is a rather sensible fellow, that other 
 chap we talk with, but an impudent whelp. I never 
 got such abuse from any blackguard in my life as I 
 have from that No. 2 of me, the one that answers the 
 other's questions and makes the comments, and does 
 what in demotic phrase is called the "sarsing." 
 
 — I laughed at that. I have just such a fellow 
 always with me, as wise as Solomon, if I would only 
 heed him; but as insolent as Shimei, cursing, and 
 throwing stones and dirt, and behaving as if he had 
 the traditions of the "ape-like human being" born 
 with him rather than civilized instincts. One does 
 not have to be a king to know what it is to keep a 
 king's jester. 
 
 — I mentioned my book, — the Master said, — 
 because I have something in it on the subject we were 
 talking about. I should like to read you a passage 
 here and there out of it, where I have expressed my- 
 self a little more freely on some of those matters we 
 handle in conversation. If you don't quarrel with it, 
 I must give you a copy of the book. It 's a rather 
 serious thiag to get a copy of a book from the writer 
 of it. It has made my adjectives sweat pretty hard, I 
 know, to put together an answer returning thanks and 
 not lying beyond the twilight of veracity, if one may 
 use a figure. Let me try a little of my book on you, 
 in divided doses, as my friends the doctors say. 
 
 — Fiat experimentum in corpore vUi, — I said, 
 laughing at my own expense. I don't doubt the 
 medicament is quite as good as the patient deserves, 
 and probably a great deal better, — I added, reinfor- 
 cing my feeble compliment. 
 
 [When you pay a compliment to an author, don't 
 
208 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 qualify it in the next sentence so as to take all the 
 goodness out of it. Now I am thinking of it, I wiU 
 give you one or two pieces of advice. Be careful to 
 assure yourself that the person you are talking with 
 wrote the article or book you praise. It is not very 
 pleasant to be told, "Well, there, now! I always 
 liked your writings, but you never did anything haK 
 so good as this last piece," and then to have to tell the 
 blunderer that this last piece is n't yours, but t' other 
 man's. Take care that the phrase or sentence you 
 commend is not one that is ia quotation-marks. " The 
 best thing in your piece, I think, is a line I do not 
 remember meeting before; it struck me as very true 
 and well expressed : — 
 
 ' An honest man 's the noblest work of God.' " 
 
 "But, my dear lady, that line is one which is to be 
 found in a writer of the last century, and not original 
 with me." One ought not to have undeceived her, 
 perhaps, but one is naturally honest, and cannot bear 
 to be credited with what is not his own. The lady 
 blushes, of course, and says she has not read much 
 ancient literature, or some such thing. The pearl 
 upon the Ethiop's arm is very pretty in verse, but 
 one does not care to furnish the dark backgroiind for 
 other persons' jewelry.] 
 
 I adjourned from the table in company with the old 
 Master to his apartments. He was evidently in easy 
 circumstances, for he had the best accommodations 
 the house afforded. We passed through a reception- 
 room to his library, where everything showed that he 
 had ample means for indulging the modest tastes of a 
 scholar. 
 
 — The first thing, naturally, when one enters a 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 209 
 
 scholar's study or library, is to look at his books. 
 One gets a notion very speedily of his tastes and the 
 range of his pursuits by a glance round his book- 
 shelves. 
 
 Of course, you know there are many fine houses 
 where the library is a part of the upholstery, so to 
 speak. Books in handsome binding kept locked under 
 plate-glass in showy dwarf bookcases are as important 
 to stylish establishments as servants in livery, who 
 sit with folded arms, are to stylish equipages. I sup- 
 pose those wonderful statues with the folded arms do 
 sometimes change their attitude, and I suppose those 
 books with the gilded backs do sometimes get opened, 
 but it is nobody's business whether they do or not, 
 and it is not best to ask too many questions. 
 
 This sort of thing is common enough, but there is 
 another case that may prove deceptive if you under- 
 take to judge from appearances. Once in a while 
 you will come on a house where you will find a family 
 of readers and almost no library. Some of the most 
 indefatigable devourers of literature have very few 
 books. They belong to book clubs, they haunt the 
 public libraries, they borrow of friends, and somehow 
 or other get hold of everything they want, scoop out 
 all it holds for them, and have done with it. When 
 I want a book, it is as a tiger wants a sheep. I must 
 have it with one spring, and, if I miss it, go away de- 
 feated and hungry. And my experience with public 
 libraries is that the first volume of the book I inquire 
 for is out, unless I happen to want the second, when 
 that is out. 
 
 — I was pretty well prepared to understand the 
 Master's library and his account of it. We seated 
 ourselves in two very comfortable chairs, and I began 
 the conversation. 
 
210 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 — I see you have a large and rather miscellaneous 
 collection of books. Did you get them together by 
 accident or according to some preconceived plan? 
 
 — Both, sir, both, — the Master answered. — 
 When Providence throws a good book in my way, I 
 bow to its decree and purchase it as an act of piety, 
 Lf it is reasonably or unreasonably cheap. I adopt 
 a certain number of books every year, out of a love 
 for the foundlings and stray children of other people's 
 brains that nobody seems to care for. Look here. 
 
 He took down a Greek Lexicon finely bound in 
 calf, and spread it open. 
 
 Do you see that Hedericus? I had Greek diction- 
 aries enough and to spare, but I saw that noble quarto 
 lying in the midst of an ignoble crowd of cheap books, 
 and marked with a price which I felt to be an insult 
 to scholarship, to the memory of Homer, sir, and the 
 awful shade of -^schylus. I paid the mean price 
 asked for it, and I wanted to double it, but I suppose 
 it woidd have been a foolish sacrifice of coin to senti- 
 ment. I love that book for its looks and behavior. 
 None of your " half -calf " economies in that voliune, 
 sir! And see how it lies open anywhere! There 
 is n't a book in my library that has such a generous 
 way of laying its treasures before you. From Alpha 
 to Omega, cahn, assured rest at any page that your 
 choice or accident may light on. No lifting of a re- 
 bellious leaf like an upstart servant that does not know 
 his place and can never be taught manners, but tran- 
 quil, well-bred repose. A book may be a perfect 
 gentleman in its aspect and demeanor, and this book 
 would be good company for personages like Roger 
 Ascham and his pupils the Lady Elizabeth and the 
 Lady Jane Grey. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLB. 211 
 
 The Master was evidently riding a hobby, and 
 what I wanted to know was the plan on which he had 
 formed his library. So I brought him back to the 
 point by asking him the question in so many words. 
 
 Yes, — he said, — I have a kind of notion of the 
 way in which a library ought to be put together — no, 
 I don't mean that, I mean ought to grow. I don't 
 pretend to say that mine is a model, but it serves my 
 turn well enough, and it represents me pretty accu- 
 rately. A scholar must shape his own shell, secrete it 
 one might almost say, for secretion is only separation, 
 you know, of certain elements derived from the mate- 
 rials of the world about us. And a scholar's study, 
 with the books lining its walls, is his shell. It is n't 
 a mollusk's shell, either; it 's a caddice-worm's shell. 
 You know about the caddice-worm? 
 
 — More or less ; less rather than more, — was my 
 humble reply. 
 
 Well, sir, the caddice-worm is the larva of a fly, 
 and he makes a case for himself out of aU sorts of bits 
 of everything that happen to suit his particular fancy, 
 dead or alive, sticks and stones and small shells with 
 their owners in 'em, living as comfortable as ever. 
 Every one of these caddice-worms has his special fancy 
 as to what he will pick up and glue together, with a 
 kind of natural cement he provides himself, to make 
 his case out of. In it he lives, sticking his head and 
 shoulders out once in a while, that is all. Don't you 
 see that a student in his library is a caddice-worm in 
 his case ? I 've told you that I take an interest in 
 pretty much everything, and don't mean to fence out 
 any human interests from the private grounds of my 
 intelligence. Then, again, there is a subject, per- 
 haps I may say there is more than one, that I want to 
 
212 THE POET AT THE BHEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 exhaust, to know to the very bottom. And besides, 
 of course I must have my literary harem, my pare 
 aux cerfs, where my favorites await my moments of 
 leisure and pleasure, — my scarce and precious edi- 
 tions, my luxurious typographical masterpieces; my 
 Delilahs, that take my head in their lap : the pleasant 
 story-tellers and the like ; the books I love because they 
 are fair to look upon, prized by collectors, endeared 
 by old associations, secret treasures that nobody else 
 knows anything about; books, in short, that I like 
 for insufficient reasons it may be, but peremptorily, 
 and mean to like and to love and to cherish tiU death 
 us do part. 
 
 Don't you see I have given you a key to the way 
 my library is made up, so that you can apriorise the 
 plan according to which I have filled my bookcases? 
 I will teU you how it is carried out. 
 
 In the first place, you see, I have four extensive 
 cyclopaedias. Out of these I can get information 
 enough to serve my immediate purpose on almost 
 any subject. These, of course, are supplemented by 
 geographical, biographical, bibliographical, and other 
 dictionaries, including of course lexicons to all the lan- 
 guages I ever meddle with. Next to these come the 
 works relating to my one or two specialties, and these 
 collections I make as perfect as I can. Every library 
 should try to be complete on something, if it were 
 only on the history of pin-heads. I don't mean that 
 I buy all the trashy compilations on my special sub- 
 jects, but I try to have all the works of any real im- 
 portance relating to them, old as well as new. In the 
 following compartment you will find the great authors 
 in aU the languages I have mastered, from Homer and 
 Hesiod downward to the last great English name. 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 213 
 
 This division, you see, you can make almost as exten- 
 sive or as limited as you choose. You can crowd the 
 great representative writers into a small compass; or 
 you can make a library consisting only of the different 
 editions of Horace, if you have space and money 
 enough. Then comes the Harem, the shelf or the 
 bookcase of Delilahs, that you have paid wicked prices 
 for, that you love without pretending to be reasona- 
 ble about it, and would bag in case of fire before all 
 the rest, just as Mr. Townley took the Clytie to his 
 carriage when the anti-Catholic mob threatened his 
 house in 1780. As for the foundlings like my He- 
 dericus, they go among their peers; it is a pleasure 
 to take them from the dusty stall where they were 
 elbowed by plebeian school-books and battered odd 
 volumes, and give them Alduses and Elzevirs for 
 companions. 
 
 Nothing remains but the Infirmary. The most 
 painful subjects are the unfortunates that have lost 
 a cover. Boimd a hundred years ago, perhaps, and 
 one of the rich old browned covers gone — what a 
 pity! Do you know what to do about it? I 'U teU 
 you, — no, I'll shxm you. Look at this volume. 
 M. T. Ciceronis Opera, — a dozen of 'em, — one of 
 'em minus half his cover, a poor one-legged cripple, 
 six months ago, — now see him. 
 
 — He looked very respectably indeed, both covers 
 dark, ancient, very decently matched; one would 
 hardly notice the fact that they were not twias. 
 
 — I 'U tell you what I did. You poor devil, said 
 I, you are a disgrace to your family. "We must send 
 you to a surgeon and have some kind of a Taliacotian 
 operation performed on you. (You remember the 
 operation as described in Hudibras, of course.) The 
 
214 THE POET AT THE BKEAKF AST-TABLE. 
 
 first thing was to find a subject of similar age and 
 aspect ready to part with one of his members. So I 
 went to Quidlibet's, — you know Quidlibet and that 
 hieroglyphic sign of his with the omniscient-looking 
 eye as its most prominent feature, — and laid my case 
 before him. I want you, said I, to ^ look up an old 
 book of mighty little value, — one of your ten-cent 
 vagabonds would be the sort of thing, — but an old 
 beggar, with a cover like this, and lay it by for me. 
 
 And Quidlibet, who is a pleasant body to deal with, 
 — only he has insulted one or two gentlemanly books 
 by selling them to me at very low-bred and shamefully 
 insufficient prices, — Quidlibet, I say, laid by three 
 old books for me to help myself from, and did n't take 
 the trouble even to make me pay the thirty cents for 
 'em. Well, said I to myself, let us look at our three 
 books that have undergone the last insult short of the 
 trunk-maker's or the paper-mills, and see what they 
 are. There may be something worth looking at in 
 one or the other of 'em. 
 
 Now do you know it was with a kind of a tremor 
 that I untied the package and looked at these three 
 unfortunates, too httmble for the companionable dime 
 to recognize as its equal in value. The same sort of 
 feeling you know if you ever tried the Bible-and-key, 
 or the Sortes Virgiliance. I think you will like to 
 know what the three books were which had been be- 
 stowed upon me gratis, that I might tear away one 
 of the covers of the one that best matched my Cicero, 
 and give it to the binder to cobble my crippled volume 
 with. 
 
 The Master took the three books from a cupboard 
 and continued. 
 
 No. I. An odd volume of The Adventurer. It 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 215 
 
 has many interesting things enough, but is made pre- 
 cious by containing Simon Browne's famous Dedica- 
 tion to the Queen of his Answer to Tindal's "Chris- 
 tianity as old as the Creation." Simon Browne was 
 the Man without a Soul. An excellent person, a 
 most worthy dissenting minister, but lying under a 
 strange delusion. 
 
 Here is a paragraph from his Dedication : — 
 
 "He was once a man; and of some little name; 
 but of no worth, as his present unparalleled case 
 makes but too manifest; for by the immediate hand 
 of an avenging GOD, his very thinking substance 
 has, for more than seven years, been continually wast- 
 ing away, tiU it is wholly perished out of him, if it 
 be not utterly come to nothing. None, no, not the 
 least remembrance of its very ruins, remains, not the 
 shadow of an idea is left, nor any sense that so much 
 as one single one, perfect or imperfect, whole or di- 
 minished, ever did appear to a mind withia him, or 
 was perceived by it." 
 
 Think of this as the Dedication of a book "univer- 
 sally allowed to be the best which that controversy 
 produced," and what a flood of light it pours on the 
 insanities of those self -analyzing diarists whose mor- 
 bid 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. n. was "A View of Society and Manners in 
 Italy." Vol. HI. By John Moore, M. D. (Zduco 
 Moore.) You know his pleasant book. In this par- 
 ticular 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. 
 
216 THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 
 
 No. in. was "An Essat on the Great EFFECTS 
 of Even Languid and Unheeded Local Motion." 
 By the Hon. Eobert Boyle. Published in 1685, and, 
 as appears from other sources, "received with great 
 and general applause." I confess I was a little star- 
 tled to find how near this earlier philosopher had come 
 to the modern doctrines, such as are illustrated in 
 TyndaU's "Heat considered as a Mode of Motion." 
 He speaks of "Us, who endeavor to resolve the Phe- 
 nomena 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 sil- 
 ver, 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 in- 
 sensible 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 voltune which I should 
 like to tell you of, but these wiU serve my purpose. 
 
 — Which book furnished you the old cover you 
 wanted? — said I. 
 
 — Did he hill the owl ? — said the Master, laugh- 
 ing. [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 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 217 
 
 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 wiU see the 
 light one of these days. But i£ 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 does n't. You muddle yourself by not know- 
 ing what you mean by a word, and send out your un- 
 answered riddles and rebuses to clear up other peo- 
 ple'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 our- 
 selves 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 ptdex 
 irritans, confound him ! 
 
 — What if we should look in, some day, on the 
 Scarabeeist, as he calls himself? — said I. — The fact 
 
218 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 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 'U keep. 
 And besides, I take an interest in entomology, and 
 have my own opinion on the mdoe question. 
 
 — You don't mean to say you have studied insects 
 as well as solar systems and the order of things gen- 
 erally? 
 
 — 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 in- 
 sects, among other things. I described a new tahanus, 
 — 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 rid- 
 ing on the outside of a stage-coach from London to 
 Windsor in the year — never mind the year, but it 
 must have been in June, I suppose, for I bought some 
 strawberries. England owes me a sixpence with in- 
 terest 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 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 219 
 
 thing memory is, to be sure, to hare kept such a tri- 
 viality, 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 I said I to myself, the bottom of the 
 bushel has dropped out! Sancta Maria, ora pro 
 nobis r\ 
 
 — 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 Eng- 
 land village childhood came upon me like a reminis- 
 cence rather than a revelation. It was a mighty be- 
 wilderment 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 hun- 
 dred 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; 
 
220 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE, 
 
 you don't, you 're made a fool of by your lying intel- 
 ligence, 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? Per- 
 haps 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 f aUs 
 to come back to his original proposition, though he, 
 like myself, is fond of zigzagging in order to reach it. 
 Men's miads 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 stiU an- 
 other 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, wiU 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 miads like the Master's, and I 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKPAST-TABLE. 221 
 
 suppose my own is sometliing like it, will sooner or 
 later get back to the square next the one they started 
 from. 
 
 The Master took down a volume from one of the 
 shelves. I could not help noticing that it was a shelf 
 near his hand as he sat, and that the volume looked as 
 if he had made frequent use of it. I saw, too, that 
 he handled it in a loving sort of way; the tenderness 
 he would have bestowed on a wife and children had 
 to find a channel somewhere, and what more natural 
 than that he should look fondly on the volume which 
 held the thoughts that had rolled themselves smooth 
 and round in his mind like pebbles on a beach, the 
 dreams which, imder cover of the simple artifices such 
 as all writers use, told the little world of readers his 
 secret hopes and aspirations, the fancies which had 
 pleased him and which he could not bear to let die 
 without trying to please others with them? I have a 
 great sympathy with authors, most of all with unsuc- 
 cessful ones. If one had a dozen lives or so, it would 
 all be very well, but to have only a single ticket in 
 the great lottery, and have that drawn a blank, is a 
 rather sad sort of thing. So I was pleased to see the 
 affectionate kind of pride with which the Master 
 handled his book; it was a success, in its way, and he 
 looked on it with a cheerful sense that he had a right 
 to be proud of it. The Master opened the volxmie, 
 and, putting on his large round glasses, began read- 
 ing, as authors love to read that love their books. 
 
 — The only good reason for believing in the stabil- 
 ity of the moral order of things is to be found in the 
 tolerable steadiness of human averages. Out of a 
 hundred human beings fifty-one will be found in the 
 
222 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 lomg run on the side o£ the right, so far as they know 
 it, and against the wrong. They will be organizers 
 rather than disorganizers, helpers and not hinderers 
 in the upward movement of the race. This is the 
 main fact we have to depend on. The right hand of 
 the great organism is a little stronger than the left, 
 that is all. 
 
 Now and then we come across a left-handed man. 
 So now and then we find a tribe or a generation, the 
 subject of what we may call moral left-handedness, 
 but that need not trouble us about our formula. All 
 we have to do is to spread the average over a wider 
 territory or a longer period of time. -Any race or 
 period that insists on being left-handed must go imder 
 if it comes in contact with a right-handed one. If 
 there were, as a general rule, fifty-one rogues in the 
 hundred instead of forty-nine, all other qualities of 
 mind and body being equally distributed between the 
 two sections, the order of things would sooner or later 
 end in universal disorder. It is the question between 
 the leak and the pumps. 
 
 It does not seem very likely that the Creator of all 
 things is taken by surprise at witnessing anything any 
 of his creatures do or think. Men have sought out 
 many inventions, but they can have contrived nothing 
 which did not exist as an idea in the omniscient con- 
 sciousness to which past, present, and future are alike 
 Now. 
 
 We read what travellers tell us about the King of 
 Dahomey, or the Fejee Island people, or the short 
 and simple annals of the celebrities recorded in the 
 Newgate Calendar, and do not know just what to 
 make of these brothers and sisters of the race; but 
 I do not suppose an intelligence even as high as the 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 22S 
 
 angelic beings, to stop sliort there, would see anything 
 very peculiar or wonderful about them, except as 
 everything is wonderful and unlike everything else. 
 
 It is very curious to see how science, that is, look- 
 ing at and arranging the facts of a case with our own 
 eyes and our own intelligence, without minding what 
 somebody else has said, or how some old majority vote 
 went in a pack o£ intriguing ecclesiastics, — I say it 
 is very curious to see how science is catching up with 
 one superstition after another. 
 
 There is a recognized branch of science familiar to 
 all those who know anything of the studies relating 
 to life, under the name of Teratology. It deals with 
 all sorts of monstrosities which are to be met with in 
 living beings, and more especially in animals. It is 
 found that what used to be called lusus naturae, or 
 freaks of nature, are just as much subject to laws as 
 the naturally developed forms of living creatures. 
 
 The rustic looks at the Siamese twins, and thinks 
 he is contemplating an unheard-of anomaly ; but there 
 are plenty of cases like theirs in the books of scholars, 
 and though they are not quite so common as double 
 cherries, the mechanism of their formation is not a 
 whit more mysterious than that of the twinned fruits. 
 Such cases do not disturb the average arrangement; 
 we have Changs and Engs at one pole, and Cains and 
 Abels at the other. One child is born with six fin- 
 gers on each hand, and another falls short by one or 
 more fingers of his due allowance; but the glover puts 
 his faith in the great law of averages, and makes his 
 gloves with five fingers apiece, trusting nature for 
 their counterparts. 
 
 Thinking people are not going to be scared out of 
 explaining or at least trying to explain things by the 
 
224 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 shrieks of persons whose beliefs are disturbed thereby. 
 Comets were portents to Increase Mather, President 
 of Harvard College; "preachers of Divine wrath, 
 heralds and messengers of evil tidings to the world." 
 It is not so very long since Professor Winthrop was 
 teaching at the same institution. I can remember 
 two of his boys very well, old boys, it is true, they 
 were, and one of them wore a three-cornered cocked 
 hat; but the father of these boys, whom, as I say, 
 I can remember, had to defend himself against the 
 minister of the Old South Church for the impiety of 
 trying to account for earthquakes on natural princi- 
 ples. And his ancestor. Governor Winthrop, would 
 probably have shaken his head over his descendant's 
 dangerous audacity, if one may judge by the solemn 
 way in which he mentions poor Mrs. Hutchinson's un- 
 pleasant experience, which so grievously disappointed 
 her maternal expectations. But people used always to 
 be terribly frightened by those irregular vital products 
 which we now call "interesting specimens" and care- 
 fully preserve in jars of alcohol. It took next to 
 nothing to make a panic; a child was born a few 
 centuries ago with six teeth in its head, and about 
 that time the Turks began gaining great advantages 
 over the Christians. Of course there was an intimate 
 connection between the prodigy and the calamity. 
 So said the wise men of that day. 
 
 — All these out-of-the-way cases are studied con- 
 nectedly now, and are found to obey very exact rules. 
 With a little management one can even manufacture 
 living monstrosities. Malformed salmon and other 
 fish can be supplied in quantity, if anybody happens 
 to want them. 
 
 Now, what all I have said is tending to is exactly 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 225 
 
 this, namely, that just as the celestial movements are 
 regulated by fixed laws, just as bodily monstrosities 
 are produced according to rule, and with as good rea- 
 son as normal shapes, so obliquities of character are 
 to be accounted for on perfectly natural priuciples; 
 they are just as capable of classification as the bodily 
 ones, and they all diverge from a certain average or 
 middle term which is the type of its kind. 
 
 If life had been a little longer I would have written 
 a number of essays for which, as it is, I cannot expect 
 to have time. I have set down the titles of a him- 
 dred or more, and I have often been tempted to pub- 
 Esh these, for according to my idea, the title of a 
 book very often renders the rest of it unnecessary. 
 "Moral Teratology," for instance, which is marked 
 No. 67 on my list of "Essays Potential, not Actual," 
 suggests sufficiently well what I should be like to say 
 in the pages it would preface. People hold up their 
 hands at a moral monster as if there was no reason for 
 his existence but his own choice. That was a fine 
 specimen we read of in the papers a few years ago, — 
 the Frenchman, it may be remembered, who used to 
 waylay and murder young women, and after appro- 
 priating their effects, bury their bodies in a private 
 cemetery he kept for that purpose. It is very nat- 
 ural, and I do not say it is not very proper, to hang 
 such eccentric persons as this; but it is not clear 
 whether his vagaries produce any more sensation at 
 Headquarters than the meek enterprises of the mild- 
 est of city missionaries. For the study of Moral 
 Teratology wiU teach you that you do not get such a 
 malformed character as that without a long chain of 
 causes to account for it; and if you only knew those 
 causes, you would know perfectly well what to expect. 
 
226 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 You may feel pretty sure that our friend of the pri- 
 vate cemetery was not the child of pious and intelli- 
 gent parents ; that he was not nurtured by the best of 
 mothers, and educated by the most judicious teach- 
 ers; and that he did not come of a lineage long known 
 and honored for its intellectual and moral qualities. 
 Suppose that one should go to the worst quarter of 
 the city and pick out the worst-looking child of the 
 worst couple he could find, and then train him up suc- 
 cessively at the School for Infant Eogues, the Acad- 
 emy for Young Scamps, and the College for Complete 
 Criminal Education, would it be reasonable to expect 
 a Francois Xavier or a Henry Martyn to be the resTilt 
 of such a training? The traditionists, in whose pre- 
 simiptuous hands the science of anthropology has 
 been trusted from time immemorial, have insisted on 
 eliminating cause and effect from the domain of mor- 
 als. When they have come across a moral monster 
 they have seemed to think that he put himself to- 
 gether, having a free choice of all the constituents 
 which make up manhood, and that consequently no 
 punishment could be too bad for him. 
 
 I say, hang him and welcome, if that is the best 
 thing for society; hate him, in a certain sense, as you 
 hate a rattlesnake, but, if you pretend to be a philo- 
 sopher, recognize the fact that what you hate in him is 
 chiefly misfortune, and that if you had been born with 
 his villanous low forehead and poisoned instincts, and 
 bred among creatures of the Maces Maudites whose 
 natural history has to be studied like that of beasts 
 of prey and vermin, you would not have been sitting 
 there in your gold-bowed spectacles and passing judg- 
 ment on the peccadilloes of your fellow-creatures. 
 
 I have seen men and women so disinterested and 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFA8T-TABLE. 227 
 
 noble, and devoted to tlie best works, that it appeared 
 to me if any good and faithful servant was entitled to 
 enter into the joys of his Lord, such as these might 
 be. But I do not know that I ever met with a human 
 being who seemed to me to have a stronger claim on 
 the pitying consideration and kindness of his Maker 
 than a wretched, puny, crippled, stunted child that I 
 saw in Newgate, who was pointed out as one of the 
 most notorious and inveterate little thieves in London. 
 I have no doubt that some of those who were looking 
 at this pitiable morbid secretion of the diseased social 
 organism thought they were very virtuous for hating 
 him so heartily. 
 
 It is natural, and in one sense is all right enough. 
 I want to catch a thief and put the extinguisher on an 
 incendiary as much as my neighbors do; but I have 
 two sides to my consciousness as I have two sides to 
 my heart, one carrying dark, impure blood, and the 
 other the bright stream which has been purified and 
 vivified by the great source of life and death, — the 
 oxygen of the air which gives all things their vital 
 heat, and burns all things at last to ashes. 
 
 One side of me loves and hates; the other side of 
 me judges, say rather pleads and suspends judgment. 
 I think, if I were left to myself, I should hang a rogue 
 and then write his apology and subscribe to a neat 
 monument, commemorating, not his virtues, but his 
 misfortunes. I should, perhaps, adorn the marble 
 with emblems, as is the custom with regard to the more 
 regular and normally constituted members of society. 
 It would not be proper to put the image of a lamb 
 upon the stone which marked the resting-place of him 
 of the private cemetery. But I would not hesitate to 
 place the effigy of a wolf or a hyena upon the menu- 
 
228 THE POET AT THE BBEAKEAST-TABLE. 
 
 ment. I do not judge these animals, I only kill them 
 or shut them up. I presume they stand just as weU 
 with their Maker as lambs and kids, and the ex- 
 istence of such beings is a perpetual plea for God 
 Almighty's poor, yelling, scalping Indians, his wea- 
 sand-stopping Thugs, his despised felons, his murder- 
 ing miscreants, and all the unfortunates whom we, 
 picked individuals of a picked class of a picked race, 
 scrubbed, combed, and catechized from our cradles 
 upward, undertake to find accommodations for in an- 
 other state of being where it is to be hoped they will 
 have a better chance than they had in this. 
 
 The Master paused, and took off his great round 
 spectacles. I could not help thinking that he looked 
 benevolent enough to pardon Judas Iscariot just at 
 that moment, though his features can knot themselves 
 up pretty formidably on occasion. 
 
 — You are somewhat of a phrenologist, I judge, by 
 the way you talk of instinctive and inherited tenden- 
 cies — I said. 
 
 — They tell me I ought to be, — he answered, par- 
 rying my question, as I thought. — I have had a 
 famous chart made out of my cerebral organs, accord- 
 ing to which I ought to have been — something more 
 than a poor Magister Artmm. 
 
 — I thought a shade of regret deepened the lines 
 on his broad, antique-looking forehead, and I began 
 talking about all the sights I had seen in the way of 
 monstrosities, of which I had a considerable list, as 
 you will see when I teU you my weakness in that di- 
 rection. This, you imderstand, Beloved, is private 
 and confidential. 
 
 I pay my quarter of a doUar and go into all the 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKPAST-TABLE. 229 
 
 side-shows that follow the caravans and circuses round 
 the country. I have made friends of all the giants 
 and all the dwarfs. I became acquainted with Mon- 
 sieur Bihin, le plus bd homme du monde, and one of 
 the biggest, a great many years ago, and have kept 
 up my agreeable relations with him ever since. He 
 is a most interesting giant, with a softness of voice 
 and tenderness of feeling which I find very engaging. 
 I was on friendly terms with Mr. Charles Freeman, a 
 very superior giant of American birth, seven feet four, 
 I think, in height, "double- jointed," of mylodon mus- 
 cularity, the same who in a British prize-ring tossed 
 the Tipton Slasher from one side of the rope to the 
 other, and now lies stretched, poor fellow ! in a mighty 
 grave in the same soil which holds the sacred ashes of 
 Cribb, and the honored dust of Burke, — not the one 
 "commonly called the sublime," but that other Burke 
 to whom Nature had denied the sense of hearing lest 
 he should be spoiled by listening to the praises of the 
 admiring circles which looked on his dear-bought tri- 
 umphs. Nor have I despised those little ones whom 
 that devout worshipper of Nature in her exceptional 
 forms, the distinguished Barnum, has introduced to 
 the notice of mankind. The General touches his 
 chapeau to me, and the Commodore gives me a sailor's 
 greeting. I have had confidential interviews with the 
 double-headed daughter of Africa, — so far, at least, 
 as her twofold personality admitted of private confi- 
 dences. I have listened to the touching experiences 
 of the Bearded Lady, whose rough cheeks belie her 
 susceptible heart. Miss Jane Campbell has allowed 
 me to question her on the delicate subject of avoirdu- 
 pois equivalents ; and the armless fair one, whose em- 
 brace no monarch could hope to win, has wrought me 
 
230 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 a watch-paper with those despised digits which have 
 been degraded from gloves to boots ia our evolution 
 from the condition of quadrumana. 
 
 I hope you have read my experiences as good-na- 
 turedly as the old Master listened to them. He 
 seemed to be pleased with my whim, and promised to 
 go with me to see all the side-shows of the next cara- 
 van. Before I left him he wrote my name in a copy 
 of the new edition of his book, telling me that it would 
 not all be new to me by a great deal, for he often 
 talked what he had printed to make up for having 
 printed a good deal of what he had talked. 
 
 Here is the passage of his Poem the Young Astron- 
 omer read to us. 
 
 WIND-CLOUDS AND STAK-DRIFTS. 
 
 From my lone turret as I look around 
 O'er the green meadows to the ring of blue, 
 From slope, from summit, and from half-hid vale 
 The sky is stabbed with dagger-pointed spires, 
 Their gilded symbols whirling in the wind. 
 Their brazen tongues proclaiming to the world, 
 " Here truth is sold, the only genuine ware ; 
 See that it has our trade-mark ! You will buy 
 Poison instead of food across the way, 
 
 The lies of " this or that, each several name 
 
 The standard's blazon and the battle-cry 
 
 Of some true-gospel faction, and again 
 
 The token of the Beast to aU beside. 
 
 And grouped round each I see a huddling crowd 
 
 Alike in all things save the words they use ; 
 
 In love, in longing, hate and fear the same. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 231 
 
 Whom do we trust and serve ? We speak of one 
 And bow to many ; Athens still would find 
 The shrines of all she worshipped safe within 
 Our tall barbarian temples, and the thrones 
 That crowned Olympus mighty as of old. 
 The god of music rules the Sabbath choir ; 
 The lyric muse must leave the sacred nine 
 To help us please the dilettante's ear ; 
 Plutus limps homeward with us, as we leave 
 The portals of the temple where we knelt 
 And listened while the god of eloquence 
 (Hermes of ancient days, but now disguised 
 In sable vestments) with that other god 
 Somnus, the son of Erebus and Nox, 
 Fights in unequal contest for our souls ; 
 The dreadful sovereign of the under world 
 Still shakes his sceptre at us, and we hear 
 The baying of the triple-throated hound ; 
 Eros is young as ever, and as fair 
 The lovely Goddess born of ocean's foam. 
 
 These be thy gods, O Israel ! Who is he, 
 The one ye name and tell us that ye serve. 
 Whom ye would call me from my lonely tower 
 To worship with the many-headed throng ? 
 Is it the God that walked in Eden's grove 
 In the cool hour to seek our guilty sire ? 
 The God who dealt with Abraham as the sons 
 Of that old patriarch deal with other men ? 
 The jealous God of Moses, one who feels 
 An image as an insult, and is wroth 
 With him who made it and his child unborn ? 
 The God who plagued his people for the sin 
 Of their adulterous king, beloved of him, — 
 The same who offers to a chosen few 
 The right to praise him in eternal song 
 While a vast shrieking world of endless woe 
 Blends its dread chorus with their rapturous hymn ? 
 Is this the God ye mean, or is it he 
 Who heeds the sparrow's fall, whose loving heart 
 Is as the pitying father's to his child, 
 
232 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE, 
 
 Whose lesson to his children is, " Forgive," 
 
 Whose plea for all, " They know not what they do " ? 
 
 I claim the right of knowing whom I serve. 
 Else is my service idle; He that asks 
 My homage asks it from a reasoning soul. 
 To crawl is not to worship; we have learned 
 A drill of eyelids, bended neck and knee. 
 Hanging our prayers on hinges, till we ape 
 The flexures of the many-jointed worm. 
 Asia has taught her Allahs and salaams 
 To the world's children, — we have grown to men I 
 We who have rolled the sphere beneath our feet 
 To find a virgin forest, as we lay 
 The beams of our rude temple, first of all 
 Must frame its doorway high enough for man 
 To pass unstooping ; knowing as we do 
 That He who shaped us last of living forms 
 Has long enough been served by creeping things, 
 Reptiles that left their foot-prints in the sand 
 Of old searmargins that have turned to stone, 
 And men who learned their ritual; we demand 
 To know him first, then trust him and then love 
 When we have found him worthy of our love, 
 Tried by our own poor hearts and not before ; 
 He must be truer than the truest friend. 
 He must be tenderer than a woman's love, 
 A father better than the best of sires ; 
 Kinder than she who bore us, though we sin 
 Of tener than did the brother we are told. 
 We — poor ill-tempered mortals — must forgive, 
 Though seven times sinning threescore times and ten. 
 
 This is the new world's gospel: Be ye men ! 
 Try well the legends of the children's time; 
 Ye are the chosen people, God has led 
 Tour steps across the desert of the deep 
 As now across the desert of the shore ; 
 Mountains are cleft before you as the sea 
 Before the wandering tribe of Israel's sons ; 
 StiU onward rolls the thunderous caravan, 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKTAST-TABLE. 233 
 
 Its coming printed on the western sky, 
 A cloud by day, by night a pillared flame; 
 Your prophets are a hundred unto one 
 Of them of old who cried, " Thus saith the Lord "; 
 They told of cities that should fall in heaps, 
 But yours of mightier cities that shall rise 
 Where yet the lonely fishers spread their nets, 
 Where hides the fox and hoots the midnight owl; 
 The tree of knowledge in your garden grows 
 Not single, but at every humble door ; 
 Its branches lend you their immortal food. 
 That fills you with the sense of what ye are, 
 No servants of an altar hewed and carved 
 From senseless stone by craft of human hands, 
 Babbi, or dervish, brahmin, bishop, bonze. 
 But masters of the charm with which they work 
 To keep your hands from that forbidden tree ! 
 
 Ye that have tasted that divinest fruit, 
 Look on this world of yours with opened eyes ! 
 Ye are as gods ! Nay, makers of your gods, — 
 Each day ye break an image in your shrine 
 And plant a fairer image where it stood : 
 Where is the Moloch of your fathers' creed, 
 Whose fires of torment burned for span-long babes ? 
 Fit object for a tender mother's love ! 
 Why not ? It was a bargain duly made 
 For these same infants through the surety's act 
 Intrusted with their all for earth and heaven, 
 By Him who chose their guardian, knowing well 
 His fitness for the task, — this, even this. 
 Was the true doctrine only yesterday 
 As thoughts are reckoned, — and to-day you hear 
 In words that sound as if from human tongues 
 Those monstrous, uncouth horrors of the past 
 That blot the blue of heaven and shame the earth 
 As would the saurians of the age of slime, 
 Awaking from their stony sepulchres 
 And wallowing hateful in the eye of day ! 
 
 Four of us listened to these lines as the young man 
 
234 THE POET AT THE BBEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 read them, — the Master and myself and our two 
 ladies. This was the little party we got up to hear 
 him read. I do not think much of it was very new 
 to the Master or myself. At any rate, he said to me 
 when we were alone, — 
 
 That is the kind of talk the "natural man," as the 
 theologians call him, is apt to fall into. 
 
 — I thought it was the Apostle Paid, and not the 
 theologians, that used the term "natural man," — I 
 ventured to suggest. 
 
 — I should like to know where the Apostle Paul 
 learned English? — said the Master, with the look of 
 one who does not mean to be tripped up if he can help 
 himself. — But at any rate, — he continued, — the 
 "natural man," so called, is worth listening to now 
 and then, for he didn't make his nature, and the 
 Devil did n't make it ; and if the Almighty made it, 
 I never saw or heard of anything he made that was n't 
 worth attending to. 
 
 The young man begged the Lady to pardon any- 
 thing that might sound harshly in these crude thoughts 
 of his. He had been taught strange things, he said, 
 from old theologies, when he was a child, and had 
 thought his way out of many of his early superstitions. 
 As for the Young Girl, our Scheherezade, he said to 
 her that she must have got dreadfully tired (at which 
 she colored up and said it was no such thing), and he 
 promised that, to pay for her goodness in listening, 
 he would give her a lesson in astronomy the next fair 
 evening, if she would be his scholar, at which she 
 blushed deeper than before, and said something which 
 certainly was not No. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 235 
 
 IX. 
 
 There was no sooner a vacancy on our side of the 
 table, than the Master proposed a change of seats 
 which would bring the Young Astronomer into our 
 immediate neighborhood. The Scarabee was to move 
 into the place of our late unlamented associate, the 
 Man of Letters, so called. I was to take his place, 
 the Master to take mine, and the young man that 
 which had been occupied by the Master. The advan- 
 tages of this change were obvious. The old Master 
 likes an audience, plainly enough; and with myself 
 on one side of him, and the young student of science, 
 whose speculative turn is sufficiently shown in the 
 passages from his poem, on the other side, he may 
 feel quite sure of being listened to. There is only 
 one trouble in the arrangement, and that is that it 
 brings this young man not only close to us, but also 
 next to our Scheherezade. 
 
 I am obliged to confess that he has shown occa- 
 sional marks of inattention even while the Master was 
 discoursing in a way that I found agreeable enough. 
 I am quite sure it is no intentional disrespect to the 
 old Master. It seems to me rather that he has be- 
 come interested in the astronomical lessons he has 
 been giving the Young Girl. He has studied so much 
 alone, that it is naturally a pleasure to him to impart 
 some of his knowledge. As for his young pupil, she 
 has often thought of being a teacher herself, so that 
 she is of course very glad to acquire any accomplish- 
 ment that may be useful to her in that capacity. I 
 do not see any reason why some of the boarders should 
 have made such remarks as they have done. One 
 
236 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 cannot teach astronomy to advantage, without going 
 out of doors, though I confess that when two young 
 people go out hy daylight to study the stars, as these 
 young folks have done once or twice, I do not so much 
 wonder at a remark or suggestion from those who 
 have nothing better to do than study their neighbors. 
 
 I ought to have told the reader before this that I 
 found, as I suspected, that our innocent-lookiag Sche- 
 herezade was at the bottom of the popgun business. 
 I watched her very closely, and one day, when the 
 little monkey made us all laugh by stopping the Mem- 
 ber of the Haouse in the middle of a speech he was 
 repeating to us, — it was his great effort of the season 
 on a biU for the protection of horn-pout in Little 
 Muddy River, — I caught her making the signs that 
 set him going. At a slight tap of her knife against 
 her plate, he got all ready, and presently I saw her 
 cross her knife and fork upon her plate, and as she 
 did so, pop ! went the small piece of artillery. The 
 Member of the Haouse was just saying that this bill 
 hit his constitooents in their most vital — when a pel- 
 let hit him in the feature of his countenance most 
 exposed to aggressions and least tolerant of liberties. 
 The Member resented this unparliamentary treatment 
 by jumping up from his chair and giving the small 
 aggressor a good shaking, at the same time seizing the 
 implement which had caused his wrath and breaking 
 it into splinters. The Boy blubbered, the Young 
 Girl changed color, and looked as if she would cry, 
 and that was the last of these interruptions. 
 
 I must own that I have sometimes wished we had 
 the popgun back, for it answered all the purpose of 
 "the previous question" in a deliberative assembly. 
 No doubt the Young Girl was capricious in setting 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 237 
 
 the little engine at work, but she cut short a good 
 many disquisitions that threatened to be tedious. I 
 find myself often wishing for her and her small fellow- 
 conspirator's intervention, in company where I am 
 supposed to be enjoying myself. "When my friend the 
 politician gets too far into the personal details of the 
 quorum -pars magna fui, I find myself aU at once ex- 
 claiming in mental articulation, Popgun I When my 
 friend the story-teller begins that protracted narrative 
 which has often emptied me of aU my voluntary 
 laughter for the evening, he has got but a very little 
 way when I say to myself. What would n't I give for 
 a pellet from that popgun! In short, so useful has 
 that trivial implement proved as a jaw-stopper and a 
 ioricide, that I never go to a club or a dinner-party, 
 without wishing the company included our Schehere- 
 zade and That Boy with his popgun. 
 
 How clearly I see now into the mechanism of the 
 Young Girl's audacious contrivance for regulating our 
 table-talk ! Her brain is tired half the time, and she 
 is too nervous to listen patiently to what a quieter 
 person would like well enough, or at least woidd not 
 be annoyed by. It amused her to invent a scheme 
 for managing the headstrong talkers, and also let off 
 a certain spirit of mischief which in some of these ner- 
 vous girls shows itself in much more questionable 
 forms. How cunning these half -hysteric young per- 
 sons are, to be sure ! I had to watch a long time be- 
 fore I detected the telegraphic communication between 
 the two conspirators. I have no doubt she had sedu- 
 lously schooled the little monkey to his business, and 
 found great delight in the task of instruction. 
 
 But now that our Scheherezade has become a scholar 
 instead of a teacher, she seems to be undergoing a 
 
238 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 remarkable transformation. Astronomy is indeed a 
 noble science. It may well kindle the enthusiasm of 
 a youthful nature. I fancy at times that I see some- 
 thing of that starry light which I noticed in the 
 young man's eyes gradually kindling in hers. But 
 can it be astronomy alone that does it? Her color 
 comes and goes more readily than when the old Mas- 
 ter sat next her on the left. It is having this young 
 man at her side, I suppose. Of course it is. I watch 
 her with great, I may say tender interest. If he 
 would only fall in love with her, seize upon her wan- 
 dering affections and fancies as the Eomans seized the 
 Sabine virgins, lift her out of herself and her listless 
 and weary drudgeries, stop the outflow of this young 
 life which is draining itself away in forced literary 
 labor — dear me, dear me — if, if, if — 
 " If I were God 
 An' ye were Martin Elginbrod ! " 
 
 I am afraid all this may never be. I fear that he is 
 too much given to lonely study, to self-companion- 
 ship, to aU sorts of questionings, to looking at life as 
 at a solemn show where he is only a spectator. I dare 
 not build up a romance on what I have yet seen. My 
 reader may, but I will answer for nothing. I shall 
 wait and see. 
 
 The old Master and I have at last made that visit 
 to the Searabee which we had so long promised our- 
 selves. 
 
 When we knocked at his door he came and opened 
 it, instead of saying. Come in. He was surprised, I 
 have no doubt, at the sound of our footsteps ; for he 
 rarely has a visitor, except the little monkey of a boy, 
 and he may have thought a troop of marauders were 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKEAST-TABLE. 239 
 
 coming to rob him of his treasures. Collectors feel so 
 rich in the possession of their rarer specimens, that 
 they forget how cheap their precious things seem to 
 common eyes, and are as afraid of being robbed as if 
 they were dealers in diamonds. They have the name 
 of stealing from each other now and then, it is true, 
 but many of their priceless possessions would hardly 
 tempt a beggar. Values are artificial: you will not 
 be able to get ten cents of the year 1799 for a dime. 
 
 The Scarabee was reassured as soon as he saw our 
 faces, and he welcomed us not ungraciously into his 
 small apartment. It was hard to find a place to sit 
 down, for all the chairs were already occupied by 
 cases and boxes full of his favorites. I began, there- 
 fore, looking roimd the room. Bugs of every size 
 and aspect met my eyes wherever they turned. I felt 
 for the moment as I suppose a man may feel in a fit 
 of delirium tremens. Presently my attention was 
 drawn towards a very odd-looking insect on the man- 
 tel-piece. This animal was incessantly raising its 
 arms as if towards heaven and clasping them together, 
 as though it were wrestling in prayer. 
 
 Do look at this creature, — I said to the Master, — 
 he seems to be very hard at work at his devotions. 
 
 Mantis religiosa, — said the Master, — I know the 
 praying rogue. Mighty devout and mighty cruel; 
 crushes everything he can master, or impales it on his 
 spiny shanks and feeds upon it, like a gluttonous 
 wretch as he is. I have seen the Mantis religiosa on 
 a larger scale than this, now and then. A sacred in- 
 sect, sir, — sacred to many tribes of men; to the Hot- 
 tentots, to the Turks, yes, sir, and to the Frenchmen, 
 who call the rascal prie dieu, and believe him to have 
 special charge of children that have lost their way. 
 
240 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Does n't it seem as if there was a vein of satire as 
 well as of fun that ran through the solemn manifesta- 
 tions of creative wisdom? And of deception too — do 
 you see how nearly those dried leaves resemble an 
 insect? 
 
 They do, indeed, — I answered, — but not so 
 closely as to deceive me. They remind me of an 
 insect, but I could not mistake them for one. 
 
 — Oh, you couldn't mistake those dried leaves for 
 an insect, hey? Well, how can you mistake that in- 
 sect for dried leaves? That is the question; for in- 
 sect it is, — phyllum siccifoliwm, the "walking leaf," 
 as some have called it. — The Master had a hearty 
 laugh at my expense. 
 
 The Scarabee did not seem to be amused at the 
 Master's remarks or at my blunder. Science is al- 
 ways perfectly serious to him; and he would no more 
 laugh over anything connected with his study, than a 
 clergyman would laugh at a funeral. 
 
 They send me aU sorts of triunpery, — he said, — 
 Orthoptera and Lepidoptera ; as i£ a coleopterist — a 
 scarabeeist — cared for such things. This business is 
 no boy's play to me. The insect population of the 
 world is not even catalogued yet, and a lifetime given 
 to the scarabees is a small contribution enough to their 
 study. I like your men of general intelligence well 
 enough, — your Linnseuses and your Buff ons and your 
 Cuviers; but Cuvier had to go to LatreiUe for his 
 insects, and if LatreiUe had been able to consult me, 
 — yes, me, gentlemen ! — he would n't have made the 
 blunders he did about some of the coleoptera. 
 
 The old Master, as I think you must have found out 
 by this time, — you, Beloved, I mean, who read every 
 word, — has a reasonably good opinion, as perhaps he 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKPAST-TABLE. 241 
 
 has a right to have, of his own intelligence and ac- 
 quirements. The Scarabee's exultation and glow as 
 he spoke of the errors of the great entomologist which 
 he himself could have corrected, had the effect on the 
 old Master which a lusty crow has upon the feathered 
 champion of the neighboring barnyard. He too knew 
 something about insects. Had he not discovered a 
 new tahanus f Had he not made preparations of the 
 very coleoptera the Scarabee studied so exclusively, 
 — preparations which the illustrious Swammerdam 
 would not have been ashamed of, and dissected a me- 
 lolontha as exquisitely as Strauss Durckheim himself 
 €ver did it? So the Master, recalling these studies of 
 his and certain difficult and disputed points at which 
 he had labored in one of his entomological paroxysms, 
 put a question which there can be little doubt was in- 
 tended to puzzle the Scarabee, and perhaps, — for the 
 best of us is human (I am beginning to love the old 
 Master, but he has his little weaknesses, thank Heaven, 
 like the rest of us), — I say perhaps, was meant to 
 show that some folks knew as much about some things 
 as some other folks. 
 
 The little dried-up specialist did not dilate into 
 fighting dimensions as — perhaps, again — the Master 
 may have thought he would. He looked a mild sur- 
 prise, but remained as quiet as one of his own beetles 
 when you touch him and he makes believe he is dead. 
 The blank silence became oppressive. Was the Scar- 
 abee crushed, as so many of his namesakes are crushed, 
 under the heel of this trampling omniscient ? 
 
 At last the Scarabee creaked out very slowly, "Did 
 I understand you to ask the following question, to 
 wit? " and so forth; for I was quite out of my depth, 
 and only know that he repeated the Master's some- 
 what complex inquiry, word for word. 
 
242 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 — That was exactly my question, — said the Mas- 
 ter, — and I hope it is not uncivil to ask one which 
 seems to me to be a puzzler. 
 
 Not uncivil in the least, — said the Scarabee, with 
 something as much like a look of triumph as his dry 
 face permitted, — not uncivil at all, but a rather ex- 
 traordinary question to ask at this date of entomolo- 
 gical history. I settled that question some years ago, 
 by a series of dissections, six-and-thirty in number, 
 reported in an essay I can show you and would give 
 you a copy of, but that I am a little restricted in my 
 revenue, and our Society has to be economical, so I 
 have but this one. You see, sir, — and he went on 
 with elytra and antennae and tarsi and metatarsi and 
 trachese and stomata and wing-muscles and leg-mus- 
 cles and ganglions, — all plain enough, I do not 
 doubt, to those accustomed to handling dor-bugs and 
 squash-bugs and such undesirable objects of affection 
 to all but naturalists. 
 
 He paused when he got through, not for an answer, 
 for there evidently was none, but to see how the Mas- 
 ter would take it. The Scarabee had had it all his 
 own way. 
 
 The Master was loyal to his own generous nature. 
 He felt as a peaceful citizen might feel who had 
 squared off at a stranger for some supposed wrong, 
 and suddenly discovered that he was tmdertaking to 
 chastise Mr. Dick Curtis, "the pet of the Fancy," or 
 Mr. Joshua Hudson, "the John Bull fighter." 
 
 He felt the absurdity of his discomfiture, for he 
 turned to me good-naturedly, and said, — 
 
 " Poor Johnny Raw ! What madness could impel 
 So rum a flat to face so prime a swell ? " 
 
 To teU the truth, I rather think the Master enjoyed 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKTAST-TABLE. 243 
 
 his own defeat. The Scarabee had a right to his vic- 
 tory; a man does not give his life to the study of a 
 single limited subject for nothing, and the moment we 
 come across a first-class expert we begin to take a 
 pride in his superiority. It cannot offend us, who 
 have no right at all to be his match on his own groimd. 
 Besides, there is a very curious sense of satisfaction 
 in getting a fair chance to sneer at ourselves and scoff 
 at our own pretensions. The first person of our dual 
 consciousness has been smirking and rubbing his hands 
 and felicitating himself on his innumerable superior- 
 ities, until we have grown a little tired of him. Then, 
 when the other feUow, the critic, the cynic, the Shi- 
 mei, who has been quiet, letting self-love and self- 
 glorification have their perfect work, opens fire upon 
 the first half of our personality and overwhelms it 
 with that wonderful vocabulary of abuse of which he 
 is the imrivaUed master, there is no denying that he 
 enjoys it immensely; and as he is ourself for the mo- 
 ment, or at least the chief portion of ourself (the other 
 haK-seH retiring into a dim corner of semiconscious- 
 ness and cowering under the storm of sneers and con- 
 tumely, — you follow me perfectly, Beloved, — the 
 way is as plaiu as the path of the babe to the mater- 
 nal fount), as, I say, the abusive fellow is the chief 
 part of us for the time, and he likes to exercise his 
 slanderous vocabulary, we on the whole enjoy a brief 
 season of self-depreciation and self-scolding very 
 heartily. 
 
 It is quite certain that both of us, the Master and 
 myself, conceived on the instant a respect for the 
 Scarabee which we had not before felt. He had grap- 
 pled with one difficulty at any rate and mastered it. 
 He had settled one thing, at least, so it appeared, in 
 
244 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE: 
 
 such a way that it was not to be brought up again. 
 And now he was determined, if it cost him the effort 
 of all his remaining days, to close another discussion 
 and put forever to rest the anxious doubts about the 
 larva of meloe. 
 
 — Your thirty-six dissections must have cost you a 
 deal of time and labor, — the Master said. 
 
 — What have I to do with time, but to fill it up 
 with labor ? — answered the Scarabee. — It is my 
 meat and drink to work over my beetles. My holi- 
 days are when I get a rare specimen. My rest is to 
 watch the habits of insects, — those that I do not 
 pretend to study. Here is my muscarium, my home 
 for house-flies; very interesting creatures; here they 
 breed and buzz and feed and enjoy themselves, and 
 die in a good old age of a few months. My favorite 
 insect lives in this other case ; she is at home, but in 
 her private-chamber; you shall see her. 
 
 He tapped on the glass lightly, and a large, gray, 
 hairy spider came forth from the hollow of a funnel- 
 like web. 
 
 — And this is all the friend you have to love? — 
 said the Master, with a tenderness in his voice which 
 made the question very significant. 
 
 — Nothing else loves me better than she does, that 
 I know of, — he answered. 
 
 — To think of it ! Not even a dog to lick his 
 hand, or a cat to purr and rub her fur against him ! 
 Oh, these boarding-houses, these boarding-houses! 
 What forlorn people one sees stranded on their deso- 
 late shores! Decayed gentlewomen with the poor 
 wrecks of what once made their households beautiful, 
 disposed around them in narrow chambers as they 
 best may be, coming down day after day, poor souls I 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 245 
 
 to sit at the board with, strangers; their hearts full 
 of sad memories which have no language but a sigh, 
 no record but the lines of sorrow on their features; 
 orphans, creatures with growing tendrils and nothing 
 to cling to ; lonely rich men, casting about them what 
 to do with the wealth they never knew how to enjoy, 
 when they shall no longer worry over keeping and in- 
 creasing it; yoimg men and young women, left to 
 their instincts, unguarded, unwatched, save by mali- 
 cious eyes, which are sure to be found and to find oc- 
 cupation in these miscellaneous collections of human 
 beings ; and now and then a shred of humanity like 
 this little adust specialist, with just the resources 
 needed to keep the "radical moisture" from entirely 
 exhaling from his attenuated organism, and busying 
 himself over a point of science, or compiling a hymn- 
 book, or editing a grammar or a dictionary; — such 
 are the tenants of boarding-houses whom we cannot 
 think of without feeling how sad it is when the wind 
 is not tempered to the shorn lamb; when the solitary, 
 whose hearts are shrivelling, are not set in families ! 
 
 The Master was greatly interested in the Scara- 
 bee's Muscarium. 
 
 — I don't remember, — he said, — that I have 
 heard of such a thing as that before. Mighty curious 
 creatures, these same house-flies! Talk about mira- 
 cles ! Was there ever anything more miraculous, so 
 far as our common observation goes, than the coming 
 and the going of these creatures? Why didn't Job 
 ask where the flies come from and where they go to? 
 I did not say that you and I don't know, but how 
 many people do know anything about it? Where are 
 the cradles of the young flies? Where are the ceme- 
 teries of the dead ones, or do they die at all except 
 
246 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 when we kill them? You think all the flies of the 
 year are dead and gone, and there comes a warm day 
 and all at once there is a general resurrection of 'em; 
 they had been taking a nap, that is all. 
 
 — I suppose you do not trust your spider in the 
 Muscarium? — said I, addressing the Scarabee. 
 
 — Not exactly, — he answered, — she is a terrible 
 creature. She loves me, I think, but she is a killer 
 and a cannibal among other insects. I wanted to 
 pair her with a male spider, but it would n't do. 
 
 — Wouldn't do? — said I, — why not? Don't 
 spiders have their mates as well as other folks? 
 
 — Oh yes, sometimes ; but the females are apt to be 
 particular, and if they don't like the mate you offer 
 them they fall upon him and kill him and eat him up. 
 You see they are a great deal bigger and stronger 
 than the males, and they are always hungry and not 
 always particularly anxious to have one of the other 
 sex bothering roimd. 
 
 — Woman's rights ! — said I, — there you have it ! 
 Why don't those talking ladies take a spider as their 
 emblem? Let them form arachnoid associations, — 
 spinsters and spiders would be a good motto. 
 
 — The Master smiled. I think it was an eleemosy- 
 nary smile, for my pleasantry seems to me a particu- 
 larly hasso rilievo, as I look upon it in cold blood. 
 But conversation at the best is only a thin sprinkling 
 of occasional felicities set in platitudes and common- 
 places. I never heard people talk like the characters 
 in the "School for Scandal," — I should very much 
 like to. — I say the Master smiled. But the Scarabee 
 did not relax a muscle of his countenance. 
 
 — There are persons whom the very mildest of 
 faceticB sets off into such convulsions of laughter, that 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 247 
 
 one is afraid lest they should injure themselves. 
 Even when a jest misses fire completely, so that it is 
 no jest at all, but only a jocular intention, they laugh 
 just as heartily. Leave out the point of your story, 
 get the word wrong on the duplicity of which the pun 
 that was to excite hilarity depended, and they still 
 honor your abortive attempt with the most lusty and 
 vociferous merriment. 
 
 There is a very opposite class of persons whom any- 
 thing in the nature of a joke perplexes, troubles, and 
 even sometimes irritates, seeming to make them 
 think they are trifled with, if not insulted. If you 
 are fortunate enough to set the whole table laughing, 
 one of this class of persons will look inquiringly 
 round, as if something had happened, and, seeing 
 everybody apparently amused but himself, feel as if 
 he was being laughed at, or at any rate as if some- 
 thing had been said which he was not to hear. Often, 
 however, it does not go so far as this, and there is 
 nothing more than mere insensibility to the cause of 
 other people's laughter, a sort of joke-blindness, com- 
 parable to the well-known color-blindness with which 
 many persons are afflicted as a congenital incapacity. 
 
 I have never seen the Searabee smile. I have seen 
 him take ofE his goggles, — he breakfasts in these 
 occasionally, — I suppose when he has been tiring 
 his poor old eyes out over night gazing through his 
 microscope, — I have seen him take his goggles off, 
 I say, and stare about him, when the rest of us were 
 laughing at something which amused us, but his fea- 
 tures betrayed nothing more than a certain bewilder- 
 ment, as if we had been foreigners talking in an un- 
 known tongue. I do not think it was a mere fancy 
 of mine that he bears a kind of resemblance to the 
 
248 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE, 
 
 tribe of insects he gives his life to studying. His 
 shiny black coat; his rounded back, convex with 
 years of stooping over his minute work; his angular 
 movements, made natural to him by his habitual 
 style of manipulation; the aridity of his organism, 
 with which his voice is in perfect keeping; — aU 
 these marks of his special sedentary occupation are 
 so nearly what might be expected, and iudeed so much 
 in accordance with the more general fact that a man's 
 aspect is subdued to the look of what he works in, 
 that I do not feel disposed to accuse myself of exag- 
 geration in my account of the Scarabee's appearance. 
 But I think he has learned something else of his co- 
 leopterous friends. The beetles never smile. Their 
 physiognomy is not adapted to the display of the 
 emotions; the lateral movement of their jaws being 
 effective for alimentary purposes, but very limited in 
 its gamut of expression. It is with these unemotional 
 beings that the Scarabee passes his Hfe. He has but 
 one object, and that is perfectly serious, to his mind, 
 in fact, of absorbing interest and importance. In 
 one aspect of the matter he is quite right, for if the 
 Creator has taken the trouble to make one of His crea- 
 tures in just such a way and not otherwise, from the 
 beginning of its existence on our planet in ages of un- 
 known remoteness to the present time, the man who 
 first explains His idea to us is charged with a revela- 
 tion. It is by no means impossible that there may be 
 angels in the celestial hierarchy to whom it would be 
 new and interesting. I have often thought that spirits 
 of a higher order than man might be willing to learn 
 something from a human mind like that of Newton, 
 and I see no reason why an angelic being might not 
 be glad to hear a lecture from Mr. Huxley, or Mr. 
 TyndaU, or one of our friends at Cambridge. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 249 
 
 I have been sinuous as the Links of Forth seen 
 from Stirling Castle, or as that other river which 
 threads the Berkshire vaUey and runs, a perennial 
 stream, through my memory, — from which I please 
 myself with thinking that I have learned to wind 
 without fretting against the shore, or forgetting 
 where I am flowing, — sinuous, I say, but not jerky, 
 — no, not jerky nor hard to follow for a reader of the 
 right sort, in the prime of life and full possession of 
 his or her faculties. 
 
 — All this last page or so, you readily understand, 
 has been my private talk with you, the Reader. The 
 ewe of the conversation which I interrupted by this 
 digression is to be found in the words "a good motto," 
 from which I begin my acecount of the visit again. 
 
 — Do you receive many visitors, — I mean verte- 
 brates, not articulates ? — said the Master. 
 
 I thought this question might perhaps bring il disi- 
 ato riso, the long-wished-for smile, but the Scarabee 
 interpreted it in the simplest zoological sense, and 
 neglected its hint of playfulness with the most abso- 
 lute unconsciousness, apparently, of anything not en- 
 tirely serious and literal. 
 
 — You mean friends, I suppose, — he answered. — 
 I have correspondents, but I have no friends except 
 this spider. I live alone, except when I go to my 
 subsection meetings ; I get a box of insects now and 
 then, and send a few beetles to coleopterists in other 
 entomological districts; but science is exacting, and 
 a man that wants to leave his record has not much 
 time for friendship. There is no' great chance either 
 for making friends among naturalists. People that 
 are at work on different things do not care a great 
 
250 THE POET AT THE BKEAKEAST-TABLB. 
 
 deal for each other's specialties, and people that work 
 on the same thing are always afraid lest one should 
 get ahead of the other, or steal some of his ideas be- 
 fore he has made them public. There are none too 
 many people you can trust in your laboratory. I 
 thought I had a friend once, but he watched me at 
 work and stole the discovery of a new species from 
 me, and, what is more, had it named after himself. 
 Since that time I have liked spiders better than men. 
 They are hungry and savage, but at any rate they 
 spin their own webs out of their own insides. I like 
 very well to talk with gentlemen that play with my 
 branch of entomology; I do not doubt it amused you, 
 and if you want to see anything I can show you, I 
 shall have no scruple in letting you see it. I have 
 never had any complaint to make of amatoors. 
 
 — Upon my honor, — I would hold my right hand 
 up and take my Bible-oath, if it was not busy with 
 the pen at this moment, — I do not believe the Scar- 
 abee had the least idea in the world of the satire on 
 the student of the Order of Things implied in his 
 invitation to the "amatoor." As for the Master, he 
 stood fire perfectly, as he always does; but the idea 
 that he, who had worked a considerable part of several 
 seasons at examining and preparing insects, who be- 
 lieved himself to have given a new tabanus to the cat- 
 alogue of native diptera, the idea that he was playing 
 with science, and might be trusted anywhere as a 
 harmless amateur, from whom no expert could possi- 
 bly fear any anticipation of his unpublished discov- 
 eries, went beyond anything set down in that book of 
 his which contained so much of the strainings of his 
 wisdom. 
 
 The poor little Scarabee began fidgeting round 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 251 
 
 about this time, and uttering some half -audible words, 
 apologetical, partly, and involving an allusion to re- 
 freshments. As he spoke, he opened a small cup- 
 board, and as he did so out bolted an iminvited ten- 
 ant of the same, long in person, sable in hue, and swift 
 of movement, on seeing which the Scarabee simply- 
 said, without emotion, hlatta, but I, forgetting what 
 was due to good manners, exclaimed cockroach I 
 
 We could not make up our minds to tax the Scara- 
 bee's hospitality, already levied upon by the voracious 
 articulate. So we both alleged a state of utter reple- 
 tion, and did not solve the mystery of the contents of 
 the cupboard, — not too luxurious, it may be conjec- 
 tured, and yet kindly offered, so that we felt there was 
 a moist filament of the social instinct running like a 
 nerve through that exsiccated and almost anhydrous 
 organism. 
 
 We left him with professions of esteem and respect 
 which were real. We had gone, not to scoff, but very 
 probably to smile, and I will not say we did not. 
 But the Master was more thoughtful than usual. 
 
 — If I had not solemnly dedicated myself to the 
 study of the Order of Things, — he said, — I do ver- 
 ily believe I would give what remains to me of life to 
 the investigation of some single point I could utterly 
 eviscerate and leave finally settled for the instruction 
 and, it may be, the admiration of all coming time. 
 The keel ploughs ten thousand leagues of ocean and 
 leaves no trace of its deep-graven furrows. The 
 chisel scars only a few inches on the face of a rock, 
 but the story it has traced is read by a hxmdred gen- 
 erations. The eagle leaves no track of his path, no 
 memory of the place where he built his nest; but a 
 patient mollusk has bored a little hole in a marble 
 
252 THE POET AT THE BBBAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 colimm of the temple of Serapis, and the monument 
 of his labor outlasts the altar and the statue of the 
 divinity. 
 
 — Whew ! — said I to myself, — that sounds a little 
 like what we college boys used to call a "squirt." — 
 The Master guessed my thought and said, smiling, 
 
 — That is from one of my old lectures. A man's 
 tongue wags along quietly enough, but his pen begins 
 prancing as soon as it touches paper. I know what 
 you are thinking — you're thinking this is a squirt. 
 That word has taken the nonsense out of a good 
 many high-stepping fellows. But it did a good deal 
 of harm too, and it was a vulgar lot that applied it 
 oftenest. 
 
 I am at last perfectly satisfied that our Landlady 
 has no designs on the Capitalist, and as well con- 
 vinced that any fancy of mine that he was like to 
 make love to her was a mistake. The good woman 
 is too much absorbed in her children, and more espe- 
 cially in "the Doctor," as she delights to call her son, 
 to be the prey of any foolish desire of changing her 
 condition. She is doing very well as it is, and if the 
 young man succeeds, as I have little question that he 
 will, I think it probable enough that she will retire 
 from her position as the head of a boarding-house. 
 We have all liked the good woman who have lived 
 with her, — I mean we three friends who have put 
 ourselves on record. Her taJk, I must confess, is a 
 little diffuse and not always absolutely correct, ac- 
 cording to the standard of the great Worcester; she 
 is subject to lachrymose cataclysms and semiconvul- 
 sive upheavals when she reverts in memory to her past 
 trials, and especially when she recalls the virtues of 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLB. 253 
 
 her deceased spouse, who was, I suspect, an adjunct 
 such as one finds not rarely annexed to a capable 
 matron in charge of an establishment like hers ; that 
 is to say, an easy-going, harmless, fetch-and-carry, 
 carve-and-help, get-out-of-the-way kind of neuter, 
 who comes up three times (as they say drowning peo- 
 ple do) every day, namely, at breakfast, dinner, and 
 tea, and disappears, submerged beneath the waves of 
 life, during the intervals of these events. 
 
 It is a source of genuine delight to me, who am of 
 a kindly nature enough, according to my own reck- 
 oning, to watch the good woman, and see what looks 
 of pride and affection she bestows upon her Benjamin, 
 and how, in spite of herself, the maternal feeling be- 
 trays its influence in her dispensations of those delica- 
 cies which are the exceptional element in our enter- 
 tainments. I will not say that Benjamia's mess, like 
 his Scripture namesake's, is five times as large as 
 that of any of the others, for this would imply either 
 an economical distribution to the guests in general or 
 heaping the poor young man's plate in a way that 
 would spoil the appetite of an Esquimau, but you may 
 be sure he fares well if anybody does ; and I would 
 have you understand that our Landlady knows what 
 is what as well as who is who. 
 
 I begin really to entertain very sanguine expecta- 
 tions of young Doctor Benjamin Franklin. He has 
 lately been treating a patient whose good-will may 
 prove of great importance to him. The Capitalist 
 hurt one of his fingers somehow or other, and re- 
 quested our young doctor to take a look at it. The 
 young doctor asked nothing better than to take charge 
 of the case, which proved more serious than might 
 have been at first expected, and kept him in atten- 
 
254 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 dance more than a week. There was one very odd 
 thing about it. The Capitalist seemed to have an 
 idea that he was like to be ruined in the matter of 
 bandages, — small strips of worn linen which any old 
 woman could have spared him from her rag-bag, but 
 which, with that strange perversity which long habits 
 of economy give to a good many elderly people, he 
 seemed to think were as precious as if they had been 
 turned into paper and stamped with promises to pay 
 in thousands, from the national treasury. It was im- 
 possible to get this whim out of him, and the young 
 doctor had tact enough to himior him in it. All this 
 did not look very promising for the state of mind in 
 which the patient was like to receive his bill for at- 
 tendance when that should be presented. Doctor 
 Benjamin was man enough, however, to come up to 
 the mark, and sent him in such an account as it was 
 becoming to send a man of ample means who had 
 been diligently and skilfully cared for. He looked 
 forward with some uncertainty as to how it would be 
 received. Perhaps his patient would try to beat him 
 down, and Doctor Benjamin made up his mind to 
 have the whole or nothing. Perhaps he would pay 
 the whole amoxmt, but with a look, and possibly a 
 word, that would make every dollar of it bum like a 
 blister. 
 
 Doctor Benjamin's conjectures were not unnatural, 
 but quite remote from the actual fact. As soon as 
 his patient had got entirely well, the young physician 
 sent in his biU. The Capitalist requested him to step 
 into his room with him, and paid the fuU charge in 
 the handsomest and most gratifying way, thanking 
 him for his skill and attention, and assuring him that 
 he had had great satisfaction in submitting himself 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 255 
 
 to such competent hands, and should certainly apply 
 to him again in case he should have any occasion for 
 a medical adviser. We must not be too sagacious in 
 judging people by the little excrescences of their char- 
 acter. Ex pede Herculem may often prove safe 
 enough, but ex verruca Tvllium is liable to mislead a 
 hasty judge of his fellow-men. 
 
 I have studied the people called misers and thought 
 a good deal about them. In former years I used to 
 keep a little gold by me in order to ascertain for my- 
 self exactly the amotmt of pleasure to be got out of 
 handling it; this being the traditional delight of the 
 old-fashioned miser. It is by no means to be despised. 
 Three or four hundred dollars in double-eagles wiU do 
 very well to experiment on. There is something very 
 agreeable in the yellow gleam, very musical in the 
 metallic clink, very satisfying in the singular weight, 
 and very stimulating in the feeling that all the world 
 over these same yellow disks are the master-keys that 
 let one in wherever he wants to go, the servants that 
 bring him pretty nearly everything he wants, except 
 virtue, — and a good deal of what passes for that. I 
 confess, then, to an honest liking for the splendors 
 and the specific gravity and the manifold potentiality 
 of the royal metal, and I imderstand, after a certain 
 imperfect fashion, the delight that an old ragged 
 wretch, starving himself in a crazy hovel, takes in 
 stuffing guineas into old stockings and filling earthen 
 pots with sovereigns, and every now and then visiting 
 his hoards and fingering the fat pieces, and thinking 
 over all that they represent of earthly and angeUe and 
 diabolic energy. A miser pouring out his guineas 
 into his palm and bathing his shrivelled and trembling 
 hands in the yellow heaps before him, is not the pro- 
 
256 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 sale being we are in the habit of thinking him. He is 
 a dreamer, ahnost a poet. You and I read a novel or 
 a poem to help our imaginations to build up palaces, 
 and transport us into the emotional states and the fe- 
 licitous conditions of the ideal characters pictured in 
 the book we are reading. But think of him and the 
 significance of the symbols he is handling as compared 
 with the empty syllables and words we are using to 
 build our aerial edifices with ! In this hand he holds 
 the smile of beauty and in that the dagger of revenge. 
 The contents of that old glove will buy him the will- 
 ing service of many an adroit sinner, and with what 
 that coarse sack contains he can purchase the prayers 
 of holy men for all succeeding time. In this chest is 
 a castle in Spaia, a real one, and not only in Spain, 
 but anywhere he will choose to have it. If he would 
 know what is the liberality of judgment of any of the 
 straiter sects, he has only to hand over that box of 
 rouleaux to the trustees of one of its educational insti- 
 tutions for the endowment of two or three professor- 
 ships. If he would dream of being remembered by 
 coming generations, what monument so enduring as a 
 college building that shall bear his name, and even 
 when its solid masonry shall crumble give place to 
 another still charged with the same sacred duty of per- 
 petuating his remembrance. Who was Sir Matthew 
 Holworthy, that his name is a household word on the 
 lips of thousands of scholars, and wiU be centuries 
 hence, as that of Walter de Merton, dead six hundred 
 years ago, is to-day at Oxford? Who was Mistress 
 Holden, that she should be blessed among women by 
 having her name spoken gratefully and the little edi- 
 fice she caused to be erected preserved as her monu- 
 ment from generation to generation ? AH these pos- 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 257 
 
 sibilities, the lust of the eye, the lust of the flesh, the 
 pride of life; the tears of grateful orphans by the 
 gaUon; the prayers of Westminster Assembly's Cate- 
 chism divines by the thousand ; the masses of priests 
 by the century ; — all these things, and more if more 
 there be that the imagination of a lover of gold is 
 likely to range over, the miser hears and sees and 
 feels and hugs and enjoys as he paddles with his lean 
 hands among the sliding, shining, ringing, innocent- 
 looking bits of yellow metal, toying with them as the 
 lion-tamer handles the great carnivorous monster, 
 whose might and whose terrors are child's play to the 
 latent forces and power of harm-doing of the glitter- 
 ing counters played with in the great game between 
 angels and devils. 
 
 I have seen a good deal of misers, and I think I 
 understand them as well as most persons do. But 
 the Capitalist's economy in rags and his liberality to 
 the yoimg doctor are very oddly contrasted with each 
 other. I should not be surprised at any time to hear 
 that he had endowed a scholarship or professorship or 
 built a college dormitory, in spite of his curious parsi- 
 mony in old linen. 
 
 I do not know where our Young Astronomer got 
 the notions that he expresses so freely in the lines 
 that follow. I think the statement is true, however, 
 which I see in one of the most popular Cyclopsedias, 
 that "the non-clerical mind in all ages is disposed to 
 look favorably upon the doctrine of the universal res- 
 toration to holiness and happiness of all fallen intelli- 
 gences, whether human or angelic." Certainly, most 
 of the poets who have reached the heart of men, since 
 Bums dropped the tear for poor "auld Nickie-ben" 
 
258 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 that softened the stony-hearted theology of Scotland, 
 have had "non-clerical" minds, and I suppose our 
 young friend is in his humble way an optimist like 
 them. What he says in verse is very much the same 
 thing as what is said in prose in all companies, and 
 thought by a great many who are thankful to anybody 
 that wiU say it for them, — not a few clerical as well 
 as "non-clerical" persons among them. 
 
 WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DKIFTS. 
 
 What am I but the creature Thou hast made ? 
 What have I save the blessings Thou hast lent ? 
 What hope I but Thy mercy and Thy love ? 
 Who but myself shall cloud my soul with fear ? 
 Whose hand protect me from myself but Thine ? 
 
 I claim the rights of weakness, I, the babe, 
 Call on my sire to shield me from the ills 
 That still beset my path, not trying me 
 With snares beyond my wisdom or my strength, 
 He knowing I shall use them to my harm, 
 And find a tenfold misery in the sense 
 That in my childlike f oUy I have sprung 
 The trap upon myself as vermin use 
 Drawn by the cunning bait to certain doom. 
 Who wrought the wondrous charm that leads us on 
 To sweet perdition, but the self-same power 
 That set the fearful engine to destroy 
 His wretched offspring (as the Rabbis tell), 
 And hid its yawning jaws and treacherous springs 
 In such a show of innocent sweet flowers 
 It lured the sinless angels and they fell ? 
 
 Ah ! He who prayed the prayer of all mankind 
 Summed in those few brief words the mightiest plea 
 For erring souls before the courts of heaven, — 
 Save us from being tempted, — lest we fall ! 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 259 
 
 If we are only as the potter's clay- 
 Made to be fashioned as the artist wills, 
 And broken into shards if we oilend 
 The eye of Him who made us, it is well ; 
 Such love as the insensate lump of clay 
 That spins upon the swift-revolving wheel 
 Bears to the hand that shapes its growing form, — 
 Such love, no more, will be our hearts' return 
 To the great Master-workman for his care, — 
 Or would be, save that this, our breathing clay, 
 Is intertwined with fine innumerous threads 
 That make it conscious in its framer's hand ; 
 And this He must remember who has filled 
 These vessels with the deadly draught of life, — 
 Life, that means death to all it claims. Our love 
 Must kindle in the ray that streams from heaven, 
 A faint reflection of the light divine ; 
 The sun must warm the earth before the rose 
 Can show her inmost heart-leaves to the sun. 
 
 He yields some fraction of the Maker's right 
 
 Who gives the quivering nerve its sense of pain ; 
 
 Is there not something in the pleading eye 
 
 Of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns 
 
 The law that bids it suffer ? Has it not 
 
 A claim for some remembrance in the book 
 
 That fills its pages with the idle words 
 
 Spoken of men ? Or is it only clay. 
 
 Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand, 
 
 Yet all his own to treat it as he will 
 
 And when he wUl to cast it at his feet. 
 
 Shattered, dishonored, lost forevermore ? 
 
 My dog loves me, but could he look beyond 
 
 His earthly master, would his love extend 
 
 To Him who — Hush 1 I will not doubt that He 
 
 Is better than our fears, and will not wrong 
 
 The least, the meanest of created things ! 
 
 He would not trust me with the smallest orb 
 That circles through the sky ; he would not give 
 A m^eteor to my guidance ; would not leave 
 
260 THE POET AT THE BEE A KFAST-TABLE. 
 
 The coloring of a cloudlet to my hand ; 
 He locks my beating heart beneath its bars 
 And keeps the key himself ; he measures out 
 The draughts of vital breath that warm my blood, 
 Winds up the springs of instinct which uncoil, 
 Each in its season ; ties me to my home, 
 My race, my time, my nation, and my creed 
 So closely that if I but slip my wrist 
 Out of the band that cuts it to the bone, 
 Men say, " He hath a devil " ; he has lent 
 All that I hold in trust, as unto one 
 By reason of his weakness and his years 
 Not fit to hold the smallest shred in fee 
 Of those most common things he calls his own — 
 And yet — my Kabbi tells me — he has left 
 The care of that to which a million worlds 
 Filled with unconscious life were less than naught, 
 Has left that mighty universe, the Soul, 
 To the weak guidance of our baby hands, 
 Turned us adrift with our immortal charge, 
 Let the foul fiends have access at their will, 
 Taking the shape of angels, to our hearts, — 
 Our hearts already poisoned through and through 
 With the fierce virus of ancestral sin. 
 If what my Rabbi tells me is the truth, 
 Why did the choir of angels sing for joy ? 
 Heaven must be compassed in a narrow space. 
 And offer more than room enough for all 
 That pass its portals ; but the imderworld. 
 The godless realm, the place where demons forge 
 Their fiery darts and adamantine chains. 
 Must swarm with ghosts that for a little while 
 Had worn the garb of flesh, and being heirs 
 Of all the dulness of their stolid sires. 
 And all the erring instincts of their tribe. 
 Nature's own teaching, rudiments of " sin," 
 Fell headlong in the snare that could not fail 
 To trap the wretched creatures shaped of clay 
 And cursed with sense enough to lose their souls ! 
 
 Brother, thy heart is troubled at my word ; 
 Sister, I see the cloud is on thy brow. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 261 
 
 He will not blame me, He who sends not peace, 
 But sends a sword, and bids us strike amain 
 At Error's gilded crest, where in the van 
 Of earth's great army, mingling with the best 
 And bravest of its leaders, shouting loud 
 The battle-cries that yesterday have led 
 The host of Truth to victory, but to-day 
 Are watchwords of the laggard and the slave, 
 He leads his dazzled cohorts. God has made 
 This world a strife of atoms and of spheres ; 
 With every breath I sigh myself away 
 And take my tribute from the wandering wind 
 To fan the flame of life's consuming fire ; 
 So, whUe my thought has life, it needs must bum, 
 And burning, set the stubble-fields ablaze. 
 Where all the harvest long ago was reaped 
 And safely garnered in the ancient barns. 
 But still the gleaners, groping for their food. 
 Go blindly feeling through the close-shorn straw. 
 While the young reapers flash their glittering steel 
 Where later suns have ripened nobler grain I 
 
 We listened to these lines in silence. They were 
 evidently written honestly, and with feeling, and no 
 doubt meant to be reverential. I thought, however, 
 the Lady looked rather serious as he finished reading. 
 The Young Girl's cheeks were flushed, but she was 
 not in the mood for criticism. 
 
 As we came away the Master said to me — The 
 stubble-fields are mighty slow to take fire. These 
 young fellows catch up with the world's ideas one 
 after another, — they have been tamed a long while, 
 but they find them running loose ia their minds, and 
 think they are ferae, naturce. They remind me of 
 young sportsmen who fire at the first feathers they 
 see, and bring down a barnyard fowl. But the 
 chicken may be worth bagging for all that, he said, 
 good-humoredly. 
 
262 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 X. 
 
 Caveat Lector. Let the reader look out for him- 
 self. The old Master, whose words I have so fre- 
 quently quoted and shall quote more of, is a dogmatist 
 who lays down the law, ex cathedra, from the chair of 
 his own personality. I do not deny that he has the 
 ambition of knowing something about a greater num- 
 ber of subjects than any one man ought to meddle 
 with, except in a very humble and modest way. And 
 that is not his way. There was no doubt something 
 of humorous bravado in his saying that the actual 
 "order of things" did not offer a field sufficiently 
 ample for his intelligence. But if I found fault with 
 him, which would be easy enough, I should say that 
 he holds and expresses definite opinions about mat- 
 ters that he could afford to leave open questions, or 
 ask the judgment of others about. But I do not 
 want to find fault with him. If he does not settle all 
 the points he speaks of so authoritatively, he sets me 
 thinking about them, and I like a man as a companion 
 who is not afraid of a half-truth. I know he says 
 some things peremptorily that he may inwardly debate 
 with himself. There are two ways of dealing with 
 assertions of this kind. One may attack them on the 
 false side and perhaps gain a conversational victory. 
 But I like better to take them up on the true side and 
 see how much can be made of that aspect of the dog- 
 matic assertion. It is the only comfortable way of 
 dealing with persons like the old Master. 
 
 There have been three famous talkers in Great 
 Britain, either of whom would illustrate what I say 
 about dogmatists weU enough for my purpose. You 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAEPAST-TABLE. 263 
 
 cannot doubt to wliat three I refer : Samuel the First, 
 Samuel the Second, and Thomas, last of the Dynasty. 
 (I mean the living Thomas and not Thomas B.) 
 
 I say the last of the Dynasty, for the conversational 
 dogmatist on the imperial scale becomes every year 
 more and more an impossibility. If he is in intelli- 
 gent company he will be almost sure to find some one 
 who knows more about some of the subjects he gener- 
 alizes upon than any wholesale thinker who handles 
 knowledge by the cargo is like to know. I find my- 
 self, at certain intervals, in the society of a number 
 of experts in science, literature, and art, who cover a 
 pretty wide range, taking them all together, of hu- 
 man knowledge. I have not the least doubt that if 
 the great Dr. Samuel Johnson should come in and sit 
 with this company at one of their Saturday dinners, 
 he would be listened to, as he always was, with re- 
 spect and attention. But there are subjects upon 
 which the great talker could speak magisterially in his 
 time and at his club, upon which so wise a man 
 would express himself guardedly at the meeting where 
 I have supposed him a guest. We have a scientific 
 man or two among us, for instance, who would be 
 entitled to smile at the good Doctor's estimate of their 
 labors, as I give it here : — 
 
 " Of those that spin out life in trifles and die with- 
 out a memorial, many flatter themselves with high 
 opinion of their own importance and imagine that 
 they are every day adding some improvement to himian 
 life." — "Some turn the wheel of electricity, some 
 suspend rings to a loadstone, and find that what they 
 did yesterday they can do again to-day. Some regis- 
 ter the changes of the wind, and die fully convinced 
 that the wind is changeable. 
 
264 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 "There are men yet more profound, who have 
 heard that two colorless liquors may produce a color 
 by union, and that two cold bodies -wiU grow hot if 
 they are mingled; they mingle them, and produce the 
 effect expected, say it is strange, and mingle them 
 again." 
 
 I cannot transcribe this extract without an intense 
 inward delight in its wit and a full recognition of its 
 thorough half-truthfulness. Yet if while the great 
 moralist is indulging in these vivacities, he can be 
 imagined as receiving a message from Mr. Boswell or 
 Mrs. Thrale flashed through the depths of the ocean, 
 we can suppose he might be tempted to indulge in 
 another oracular utterance, something like this : — 
 
 — A wise man recognizes the convenience of a gen- 
 eral statement, but he bows to the authority of a par- 
 ticular fact. He who would bound the possibilities of 
 human knowledge by the limitations of present ac- 
 quirements would take the dimensions of the infant in 
 ordering the habiliments of the adidt. It is the pro- 
 vince of knowledge to speak and it is the privilege of 
 wisdom to listen. Will the Professor have the kind- 
 ness to inform me by what steps of gradual develop- 
 ment the ring and the loadstone, which were but yes- 
 terday the toys of children and idlers, have become 
 the means of approximating the intelligences of remote 
 continents, and wafting emotions unchiUed through 
 the abysses of the no longer unfathomable deep? 
 
 — This, you understand. Beloved, is only a con- 
 ventional imitation of the Doctor's style of talking. 
 He wrote in grand balanced phrases, but his conver- 
 sation was good, lusty, off-hand familiar talk. He 
 used very often to have it all his own way. If he 
 came back to us we must remember that to treat him 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 265 
 
 fairly we must suppose Mm on a level with the know- 
 ledge of our own time. But that knowledge is more 
 specialized, a great deal, than knowledge was in his 
 day. Men cannot talk about things they have seen 
 from the outside with the same magisterial authority 
 the talking dynasty pretended to. The sturdy old 
 moralist felt grand enough, no doubt, when he said, 
 "He that is growing great and happy by electrify- 
 ing a bottle wonders how the world can be engaged 
 by trifling prattle about war or peace." Benjamin 
 Franklin was one of these idlers who were electrifying 
 bottles, but he also found time to engage in the trifling 
 prattle about war and peace going on in those times. 
 The talking Doctor hits him very hard in "Taxation 
 no Tyranny " : "Those who wrote the Address (of the 
 American Congress in 1775), though they have shown 
 no great extent or profundity of mind, are yet prob- 
 ably wiser than to believe it: but they have been 
 taught by some master of mischief how to put in mo- 
 tion the engine of political electricity; to attract by 
 the sounds of Liberty and Property, to repel by those 
 of Popery and Slavery; and to give the great stroke 
 by the name of Boston." 
 
 The talking dynasty has always been hard upon us 
 Americans. King Samuel II. says : "It is, I believe, 
 a fact verified beyond doubt, that some years ago it 
 was impossible to obtain a copy of the Newgate Cal- 
 endar, as they had aU been bought up by the Ameri- 
 cans, whether to suppress the blazon of their forefa- 
 thers or to assist in their genealogical researches I 
 could never learn satisfactorily." 
 
 As for King Thomas, the last of the monological 
 succession, he made such a piece of work with his 
 prophecies and his sarcasms about our little trouble 
 
266 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 with some of the Southern States, that we came 
 rather to pity him for his whims and crotchets than to 
 get angry with him for calling us bores and other 
 imamiable names. 
 
 I do not think we believe things because consider- 
 able people say them, on personal authority, that is, 
 as intelligent listeners very commonly did a century 
 ago. The newspapers have lied that belief out of us. 
 Any man who has a pretty gift of talk may hold his 
 company a little while when there is nothing better 
 stirring. Every now and then a man who may be 
 dull enough prevailingly has a passion of talk come 
 over him which makes him eloquent and silences the 
 rest. I have a great respect for these divine parox- 
 ysms, these half-inspired moments of influx when 
 they seize one whom we had not counted among the 
 luminaries of the social sphere. But the man who 
 can give us a fresh experience on anything that in- 
 terests us overrides everybody else. A great peril 
 escaped makes a great story -teller of a common per- 
 son enough. I remember when a certain vessel was 
 wrecked long ago, that one of the survivors told the 
 story as well as Defoe could have told it. Never a 
 word from him before ; never a word from him since. 
 But when it comes to talking one's common thoughts, 
 — those that come and go as the breath does ; those 
 that tread the mental areas and corridors with steady, 
 even foot-fall, an interminable procession of every hue 
 and garb, — there are few, indeed, that can dare to 
 lift the curtain which hangs before the window in the 
 breast and throw open the window, and let us look 
 and listen. We are aU loyal enough to our sovereign 
 when he shows himseK, but sovereigns are scarce. I 
 never saw the absolute homage of listeners but once, 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 26T 
 
 that I remember, to a man's common talk, and that 
 was to the conversation of an old man, illustrious by 
 his lineage and the exalted honors he had won, whose 
 experience had lessons for the wisest, and whose elo- 
 quence had made the boldest tremble. 
 
 All this because I told you to look out for your- 
 selves and not take for absolute truth everything the 
 old Master of our table, or anybody else at it sees fit 
 to utter. At the same time I do not think that he, 
 or any of us whose conversation I think worth report- 
 ing, says anything for the mere sake of saying it and 
 without thinking that it holds some truth, even if it is 
 not unqualifiedly true. 
 
 I suppose a certain number of my readers wish very 
 heartily that the Young Astronomer whose poetical 
 speculations I am recording would stop trying by 
 searching to find out the Almighty, and sign the 
 thirty-nine articles, or the Westminster Confession 
 of Faith, at any rate slip his neck into some collar 
 or other, and pull quietly in the harness, whether it 
 galled him or not. I say, rather, let him have his 
 talk out; if nobody else asks the questions he asks, 
 some wUl be glad to hear them, but if you, the reader, 
 find the same questions in your own mind, you need 
 not be afraid to see how they shape themselves in an- 
 other's intelligence. Do you recognize the fact that 
 we are living in a new time ? Knowledge — it excites 
 prejudices to call it science — is advancing as irresist- 
 ibly, as majestically, as remorselessly as the ocean 
 moves in upon the shore. The courtiers of King 
 Canute (I am not afraid of the old comparison), rep- 
 resented by the adherents of the traditional beliefs of 
 the period, move his chair back an inch at a time, but 
 
268 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 not until his feet are pretty damp, not to say wet. 
 The rock on which he sat securely awhile ago is com- 
 pletely under water. And now people are walking 
 up and down the beach and judging for themselves 
 how far inland the chair of King Canute is like to be 
 moved while they and their children are looking on, at 
 the rate in which it is edging backward. And it is 
 quite too late to go into hysterics about it. 
 
 The shore, solid, substantial, a great deal more 
 than eighteen hundred years old, is natural humanity. 
 The beach which the ocean of knowledge — you may 
 call it science if you like — is flowing over, is theolo- 
 gical humanity. Somewhere between the Sermon on 
 the Mount and the teachings of Saint Augustine sin 
 was made a transferable chattel. (I leave the inter- 
 val wide for others to make narrow.) 
 
 The doctrine of heritable guilt, with its mechanical 
 consequences, has done for our moral nature what the 
 doctrine of demoniac possession has done in barbarous 
 times and still does among barbarous tribes for disease. 
 Out of that black cloud came the lightning which 
 struck the compass of humanity. Conscience, which 
 from the dawn of moral being had pointed to the poles 
 of right and wrong only as the great current of will 
 flowed through the soul, was demagnetized, paralyzed, 
 and knew henceforth no fixed meridian, but stayed 
 where the priest or the cotmcil placed it. There is 
 nothing to be done but to polarize the needle over 
 again. And for this purpose we must study the lines 
 of direction of all the forces which traverse our human 
 nature. 
 
 We must study man as we have studied stars and 
 rocks. We need not go, we are told, to our sacred 
 books for astronomy or geology or other scientific 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 269 
 
 knowledge. Do not stop there ! Pull Canute's chair 
 back fifty rods at once, and do not wait until he is 
 wet to the knees! Say now, bravely, as you wiU 
 sooner or later have to say, that we need not go to any 
 ancient records for our anthropology. Do we not all 
 hope, at least, that the doctrine of man's being a 
 blighted abortion, a miserable disappointment to his 
 Creator, and hostile and hateful to him from his 
 birth, may give way to the belief that he is the latest 
 terrestrial manifestation of an ever upward-striving 
 movement of divine power ? If there lives a man who 
 does not want to disbelieve the popular notions about 
 the condition and destiny of the bulk of his race, I 
 should like to have him look me in the face and tell 
 me so. 
 
 I am not writing for the basement story or the nur- 
 sery, and I do not pretend to be, but I say nothing in 
 these pages which would not be said without fear of 
 offence in any intelligent circle, such as clergymen of 
 the higher castes are in the habit of frequenting. 
 There are teachers in type for our grandmothers and 
 our grandchildren who vaccinate the two childhoods 
 with wholesome doctrine, transmitted harmlessly from 
 one infant to another. But we three men at our table 
 have taken the disease of thinking in the natural way. 
 It is an epidemic in these times, and thoee who are 
 afraid of it must shut themselves up close or they will 
 catch it. 
 
 I hope none of us are wanting in reverence. One 
 at least of us is a regular church-goer, and believes a 
 man may be devout and yet very free in the expres- 
 sion of his opinions on the gravest subjects. There 
 may be some good people who think that our young 
 friend who puts his thoughts in verse is going sound- 
 
270 THE POET AT THE BEE A KFAST-TABLE. 
 
 ing over perilous deptlis, and are frightened every 
 time he throws the lead. There is nothing to be 
 frightened at. This is a manly world we live in. 
 Our reverence is good for nothing if it does not begin 
 with self-respect. Occidental manhood springs from 
 that as its basis ; Oriental manhood finds the greatest 
 satisfaction in self-abasement. There is no use in try- 
 ing to graft the tropical pabn upon the Northern pine. 
 The same divine forces underlie the growth of both, 
 but leaf and flower and fruit must follow the law of 
 race, of soil, of climate. Whether the questions 
 which assail my young friend have risen in my read- 
 er's mind or not, he knows perfectly well that no- 
 body can keep such questions from springing up in 
 every young mind of any force or honesty. As for 
 the excellent little wretches who grow up in what they 
 are taught, with never a scruple or a query, Prot- 
 estant or Catholic, Jew or Mormon, Mahometan or 
 Buddhist, they signify nothing in the intellectual life 
 of the race. If the world had been wholly peopled 
 with such half -vitalized mental negatives, there never 
 would have been a creed like that of Christendom. 
 
 I entirely agree with the spirit of the verses I have 
 looked over, in this point at least, that a true man's 
 allegiance is given to that which is highest in his own 
 nature. He reverences truth, he loves kindness, he 
 respects justice. The two first qualities he under- 
 stands well enough. But the last, justice, at least as 
 between the Infinite and the finite, has been so ut- 
 terly dehumanized, disintegrated, decomposed, and 
 diabolized in passing through the minds of the half- 
 civilized banditti who have peopled and unpeopled the 
 world for some scores of generations, that it has 
 become a mere algebraic x, and has no fixed value 
 whatever as a human conception. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 271 
 
 As for power, we are outgrowing all superstition 
 about that. We have not the slightest respect for it 
 as such, and it is just as well to remember this in all 
 our spiritual adjustments. We fear power when we 
 cannot master it ; but just as far as we can master it, 
 we make a slave and a beast of burden of it without 
 hesitation. We cannot change the ebb and flow of 
 the tides, or the course of the seasons, but we come as 
 near it as we can. We dam out the ocean, we make 
 roses blow in winter and water freeze in summer. 
 We have no more reverence for the sun than we have 
 for a fish-tail gas-burner ; we stare into his face with 
 telescopes as at a ballet-dancer with opera-glasses; we 
 pick his rays to pieces with prisms as if they were so 
 many skeins of colored yarn; we teU him we do not 
 want his company and shut him out like a troublesome 
 vagrant. The gods of the old heathen are the servants 
 of to-day. Neptune, Vulcan, ^olus, and the bearer 
 of the thunderbolt himself have stepped down from 
 their pedestals and put on our livery. We cannot 
 always master them, neither can we always master 
 our servant, the horse, but we have put a bridle on 
 the wildest natural agencies. The mob of elemental 
 forces is as noisy and turbulent as ever, but the stand- 
 ing army of civilization keeps it well under, except 
 for an occasional outbreak. 
 
 When I read the Lady's letter printed some time 
 since, I could not help honoring the feeling which 
 prompted her in writing it. But while I respect the 
 innocent incapacity of tender age and the limitations 
 of the comparatively uninstructed classes, it is quite 
 out of the question to act as if matters of common 
 intelligence and universal interest were the private 
 property of a secret society, only to be meddled with 
 by those who know the grip and the password. 
 
272 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 We must get over tlie habit of transferring the lim- 
 itations of the nervous temperament and of hectic 
 constitutions to the great Source of all the mighty 
 forces of nature, animate and inanimate. We may 
 confidently trust that we have over us a Being thor- 
 oughly robust and grandly magnanimous, in distinc- 
 tion from the Infinite Invalid bred in the studies of 
 sickly monomaniacs, who corresponds to a very com- 
 mon human type, but makes us blush for him when 
 we contrast him with a truly noble man, such as most 
 of us have had the privilege of knowing both in pub- 
 lic and in private life. 
 
 I was not a little pleased to find that the Lady, in 
 spite of her letter, sat through the young man's read- 
 ing of portions of his poem with a good deal of com- 
 placency. I think I can guess what is in her mind. 
 She believes, as so many women do, in that great 
 remedy for discontent, and doubts about humanity, 
 and questionings of Providence, and all sorts of youth- 
 ful vagaries, — ^I mean the love-cure. And she thinks, 
 not without some reason, that these astronomical les- 
 sons, and these readings of poetry and daily proximity 
 at the table, and the need of two young hearts that 
 have been long feeling lonely, and youth and nature 
 and "aU impulses of soul and sense," as Coleridge 
 has it, wiU bring these two young people into closer 
 relations than they perhaps have yet thought of; and 
 so that sweet lesson of loving the neighbor whom he 
 has seen may lead him into deeper and more trusting 
 communion with the Friend and Father whom he has 
 not seen. 
 
 The Young Girl evidently did not intend that her 
 accomplice shoidd be a loser by the summary act of 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 273 
 
 the Member of the Haouse. I took occasion to ask 
 That Boy what had become of all the popguns. He 
 gave me to understand that popguns were played out, 
 but that he had got a squirt and a whip, and consid- 
 ered himself better off than before. 
 
 This great world is fuU of mysteries. I can com- 
 prehend the pleasure to be got out of the hydraulic 
 engine ; but what can be the fascination of a whip, when 
 one has nothing to flagellate but the calves of his own 
 legs, I could never understand. Yet a small riding- 
 whip is the most popular article with the miscellaneous 
 New-Englander at all great gatherings, — cattle-shows 
 and Fourth-of-July celebrations. If Democritus and 
 Heraclitus could walk arm in arm through one of 
 these crowds, the first would be in a broad laugh 
 to see the multitude of young persons who were re- 
 joicing in the possession of one of these useless and 
 worthless little commodities; happy himself to see how 
 easily others could purchase happiness. But the sec- 
 ond would weep bitter tears to think what a rayless 
 and barren life that must be which could extract en- 
 joyment from the miserable flimsy wand that has such 
 magic attraction for sauntering youths and simpering 
 maidens. What a dynamometer of happiness are 
 these paltry toys, and what a rudimentary vertebrate 
 must be the freckled adolescent whose yearning for 
 the infinite can be stayed even for a single hour by 
 so trifling a boon from the venal hands of the finite ! 
 
 Pardon these polysyllabic reflections, Beloved, but 
 I never contemplate these dear fellow-creatures of ours 
 without a delicious sense of superiority to them and to 
 aU arrested embryos of intelligence, in which I have 
 no doubt you heartily sympathize with me. It is not 
 merely when I look at the vacuous countenances of the 
 
274 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 mastigophori, tie whip-holders, that I enjoy this lux- 
 ury (though I would not miss that holiday spectacle 
 for a pretty sum of money, and advise you by all 
 means to make sure of it next Fourth of July, if you 
 missed it this), but I get the same pleasure from many 
 similar manifestations. 
 
 I delight in Eegalia, so called, of the kind not 
 worn by kings, nor obtaining their diamonds from 
 the mines of Golconda. I have a passion for those 
 resplendent titles which are not conferred by a sover- 
 eign and would not be the open sesame to the courts 
 of royalty, yet which are as opulent in impressive 
 adjectives as any Knight of the Garter's list of digni- 
 ties. When I have recognized in the every-day name 
 of His Very "Worthy High Eminence of some cabalis- 
 tic association, the inconspicuous individual whose 
 trifling indebtedness to me for value received remains 
 in a quiescent state and is likely long to continue so, 
 I confess to having experienced a thrill of pleasure. 
 I have smiled to think how grand his magnificent 
 titular appendages sounded in his own ears and what 
 a feeble tintinnabulation they made in mine. The 
 crimson sash, the broad diagonal belt of the mounted 
 marshal of a great procession, so cheap in themselves, 
 yet so entirely satisfactory to the wearer, tickle my 
 heart's root. 
 
 Perhaps I should have enjoyed all these weaknesses 
 of my infantile fellow-creatures without an after- 
 thought, except that on a certain literary anniversary 
 when I tie the narrow blue and pink ribbons in my 
 button-hole and show my decorated bosom to the ad- 
 miring public, I am conscious of a certain sense of 
 distinction and superiority in virtue of that trifling 
 addition to my personal adornments which reminds me 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 275 
 
 that I too have some embryonic fibres in my tolerably 
 well-matured organism. 
 
 I hope I have not hurt your feelings, if you happen 
 to be a High and Mighty Grand Functionary in any 
 illustrious Fraternity. When I tell you that a bit of 
 ribbon in my button-hole sets my vanity prancing, I 
 think you cannot be grievously offended that I smile 
 at the resonant titles which make you something more 
 than hmnan in your own eyes. I would not for the 
 world be mistaken for one of those literary roughs 
 whose brass knuckles leave their mark on the fore- 
 heads of so many inoffensive people. 
 
 There is a human sub-species characterized by the 
 coarseness of its fibre and the acrid nature of its intel- 
 lectual secretions. It is to a certain extent penetra- 
 tive, as all creatures are which are provided with 
 stings. It has an instinct which guides it to the 
 vulnerable parts of the Arictim on which it fastens. 
 These two qualities give it a certain degree of power 
 which is not to be despised. It might perhaps be less 
 mischievous, but for the fact that the wound where it 
 leaves its poison opens the fountain from which it 
 draws its nourishment. 
 
 Beings of this kind can be useful if they will only 
 find their appropriate sphere, which is not literature, 
 but that circle of rough-and-tumble political life where 
 the fine-fibred men are at a discount, where epithets 
 find their subjects poison-proof, and the sting which 
 woidd be fatal to a literary debutant only wakes the 
 eloquence of the pachydermatous ward-room politician 
 to a fiercer shriek of declamation. 
 
 The Master got talking the other day about the dif- 
 ference between races and families. I am reminded 
 of what he said by what I have just been saying my- 
 self about coarse-fibred and fine-fibred people. 
 
276 THE POET AT THE BREAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 — We talk about a Yankee, a New-Englander, — 
 lie said, — as if all of 'em were just the same kind of 
 animal. "There is knowledge and knowledge," said 
 John Bunyan. There are Yankees and Yankees. 
 Do you know two native trees called pitch pine and 
 white pine respectively? Of course you know 'em. 
 Well, there are pitch-pine Yankees and white-pine 
 Yankees. We don't talk about the inherited differ- 
 ences of men quite as freely, perhaps, as they do in 
 the Old World, but republicanism does n't alter the 
 laws of physiology. We have a native aristocracy, a 
 superior race, just as plainly marked by nature as of 
 a higher and finer grade than the common rim of peo- 
 ple as the white pine is marked in its form, its stature, 
 its bark, its delicate foliage, as belonging to the no- 
 bility of the forest; and the pitch pine, stubbed, 
 rough, coarse-haired, as of the plebeian order. Only 
 the strange thing is to see in what a capricious way 
 our natural nobility is distributed. The last bom 
 nobleman I have seen, I saw this morning; he was 
 pulling a rope that was fastened to a Maine schooner 
 loaded with lumber. I should say he was about 
 twenty years old, as fine a figure of a yoimg man as 
 you would ask to see, and with a regular Greek out- 
 line of countenance, waving hair, that fell as if a 
 sculptor had massed it to copy, and a complexion as 
 rich as a red sunset. I have a notion that the State 
 of Maine breeds the natural nobility in a larger pro- 
 portion than some other States, but they spring up in 
 aU sorts of out-of-the-way places. The young f eUow I 
 saw this morning had on an old flannel shirt, a pair of 
 trowsers that meant hard work, and a cheap cloth cap 
 pushed back on his head so as to let the large waves 
 of hair straggle out over his forehead; he was tugging 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 277 
 
 at his rope with the other sailors, but upon my word I 
 don't think I have seen a young English nobleman of 
 all those whom I have looked upon that answered to 
 the notion of "blood" so well as this young fellow 
 did. I suppose if I made such a levelling confession 
 as this in public, people would think I was looking 
 towards being the labor-reform candidate for Presi- 
 dent. But I should go on and spoil my prospects by 
 saying that I don't think the white-pine Yankee is the 
 more generally prevailing growth, but rather the 
 pitch-pine Yankee. 
 
 — The Member of the Haouse seemed to have been 
 getting a dim idea that all this was not exactly flatter- 
 ing to the huckleberry districts. His features betrayed 
 the growth of this suspicion so clearly that the Master 
 replied to his look as if it had been a remark. [I 
 need hardly say that this particular member of the 
 General Court was a pitch-pine Yankee of the most 
 thoroughly characterized aspect and flavor.] 
 
 — Yes, Sir, — the Master continued, — Sir being 
 anybody that listened, — there is neither flattery nor 
 offence in the views which a physiological observer 
 takes of the forms of life aroimd him. It won't do to 
 draw individual portraits, but the differences of nat- 
 ural groups of human beings are as proper subjects of 
 remark as those of different breeds of horses, and if 
 horses were Houyhnhnms I don't think they would 
 quarrel with us because we made a distinction between 
 a "Morgan " and a "Messenger." The truth is. Sir, 
 the lean sandy soil and the droughts and the long 
 winters and the east-winds and the cold storms, and 
 all sorts of unknown local influences that we can't 
 make out quite so plainly as these, have a tendency 
 to roughen the human organization and make it coarse, 
 
278 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFA8T-TABLE. 
 
 something as it is with the tree I mentioned. Some 
 spots and some strains of blood fight against these 
 influences, but if I should say right out what I think, 
 it would be that the finest human fruit, on the whole, 
 and especially the finest women that we get in New 
 England are raised under glass. 
 
 — Good gracious ! — exclaimed the Landlady, — 
 under glass ! — 
 
 — Give me cowcumbers raised in the open air, — 
 said the Capitalist, who was a little hard of hearing. 
 
 — Perhaps, — I remarked, — it might be as well 
 if you would explain this last expression of yours. 
 Raising human beings under glass I take to be a met- 
 aphorical rather than a literal statement of your 
 meaning. — 
 
 — No, Sir ! — replied the Master, with energy, — I 
 mean just what I say. Sir. Under glass, and with a 
 south exposure. During the hard season, of course, 
 — for in the heats of summer the tenderest hot-house 
 plants are not afraid of the open air. Protection is 
 what the transplanted Aryan requires in this New 
 England climate. Keep him, and especially keep 
 her, in a wide street of a well-built city eight months 
 of the year; good solid brick walls behind her, good 
 sheets of plate-glass, with the sim shining warm 
 through them, in front of her, and you have put her 
 in the condition of the pine-apple, from the land of 
 which, and not from that of the other kind of pine, 
 her race started on its travels. People don't know 
 what a gain there is to health by living in cities, the 
 best parts of them of course, for we know too well 
 what the worst parts are. In the first place you get 
 rid of the noxious emanations which poison so many 
 country localities with typhoid fever and dysentery; 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 279 
 
 not wholly rid of them, of course, but to a surprising 
 degree. Let me tell you a doctor's story. I was 
 visiting a Western city a good many years ago ; it was 
 in the autumn, the time when all sorts of malarious 
 diseases are about. The doctor I was speaking of 
 took me to see the cemetery just outside the town, — 
 I don't know how much he had done to fill it, for he 
 did n't tell me, but I 'U tell you what he did say. 
 
 "Look round," said the doctor. "There is n't a 
 house in all the ten-mile circuit of country you can see 
 over, where there is n't one person, at least, shaking 
 with fever and ague. And yet you need n't be afraid 
 of carrying it away with you, for as long as your 
 home is on a paved street you are safe." 
 
 — I think it likely — the Master went on to say — 
 that my friend the doctor put it pretty strongly, but 
 there is no doubt at all that while all the country 
 rormd was suffering from intermittent fever, the paved 
 part of the city was comparatively exempted. What 
 do you do when you build a house on a damp soil, — 
 and there are damp soils pretty much everywhere? 
 Why you floor the cellar with cement, don't you? 
 Well, the soil of a city is cemented all over, one may 
 say, with certain qualifications of course. A first- 
 rate city house is a regular sanatorium. The only 
 trouble is, that the little good-for-nothings that come 
 of utterly used-up and worn-out stock, and ought to 
 die, can't die, to save their lives. So they grow up 
 to dilute the vigor of the race with skim-milk vitality. 
 They would have died, like good children, in most 
 average country places ; but eight months of shelter ru 
 a regulated temperature, in a well-simned house, in a 
 duly moistened air, with good sidewalks to go about 
 on in all weather, and four months of the cream of 
 
280 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 summer and the fresh milk of Jersey cows, make the 
 little sham organizations — the worm-eaten wind-falls, 
 for that's what they look like — hang on to the 
 boughs of lifelike "froze-n-thaws"; regular struld- 
 brugs they come to be, a good many of 'em. 
 
 — The Scarabee's ear was caught by that queer word 
 of Swift's, and he asked very iimocently what kind of 
 bugs he was speaking of, whereupon That Boy shouted 
 out, Straddlebugs ! to his own immense amusement 
 and the great bewilderment of the Scarabee, who only 
 saw that there was one of those unintelligible breaks 
 in the conversation which made other people laugh, 
 and drew back his antennae as usual, perplexed, but 
 not amused. 
 
 I do not believe the Master had said all he was 
 going to say on this subject, and of course all these 
 statements of his are more or less one-sided. But 
 that some invalids do much better in cities than in the 
 country is indisputable, and that the frightful dysen- 
 teries and fevers which have raged like pestilences in 
 many of our country towns are almost unknown in the 
 better built sections of some of our large cities is get- 
 ting to be more generally understood since our well- 
 to-do people have annually emigrated in such numbers 
 from the cemented surface of the city to the steaming 
 soil of some of the dangerous rural districts. If one 
 should contrast the healthiest country residences with 
 the worst city ones the result would be all the other 
 way, of course, so that there are two sides to the ques- 
 tion, which we must let the doctors pound in their 
 great mortar, infuse and strain, hoping that they will 
 present us with the clear solution when they have got 
 through these processes. One of our chief wants is a 
 complete sanitary map of every State in the Union. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLE. 281 
 
 The balance o£ our table, as the reader has no 
 doubt observed, has been deranged by the withdrawal 
 of the Man of Letters, so called, and only the side of 
 the deficiency changed by the remoYal of the Young 
 Astronomer into our neighborhood. The fact that 
 there was a vacant chair on the side opposite us had 
 by no means escaped the notice of That Boy. He 
 had taken advantage of his opportunity and invited 
 in a schoolmate whom he evidently looked upon as a 
 great personage. This boy or youth was a good deal 
 older than himself and stood to him apparently in the 
 light of a patron and instructor in the ways of life. 
 A very jaunty, knowing young gentleman he was, 
 good-looking, smartly dressed, smooth-cheeked as yet, 
 curly -haired, with a roguish eye, a sagacious wink, a 
 ready tongue, as I soon found out; and as I learned 
 could catch a ball on the fly with any boy of his age; 
 not quarrelsome, but, if he had to strike, hit from the 
 shoulder; the pride of his father (who was a man of 
 property and a civic dignitary), and answering to the 
 name of Johnny. 
 
 I was a little surprised at the liberty That Boy had 
 taken in introducing an extra peptic element at our 
 table, reflecting as I did that a certain number of 
 avoirdupois ounces of nutriment which the visitor 
 would dispose of corresponded to a very appreciable 
 pecuniary amount, so that he was levying a contribu- 
 tion upon our Landlady which she might be inclined 
 to complain of. For the Caput mortuum (or dead- 
 head, in vulgar phrase) is apt to be furnished with a 
 Venter vwus, or, as we may say, a lively appetite. 
 But the Landlady welcomed the new-comer very 
 heartily. 
 
 — Why! how — do — you — do — Johnny ff with 
 
282 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 the notes of interrogation and of admiration both to- 
 gether, as here represented. 
 
 Johnny signified that he was doing about as well 
 as could be expected under the circumstances, haAring 
 just had a little difference with a young person whom 
 he spoke of as "Pewter-jaw" (I suppose he had worn 
 a dentist's tooth-straightening contrivance during his 
 second dentition), which youth he had finished off, as 
 he said, in good shape, but at the expense of a slight — 
 epistaxis, we will translate his vernacular expression. 
 
 — The three ladies all looked sympathetic, but 
 there did not seem to be any great occasion for it, as 
 the boy had come out all right, and seemed to be in 
 the best of spirits. 
 
 — And how is your father and your mother? — 
 asked the Landlady. 
 
 — Oh, the Governor and the Head Centre? A 1, 
 both of 'em. Prime order for shipping, — warranted 
 to stand any climate. The Governor says he weighs 
 a hunderd and seventy-five pounds. Got a chin-tuft 
 just like Ed'in Forrest. D'd y' ever see Ed'in Tor- 
 rest play Metamora? Bully, I tell youl My old 
 gentleman means to be Mayor or Governor or Presi- 
 dent or something or other before he goes off the 
 handle, you 'd better b'lieve. He 's smart, — and 
 I 've heard folks say I take after him. — 
 
 — Somehow or other I felt as if I had seen this 
 boy before, or known something about him. Where 
 did he get those expressions "A 1 " and "prime " and 
 so on? They must have come from somebody who 
 has been in the retail dry -goods business, or something 
 of that nature. I have certain vague reminiscences 
 that carry me back to the early times of this boarding- 
 house. — Johnny. — Landlady knows his father well. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 283 
 
 — Boarded with her, no doubt. — There was some- 
 body by the name of John, I remember perfectly well, 
 lived with her. I remember both my friends men- 
 tioned him, one of them very often. I wonder if this 
 boy is n't a son of his ! I asked the Landlady after 
 breakfast whether this was not, as I had suspected, 
 the son of that former boarder. 
 
 — To be sure he is, — she answered, — and jest 
 such a good-natur'd sort of creatur' as his father was. 
 I always liked John, as we used to call his father. 
 He did love fun, but he was a good soul, and stood 
 by me when I was in trouble, always. He went into 
 business on his own account after a while, and got 
 merried, and settled down into a family man. They 
 tell me he is an amazing smart business man, — grown 
 wealthy, and his wife's father left her money. But I 
 can't help calling him John, — law, we never thought 
 of calling him anything else, and he always laughs 
 and says, "That 's right." This is his oldest son, and 
 everybody calls him Johnny. That Boy of ours goes 
 to the same school with his boy, and thinks there 
 never was anybody like him, — you see there was a boy 
 undertook to impose on our boy, and Johnny gave the 
 other boy a good licking, and ever since that he is al- 
 ways wanting to have Johnny round with him and 
 bring him here with him, — and when those two boys 
 get together, there never was boys that was so chock 
 full of fim and sometimes mischief, but not very bad 
 mischief, as those two boys be. But I like to have 
 him come once in a while when there is room at the 
 table, as there is now, for it puts me in mind of the 
 old times, when my old boarders was aU round me, 
 that I used to think so much of, — not that my board- 
 ers that I have now a'nt very nice people, but I did 
 
284 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 think a dreadful sight of the gentleman that made that 
 first book; it helped me on in the world more than 
 ever he knew of, — for it was as good as one of them 
 Brandreth's pills advertisements, and did n't cost me 
 a cent, and that young lady he merried too, she was 
 nothing but a poor young schookna'am when she come 
 to my house, and now — and she deserved it all too, 
 for she was always just the same, rich or poor, and 
 she isn't a bit prouder now she wears a camel's-hair 
 shawl, than she was when I used to lend her a woollen 
 one to keep her poor dear little shoulders warm when 
 she had to go out and it was storming, — and then 
 there was that old gentleman, — I can't speak about 
 him, for I never knew how good he was till his will 
 was opened, and then it was too late to thank 
 him. . . . 
 
 I respected the feeling which caused the interval of 
 silence, and found my own eyes moistened as I re- 
 membered how long it was since that friend of ours 
 was sitting in the chair where I now sit, and what a 
 tidal wave of change has swept over the world and 
 more especially over this great land of ours, since he 
 opened his lips and foimd so many kind listeners. 
 
 The Yoimg Astronomer has read us another extract 
 from his manuscript. I ran my eye over it, and so 
 far as I have noticed it is correct enough in its versifi- 
 cation. I suppose we are getting gradually over our 
 hemispherical provincialism, which allowed a set of 
 monks to pull their hoods over our eyes and teU us 
 there was no meaning in any religious symbolism but 
 our own. If I am mistaken about this advance I 
 am very glad to print the young man's somewhat out- 
 spoken lines to help us in that direction. 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 285 
 
 WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DKIFTS. 
 
 The time is racked with birth-pangs ; every hour 
 Brings forth some gasping truth, and truth new-bom 
 Looks a misshapen and untimely growth, 
 The terror of the household and its shame, 
 A monster coiling in its nurse's lap 
 That some would strangle, some would only starve j 
 But still it breathes, and passed from hand to hand. 
 And suckled at a hundred half -clad breasts. 
 Comes slowly to its stature and its form. 
 Calms the rough ridges of its dragon-scales. 
 Changes to shining locks its snaky hair. 
 And moves transfigured into angel guise. 
 Welcomed by all that cursed its hour of birth. 
 And folded in the same encircling arms 
 That cast it like a serpent from their hold ! 
 
 If thou wouldst live in honor, die in peace, 
 Have the fine words the marble-workers learn 
 To carve so well, upon thy funeral-stone, 
 And earn a fair obituary, dressed 
 In all the many-colored robes of praise. 
 Be deafer than the adder to the cry 
 Of that same foundling truth, until it grows 
 To seemly favor, and at length has won 
 The smiles of hard-mouthed men and light-lipped dames ; 
 Then snatch it from its meagre nurse's breast, 
 Fold it in silk and give it food from gold ; 
 So shalt thou share its glory when at last 
 It drops its mortal vesture, and revealed 
 In all the splendor of its heavenly form, 
 Spreads on the startled air its mighty wings ! 
 
 Alas ! how much that seemed immortal truth 
 That heroes fought for, martyrs died to save, 
 Reveals its earth-born lineage, growing old 
 And limping in its march, its wings unplumed, 
 Its heavenly semblance faded like a dream ! 
 
286 THE POET AT THE BBBAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 Here in this painted casket, just unsealed, 
 Lies what was once a breathing shape like thine, 
 Once loved as thou art loved ; there beamed the eyes 
 That looked on Memphis in its hour of pride. 
 That saw the walls of hundred-gated Thebes, 
 And all the mirrored glories of the Nile. 
 See how they toiled that all-consuming time 
 IMight leave the frame immortal in its tomb; 
 Filled it with fragrant balms and odorous gums 
 That still diffuse their sweetness through the air. 
 And wound and wound with patient fold on fold 
 The flaxen bands thy hand has rudely torn ! 
 Perchance thou yet canst see the faded stain 
 Of the sad mourner's tear. 
 
 But what is this ? 
 The sacred beetle, bound upon the breast 
 Of the blind heathen ! Snatch the curious prize, 
 Give it a place among thy treasured spoils 
 Fossil and relic, — corals, encrinites, 
 The fly in amber and tha flsh in stone. 
 The twisted circlet of Etruscan gold, 
 Medal, intaglio, poniard, poison-ring, — 
 Place for the Memphian beetle with thine hoard i 
 
 Ah ! longer than thy creed has blest the world 
 This toy, thus ravished from thy brother's breast, 
 Was to the heart of Mizraim as divine. 
 As holy, as the symbol that we lay 
 On the still bosom of our white-robed dead, 
 And raise above their dust that all may know 
 Here sleeps an heir of glory. Loving friends. 
 With tears of trembling faith and choking sobs, 
 And prayers to those who judge of mortal deeds, 
 Wrapped this poor image in the cerement's fold 
 That Isis and Osiris, friends of man. 
 Might know their own and claim the ransomed soul. 
 
 An idol ? Man was born to worship such ! 
 An idol is an image of his thought ; 
 Sometimes he carves it out of gleaming stone. 
 And sometimes moulds it out of glittering gold. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 287 
 
 Or rounds it in a mighty frescoed dome, 
 Or lifts it heavenward in a lofty spire, 
 Or shapes it in a fi rmin g frame of words, 
 Or pays his priest to make it day by day; 
 For sense must have its god as well as soul; 
 A new-born Dian calls for silver shrines, 
 And Egypt's holiest symbol is our own. 
 The sign we worship as did they of old 
 When Isis and Osiris ruled the world. 
 
 Let us be true to our most subtle selves, 
 We long to have our idols like the rest. 
 Think ! when the men of Israel had their God 
 Encamped among them, talking with their chief. 
 Leading them in the pillar of the cloud 
 And watching o'er them in the shaft of Are, 
 They Still must have an image ; still they longed 
 For somewhat of substantial, solid form 
 Whereon to hang their garlands, and to fix 
 Their wandering thoughts, and gain a stronger hold 
 For their uncertain faith, not yet assured 
 If those same meteors of the day and night 
 Were not mere exhalations of the soil. 
 
 Are we less earthly than the chosen race ? 
 Are we more neighbors of the living God 
 Than they who gathered manna every morn. 
 Heaping where none had sown, and heard the voice 
 Of him who met the Highest in the mount, 
 And brought them tables, graven with His hand ? 
 Yet these must have their idol, brought their gold. 
 That star-browed Apis might be god again ; 
 Yea, from their ears the women brake the rings 
 That lent such splendors to the gypsy brown 
 Of sunburnt cheeks, — what more could woman do 
 To show her pious zeal ? They went astray. 
 But nature led them as it leads us all. 
 
 We too, who mock at Israel's golden calf 
 And seoffi at Egypt's sacred scarabee, 
 Would have our amulets to clasp and kiss. 
 And flood with rapturous tears, and bear with us 
 To be our dear companions in the dust. 
 Such magic works an image in our souls ! 
 
288 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Man is an embryo ; see at twenty years 
 His bones, the columns that uphold his frame 
 Not yet cemented, shaft and capital, 
 Mere fragments of the temple incomplete. 
 At twoscore, threescore, is he then full grown ? 
 Kay, stUl a child, and as the little maids 
 Dress and undress their puppets, so he tries 
 To dress a lifeless creed, as if it lived. 
 And change its raiment when the world cries shame ! 
 
 We smUe to see our little ones at play 
 So grave, so thoughtful, with maternal care 
 Nursing the wisps of rags they call their babes ; — 
 Does He not smile who sees us with the toys 
 We call by sacred names, and idly feign 
 To be what we have called them ? He is still 
 The Father of this helpless nursery-brood. 
 Whose second childhood joins so close its first. 
 That in the crowding, hurrying years between 
 We scarce have trained our senses to their task 
 Before the gathering mist has dimmed our eyes, 
 And with our hollowed palm we help our ear. 
 And trace with trembling hand our wrinkled names, 
 And then begin to tell our stories o'er, 
 And see — not hear — the whispering lips that say, 
 
 " You know ? Your father knew him. — This is he, 
 
 Tottering and leaning on the hireling's arm," — 
 And so, at length, disrobed of all that clad 
 The simple life we share with weed and worm, 
 Go to our cradles, naked as we came. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I suppose there would have been even more remarks 
 upon the growing intimacy of the Young Astronomer 
 and his pupil, if the curiosity of the boarders had not 
 in the mean time been so much excited at the appar- 
 ently close relation which had sprung up between the 
 Register of Deeds and the Lady. It was really hard 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 289 
 
 to tell what to make of it. The Register appeared at 
 the table in a new coat. Suspicious. The Lady was 
 evidently deeply interested in him, if we could judge 
 by the frequency and the length of their interviews. 
 On at least one occasion he has brought a lawyer with 
 him, which naturally suggested the idea that there 
 were some property arrangements to be attended to, 
 in ease, as seems probable against all reasons to the 
 contrary, these two estimable persons, so utterly un- 
 fitted, as one would say, to each other, contemplated 
 an alliance. It is no pleasure to me to record an ar- 
 rangement of this kind. I frankly confess I do not 
 know what to make of it. With her tastes and breed- 
 ing, it is the last thing that I should have thought of, 
 — her imiting herself with this most commonplace 
 and mechanical person, who cannot even offer her the 
 elegances and luxuries to which she might seem enti- 
 tled on changing her condition. 
 
 While I was thus interested and puzzled I received 
 an unexpected visit from our Landlady. She was 
 evidently excited, and by some event which was of a 
 happy nature, for her countenance was beaming and 
 she seemed impatient to communicate what she had 
 to tell. Impatient or not, she must wait a moment, 
 while I say a word about her. Our Landlady is as 
 good a creature as ever lived. She is a little negli- 
 gent of grammar at times, and wiU get a wrong word 
 now and then ; she is garrulous, circumstantial, asso- 
 ciates facts by their accidental cohesion rather than by 
 their vital affinities, is given to choking and tears on 
 slight occasions, but she has a warm heart, and feels to 
 her boarders as if they were her blood-relations. 
 
 She began her conversation abruptly. — I expect 
 I 'm a going to lose one of my boarders, — she said. 
 
290 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 — You don't seem very unhappy about it, madam, 
 — I answered. — "We all took it easily when the per- 
 son who sat on our side of the table quitted us in such 
 a hurry, but I do not think there is anybody left that 
 either you or the boarders want to get rid of — unless 
 it is myself, — I added modestly. 
 
 — You ! said the Landlady — you! No indeed. 
 When I have a quiet boarder that 's a small eater, I 
 don't want to lose him. You don't make trouble, you 
 don't find fault with your vit — [Dr. Benjamin had 
 schooled his parent on this point and she altered the 
 word] with your food, and you know when you 've 
 had enough. 
 
 — I really felt proud of this eulogy, which embraces 
 the most desirable excellences of a human being in the 
 capacity of boarder. 
 
 The Landlady began again. — I'm going to lose — 
 at least, I suppose I shall — one of the best boarders 
 I ever had, — that Lady that 's been with me so long. 
 
 — I thought there was something going on between 
 her and the Register, — I said. 
 
 — Something ! I should think there was ! About 
 three months ago he began making her acquaintance. 
 I thought there was something particular. I did n't 
 quite like to watch 'em very close, but I could n't help 
 overhearing some of the things he said to her, for, 
 you see, he used to follow her up into the parlor, — 
 they talked pretty low, but I could catch a word now 
 and then. I heard him say something to her one day 
 about "bettering her condition," and she seemed to be 
 thinking very hard about it, and turning of it over in 
 her mind, and I said to myself, She does n't want to 
 take up with him, but she feels dreadful poor, and 
 perhaps he has been saving and has got money in the 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 291 
 
 bank, and she does n't want to throw away a chance of 
 bettering herself without thinking it over. But dear 
 me, — says I to myseK, — to think of her walking up 
 the broad aisle into meeting alongside of such a 
 homely, rusty-looking creatur' as that ! But there 's 
 no telling what folks wiU do when poverty has got 
 hold of 'em. 
 
 — Well, so I thought she was waiting to make up 
 her mind, and he was hanging on in hopes she 'd come 
 round at last, as women do half the time, for they 
 don't know their own minds and the wind blows both 
 ways at once with 'em as the smoke blows out of the 
 tall chimlies, — east out of this one and west out of 
 that, — so it 's no use looking at 'em to know what 
 the weather is. 
 
 — But yesterday she comes up to me after break- 
 fast, and asks me to go up with her into her little 
 room. Now, says I to myself, I shall hear all about 
 it. I saw she looked as if she 'd got some of her 
 trouble off her mind, and I guessed that it was set- 
 tled, and so, says I to myself, I must wish her joy and 
 hope it 's all for the best, whatever I think about it. 
 
 — Well, she asked me to set down, and then she 
 begun. She said that she was expecting to have a 
 change in her condition of life, and had asked me 
 up so that I might have the first news of it. I am 
 sure — says I — I wish you both joy. Merriage is 
 a blessed thing when folks is well sorted, and it is an 
 honorable thing, and the first meracle was at the mer- 
 riage in Canaan. It brings a great sight of happiness 
 with it, as I 've had a chance of knowing, for my — 
 hus — 
 
 The Landlady showed her usual tendency to 
 "break" from the conversational pace just at this 
 
292 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFA8T-TABLE. 
 
 point, but managed to rein in the rebellious dia- 
 phragm, and resumed her narrative. 
 
 — Merriage ! — says she, — pray who has said any- 
 thing about merriage? — 
 
 — I beg your pardon, ma'am, — says I, — I 
 thought you had spoke of changing your condition, 
 and I — She looked so I stopped right short. 
 
 — Don't say another word, says she, but jest listen 
 to what I am going to tell you. 
 
 — My friend, says she, that you have seen with me 
 so often lately, was hunting among his old Record 
 books, when all at once he come across an old deed 
 that was made by somebody that had my family name. 
 He took it into his head to read it over, and he found 
 there was some kind of a condition that if it was n't 
 kept, the property would all go back to them that 
 was the heirs of the one that gave the deed, and that 
 he found out was me. Something or other put it into 
 his head, says she, that the company that owned the 
 property — it was ever so rich a company and owned 
 land aU round everywhere — had n't kept to the con- 
 ditions. So he went to work, says she, and hunted 
 through his books and he inquired all round, and he 
 found out pretty much aU about it, and at last he 
 come to me — it 's my boarder, you know, that says 
 all this — and says he. Ma'am, says he, if you have 
 any kind of fancy for being a rich woman you 've 
 only got to say so. I did n't know what he meant, 
 and I began to think, says she, he must be crazy. 
 But he explained it all to me, how I 'd nothing to do 
 but go to court and I could get a sight of property 
 back. Well, so she went on telling me — there was 
 ever so much more that I suppose was all plain enough, 
 but I don't remember it all — only I know my boarder 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKPAST-TABLE. 293 
 
 was a good deal worried at first at the thought of tak- 
 ing money that other people thought was theirs, and 
 the Register he had to talk to her, and he brought a 
 lawyer and he talked to her, and her friends they 
 talked to her, and the upshot of it all was that the 
 company agreed to settle the business by paying her, 
 well, I don't know just how much, but enough to make 
 her one of the rich folks again. 
 
 I may as well add here that, as I have since learned, 
 this is one of the most important cases of releasing 
 right of reentry for condition broken which has been 
 settled by arbitration for a considerable period. If I 
 am not mistaken the Register of Deeds will get some- 
 thinsT more than a new coat out of this business, for 
 the Lady very justly atlf ibutes her change of fortunes 
 to his sagacity and his activity in following up the 
 hint he had come across by mere accident. 
 
 So my supernimierary fellow-boarder, whom I 
 would have dispensed with as a cumberer of the table, 
 has proved a ministering angel to one of the personages 
 whom I most cared for. 
 
 One would have thought that the most scrupidous 
 person need not have hesitated in asserting an unques- 
 tioned legal and equitable claim simply because it had 
 lain a certain number of years in abeyance. But be- 
 fore the Lady could make up her mind to accept her 
 good fortune she had been kept awake many nights in 
 doubt and inward debate whether she should avail 
 herself of her rights. If it had been private property, 
 so that another person must be made poor that she 
 should become rich, she would have lived and died in 
 want rather than claim her own. I do not think any 
 of us would like to turn out the possessor of a fine 
 
294 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 estate enjoyed for two or three generations on the 
 faith of unquestioned ownership by making use of 
 some old forgotten instrument, which accident had 
 thrown in our way. 
 
 But it was all nonsense to indulge in any sentiment 
 in a ease like this, where it was not only a right, hut 
 a duty which she owed herself and others in relation 
 with her, to accept what Providence, as it appeared, 
 had thrust upon her, and when no suffering would be 
 occasioned to anybody. Conunon sense told her not 
 to refuse it. So did several of her rich friends, who 
 remembered about this time that they had not called 
 upon her for a good while, and among them Mrs. 
 Midas Goldenrod. 
 
 Never had that lady's carriage stood before the door 
 of our boarding-house so long, never had it stopped so 
 often, as since the revelation which had come from the 
 Registry of Deeds. Mrs. Midas Goldenrod was not 
 a bad woman, but she loved and hated in too exclusive 
 and fastidious a way to allow us to consider her as 
 representing the highest ideal of womanhood. She 
 hated narrow ill-ventUated courts, where there was 
 nothing to see if one looked out of the window but old 
 men in dressing-gowns and old women in caps; she 
 hated little dark rooms with air-tight stoves in them; 
 she hated rusty bombazine gowns and last year's bon- 
 nets ; she hated gloves that were not as fresh as new- 
 laid eggs, and shoes that had grown bulgy and wrin- 
 kled in service; she hated common crockery -ware and 
 teaspoons of slight constitution; she hated second ap- 
 pearances on the dinner-table; she hated coarse nap- 
 kins and table-cloths; she hated to ride in the horse- 
 cars; she hated to walk except for short distances, 
 when she was tired of sitting in her carriage. She 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 295 
 
 loved witli sincere and undisguised affection a spacious 
 city mansion and a charming country villa, with a 
 seaside cottage for a couple of months or so ; she loved 
 a perfectly appointed household, a cook who was up to 
 all kitds of salmis and vol-au-vents, a French maid, 
 and a stylish-looking coachman, and the rest of the 
 people accessary to help one live in a decent manner ; 
 she lovel pictures that other people said were first- 
 rate, ana which had at least cost first-rate prices ; she 
 loved bodis with handsome backs, in showy cases ; she 
 loved heavy and richly wought plate ; fine linen and 
 plenty of it; dresses from Paris frequently, and as 
 many as coild be got in without troubling the custom- 
 house; Kissia sables and Venetian point-lace; dia- 
 monds, and good big ones ; and, speaking generally, 
 she loved dtar things in distinction from cheap ones, 
 the real artcle and not the economical substitute. 
 
 For the Ife of me I cannot see anything Satanic in 
 aU this. TjU me. Beloved, only between ourselves, 
 if some of ;hese things are not desirable enough in 
 their way, aid if you and I could not make up our 
 minds to p\t up with some of the least objectionable 
 of them witlout any great inward struggle ? Even in 
 the matter o: ornaments there is something to be said. 
 Why should we be told that the New Jerusalem is 
 paved with |old, and that its twelve gates are each of 
 them a peal, and that its foundations are garnished 
 with sapphies and emeralds and all manner of pre- 
 cious stones.if these are not among the most desirable 
 of objects? And is there anything very strange in 
 the fact thai many a daughter of earth finds it a sweet 
 foretaste of heaven to wear about her frail earthly 
 tabernacle tiese glittering reminders of the celestial 
 city? 
 
296 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Mrs. Midas Goldenrod was not so entirely peculiar 
 and anomalous in her likes and dislikes; the oily 
 trouble was that she mixed up these accidents of /life 
 too much with life itself, which is so often serenely or 
 actively noble and happy without reference to /hem. 
 She valued persons chiefly according to their e;tternal 
 conditions, and of course the very moment h^r rela- 
 tive, the Lady of our breakfast-table, began to find 
 herself in a streak of sunshine she came formrd with 
 a lighted candle to show her which way her/path lay 
 before her. / 
 
 The Lady saw all this, how plainly, howpainf ully ! 
 yet she exercised a true charity for the veakness of 
 her relative. Sensible people have as mum consider- 
 ation for the frailties of the rich as for tiose of the 
 poor. There is a good deal of excuse^ for them. 
 Even you and I, philosophers and philanthropists as 
 we may think ourselves, have a dislike ror the en- 
 forced economies, proper and honorable tough they 
 certainly are, of those who are two or tljree degrees 
 below us in the scale of agreeable living. 
 
 — These are very worthy persons you have been 
 living with, my dear, — said Mrs. Midas' — [the "My 
 dear " was an expression which had floweed out more 
 luxuriantly than ever before in the n^ streak of 
 sunshine] — eminently respectable partie, I have no 
 question, but then we shall want you to nove as soon 
 as possible to our quarter of the town, ^here we can 
 see more of you than we have been ale to in this 
 queer place. 
 
 It was not very pleasant to listen to his kind of 
 talk, but the Lady remembered her annjal bouquet, 
 and her occasional visits from the rich Idy, and re- 
 strained the inclination to remind her o: the humble 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 297 
 
 sphere from which she herself, the rich and patroniz- 
 ing personage, had worked her way up (if it was up) 
 into that world which she seemed to think was the 
 only one where a human being could find life worth 
 having. Her cheek flushed a little, however, as she 
 said to Mrs. Midas that she felt attached to the place 
 where she had been living so long. She doubted, she 
 was pleased to say, whether she should find better 
 company in any circle she was like to move in than 
 she left behind her at our boarding-house. I give the 
 old Master the credit of this compliment. If one does 
 not agree with half of what he says, at any rate he 
 always has something to say, and entertains and lets 
 out opinions and whims and notions of one kind and 
 another that one can quarrel with if he is out of 
 humor, or carry away to think about if he happens to 
 be in the receptive mood. 
 
 But the Lady expressed still more strongly the 
 regret she should feel at leaving her young friend, our 
 Scheherezade. I cannot wonder at this. The Young 
 Girl has lost what little playfulness she had in the 
 earlier months of my acquaintance with her. I often 
 read her stories partly from my interest in her, and 
 partly because I find merit enough in them to deserve 
 something better than the rough handling they got 
 from her coarse-fibred critic, whoever he was. I see 
 evidence that her thoughts are wandering from her 
 task, that she has fits of melancholy, and bursts of 
 tremulous excitement, and that she has as much as she 
 can do to keep herself at all to her stated, inevitable, 
 and sometimes almost despairing literary labor. I 
 have had some acquaintance with vital phenomena of 
 this kind, and know something of the nervous nature 
 of young women and its "magnetic storms," if I may 
 
298 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 borrow an expression from tlie physicists, to indicate 
 the perturbations to which they are liable. She is 
 more in need of friendship and counsel now than ever 
 before, it seems to me, and I cannot bear to think 
 that the Lady, who has become like a mother to her, 
 is to leave her to her own guidance. 
 
 It is plain enough what is at the bottom of this dis- 
 turbance. The astronomical lessons she has been tak- 
 ing have become interesting enough to absorb too 
 much of her thoughts, and she finds them wandering 
 to the stars or elsewhere, when they should be work- 
 ing quietly in the editor's harness. 
 
 The Landlady has her own views on this matter 
 which she communicated to me something as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 — I don't quite like to tell folks what a lucky place 
 my boarding-house is, for fear I should have all sorts 
 of people crowding in to be my boarders for the sake 
 of their chances. Folks come here poor and they go 
 away rich. Young women come here without a 
 friend in the world, and the next thing that happens 
 is a gentleman steps up to 'em and says, "If you'U 
 take me for your pardner for life, I 'H give you a 
 good home and love you ever so much besides " ; and 
 off goes my young lady-boarder into a fine three-story 
 house, as grand as the governor's wife, with every- 
 thing to make her comfortable, and a husband to care 
 for her into the bargain. That 's the way it is with 
 the young ladies that comes to board with me, ever 
 since the gentleman that wrote the first book that ad- 
 vertised my establishment (and never charged me a 
 cent for it neither) merried the Schoohna'am. And 
 I think — but that 's between you and me — that it 's 
 going to be the same thing right over again between 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 299 
 
 that young gentleman and this young girl here — if 
 she doos n't kill herself with writing for them news- 
 papers, — it 's too bad they don't pay her more for 
 writing her stories, for I read one of 'em that made 
 me cry so the Doctor — my Doctor Benjamin — said, 
 "Ma, what makes your eyes look so? " and wanted to 
 rig a machine up and look at 'em, but I told him 
 what the matter was, and that he need n't fix up his 
 peeking contrivances on my account, — anyhow she 's 
 a nice young woman as ever lived, and as industrious 
 with that pen of hers as if she was at work with a 
 sewing-machine, — and there ain't much difference, 
 for that matter, between sewing on shirts and writing 
 on stories, — one way you work with your foot, and 
 the other way you work with your fingers, but I rather 
 guess there 's more headache in the stories than there 
 is in the stitches, because you don't have to think 
 quite so hard while your foot 's going as you do when 
 your fingers is at work, scratch, scratch, scratch, 
 scribble, scribble, scribble. 
 
 It occurred to me that this last suggestion of the 
 Landlady was worth considering by the soft-handed, 
 broadcloth-clad spouters to the laboring classes, — so 
 called in distinction from the idle people who only 
 contrive the machinery and discover the processes and 
 lay out the work and draw the charts and organize the 
 various movements which keep the world going and 
 make it tolerable. The organ-blower works harder 
 with his muscles, for that matter, than the organ- 
 player, and may perhaps be exasperated into thinking 
 himself a downtrodden martyr because he does not re- 
 ceive the same pay for his services. 
 
 I will not pretend that it needed the Landlady's 
 sagacious guess about the Young Astronomer and his 
 
300 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 pupil to open my eyes to certain possibilities, if not 
 probabilities, in that direction. Our Scheherezade 
 kept on writing her stories according to agreement, 
 so many pages for so many dollars, but some of her 
 readers began to complain that they could not always 
 follow her quite so well as in her earlier efforts. It 
 seemed as if she must have fits of absence. In one 
 instance her heroine began as a blonde and finished as 
 a brunette; not in consequence of the use of any cos- 
 metic, but through simple inadvertence. At last it 
 happened in one of her stories that a prominent char- 
 acter who had been killed in an early page, not equiv- 
 ocally, but mortally, definitively killed, done for, and 
 disposed of, reappeared as if nothing had happened 
 towards the close of her narrative. Her mind was on 
 something else, and she had got two stories mixed up 
 and sent her manuscript without having looked it 
 over. She told this mishap to the Lady, as something 
 she was dreadfully ashamed of and could not possibly 
 account for. It had cost her a sharp note from the 
 publisher, and would be as good as a dinner to some 
 half -starved Bohemian of the critical press. 
 
 The Lady listened to all this very thoughtfully, 
 looking at her with great tenderness, and said, "My 
 poor child! " Not another word then, but her silence 
 meant a good deal. 
 
 When a man holds his tongue it does not signify 
 much. But when a woman dispenses with the office 
 of that mighty member, when she sheathes her natural 
 weapon at a trying moment, it means that she trusts 
 to still more formidable enginery; to tears it may be, 
 a solvent more powerful than that with which Hanni- 
 bal softened the Alpine rocks, or to the heaving bosom, 
 the sight of which has subdued so many stout natures. 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKTAST-TABLE. 301 
 
 or, it may be, to a sympathizing, quieting look which 
 says "Peace, be still! " to the winds and waves of the 
 little inland ocean, in a language that means more 
 than speech. 
 
 WhUe these matters were going on the Master and 
 I had many talks on many subjects. He had found 
 me a pretty good listener, for I had learned that the 
 best way of getting at what was worth having from 
 him was to wind him up with a question and let him 
 run down all of himself. It is easy to turn a good 
 talker into an insufferable bore by contradicting him, 
 and putting questions for him to stumble over, — that 
 is, if he is not a bore already, as "good talkers" are 
 apt to be, except now and then. 
 
 We had been discussing some knotty points one 
 morning when he said aU at once : 
 
 — Come into my library with me. I want to read 
 you some new passages from an interleaved copy of 
 my book. You haven't read the printed part yet. 
 I gave you a copy of it, but nobody reads a book that 
 is given to him. Of course not. Nobody but a fool 
 expects him to. He reads a little in it here and there, 
 perhaps, and he cuts all the leaves if he cares enough 
 about the writer, who wUl be sure to call on him some 
 day, and if he is left alone in his library for five min- 
 utes will have hunted every corner of it until he has 
 found the book he sent, — if it is to be found at all, 
 which does n't always happen, if there 's a penal col- 
 ony anywhere in a garret or closet for typographical 
 offenders and vagrants. 
 
 — What do you do when you receive a book you 
 don't want, fsom the author? — said I. 
 
 — Give him a good-natured adjective or two if I 
 
302 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 can, and thank Mm, and tell him I am lying under a 
 sense of obligation to him. 
 
 — That is as good an excuse for lying as almost 
 any, — I said. 
 
 — Yes, but look out for the fellows that send you 
 a copy of their book to trap you into writing a book- 
 seller's advertisement for it. I got caught so once, 
 and never heard the end of it and never shall hear it. 
 — He took down an elegantly bound volume, on open- 
 ing which appeared a flourishiag and eminently flat- 
 tering dedication to himself. — There, — said he, — 
 what could I do less than acknowledge such a compli- 
 ment in polite terms, and hope and expect the book 
 would prove successful, and so forth and so forth? 
 Well, I get a letter every few months from some new 
 locality where the man that made that book is cover- 
 ing the fences with his placards, asking me whether 
 I wrote that letter which he keeps in stereotype and 
 has kept so any time these dozen or fifteen years. 
 Animus tuus oculus, as the freshmen used to say. 
 If her Majesty, the Queen of England, sends you a 
 copy of her "Leaves from the Journal of Our Life 
 in the Highlands," be sure you mark your letter of 
 thanks for it Private ! 
 
 We had got comfortably seated in his library in the 
 mean time, and the Master had taken up his book. I 
 noticed that every other page was left blank, and that 
 he had written in a good deal of new matter. 
 
 — I teU you what, — he said, — there 's so much 
 intelligence about nowadays in books and newspapers 
 and talk that it 's mighty hard to write without get- 
 ting something or other worth listening to into your 
 essay or your volume. The foolishest book is a kind 
 of leaky boat on a sea of wisdom; some of the wisdom 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKEAST-TABLE. 303 
 
 will get In anyhow. Every now and then I find some- 
 thing in my book that seems so good to me, I can't 
 help thinking it must have leaked in. I suppose other 
 people discover that it came through a leak, full as 
 soon as I do. You must write a book or two to find 
 out how much and how little you know and have to 
 say. Then you must read some notices of it by some- 
 body that loves you and one or two by somebody that 
 hates you. You '11 find yourself a very odd piece of 
 property after you 've been through these experiences. 
 They 're trying to the constitution ; I 'm always glad 
 to hear that a friend is as well as can be expected 
 after he 's had a book. 
 
 You must n't think there are no better things in 
 these pages of mine than the ones I 'm going to read 
 you, but you may come across something here that I 
 forgot to say when we were talking over these mat- 
 ters. ' 
 
 He began, reading from the manuscript portion of 
 his book: 
 
 — We find it hard to get and to keep any private 
 property in thought. Other people are all the time 
 saying the same things we are hoarding to say when 
 we get ready. [He looked up from his book just here 
 and said, "Don't be afraid, I am not going to quote 
 Pereant."'] One of our old boarders — the one that 
 called himself "The Professor" I think it was — said 
 some pretty audacious things about what he caUed 
 "pathological piety," as I remember, in one of his 
 papers. And here comes along Mr. Galton, and 
 shows in detail from religious biographies that "there 
 is a frequent correlation between an unusually de- 
 vout disposition and a weak constitution." Neither 
 of them appeared to know that John Bunyan had got 
 
304 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 at the same fact long before them. He tells us, "The 
 more healthy the lusty man is, the more prone he is 
 unto evil." If the converse is true, no wonder that 
 good people, according to Bunyan, are always in 
 trouble and terror, for he says, 
 
 " A Christian man is never long at ease ; 
 When one fright is gone, another doth him seize." 
 
 If invalidism send the nervous timidity which is apt 
 to go with it are elements of spiritual superiority, it 
 follows that pathology and toxicology should form a 
 most important part of a theological education, so 
 that a divine might know how to keep a parish in a 
 state of chronic bad health in order that it might be 
 virtuous. 
 
 It is a great mistake to think that a man's religion 
 is going to rid him of his natural qualities. "Bishop 
 Hall " (as you may remember to have seen quoted else- 
 where) "prefers Nature before Grace in the Election 
 of a wife, because, saith he, it will be a hard Task, 
 where the Nature is peevish and froward, for Grace 
 to make an entire conquest while Life lasteth." 
 
 "Nature" and "Grace" have been contrasted with 
 each other in a way not very respectful to the Di- 
 vine omnipotence. Kings and queens reign "by the 
 Grace of God," but a sweet, docile, pious disposition, 
 such as is born in some children and grows up with 
 them, — that congenital gift which good Bishop Hall 
 would look for in a wife, — is attributed to "Nature." 
 In fact "Nature" and "Grace," as handled by the 
 scholastics, are nothing more nor less than two hos- 
 tile Divinities in the Pantheon of post-classical poly- 
 theism. 
 
 What is the secret of the profound interest which 
 "Darwinism " has excited in the minds and hearts of 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKTAST-TABLE. 305 
 
 more persons than dare to confess their doubts and 
 hopes? It is because it restores "Nature" to its 
 place as a true divine maoifestation. It is that it re- 
 moves the traditional curse from that helpless infant 
 lying in its mother's arms. It is that it lifts from the 
 shoulders of man the responsibility for the fact of 
 death. It is that, if it is true, woman can no longer 
 be taunted with having brought down on herseK the 
 pangs which make her sex a martyrdom. If develop- 
 ment upward is the general law of the race; if we 
 have grown by natural evolution out of the cave-man, 
 and even less human forms of life, we have everything 
 to hope from the future. That the question can be 
 discussed without offence shows that we are entering 
 on a new era, a Revival greater than that of Letters, 
 the Revival of Humanity. 
 
 The prevalent view of "Nature" has been akin to 
 that which long reigned with reference to disease. 
 This used to be considered as a distinct entity apart 
 from the processes of life, of which it is one of the 
 manifestations. It was a kind of demon to be at- 
 tacked with things of odious taste and smeU; to be 
 fumigated out of the system as the evil spirit was 
 driven from the bridal-chamber in the story of Tobit. 
 The Doctor of earlier days, even as I can remember 
 him, used to exorcise the demon of disease with 
 recipes of odor as potent as that of the angel's diabol- 
 ifuge, — the smoke from a fish's heart and liver, duly 
 burned, — "the which smell when the evil spirit had 
 smeUed he fled into the uttermost parts of Egypt." 
 The very moment that disease passes into the cate- 
 gory of vital processes, and is recognized as an occur- 
 rence absolutely necessary, inevitable, and as one 
 may say, normal under certain given conditions of 
 
306 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 constitution and circumstance, the medicine-man loses 
 his half-miraculous endowments. The mythical ser- 
 pent is untwined from the staff of Esculapivis, which 
 thenceforth becomes a useful walking-stick, and does 
 not pretend to be anything more. 
 
 Sin, like disease, is a vital process. It is a func- 
 tion, and not an entity. It must be studied as a 
 section of anthropology. No preconceived idea must 
 be allowed to interfere with our investigation of the 
 deranged spiritual function, any more than the old 
 ideas of demoniacal possession must be allowed to in- 
 terfere with our study of epilepsy. Spiritual pathol- 
 ogy is a proper subject for direct observation and 
 analysis, like any other subject involving a series of 
 living actions. 
 
 In these living actions everything is progressive. 
 There are sudden changes of character in what is 
 called "conversion" which, at first, hardly seem to 
 come into line with the common laws of evolution. 
 But these changes have been long preparing, and it is 
 just as much in the order of nature that certain char- 
 acters should burst aU at once from the rule of evil 
 propensities, as it is that the evening primrose 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 reli- 
 gion whatsoever to confiscate to its own private use and 
 benefit the virtues which belong to our common hu- 
 manity. The Good Samaritan helped his wounded 
 neighbor simply because he was a suffering fellow- 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 307 
 
 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 disturb- 
 ances, and the organic diseases of the moral nature is 
 at present burdened. Take that one wovA 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 frac- 
 tion 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 ten- 
 dency cannot be judged by any normal standard. 
 
 To study nature without fear is possible, but with- 
 out 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 
 
308 THE POET AT THE BBE A KFAST-TABLE. 
 
 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 le- 
 gend is the child's version of those superstitions which 
 woidd have strangled in their cradles the young sci- 
 ences now adolescent and able to take care of them- 
 selves, 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 fear- 
 lessness 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 convic- 
 tions, 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 cap- 
 ital. 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 doU 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 peas- 
 antry. He will find that the true office of this eidolon 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 309 
 
 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 kneeliug before it, it is no longer a wax doU 
 for her, but has imdergone a transubstantiation quite 
 as real as that of the Eucharist. The moral is that 
 we must not roughly smash other people's idols be- 
 cause we know, or think we know, that they are of 
 cheap human manufacture. 
 
 — Do you think cheap manufactures encourage idle- 
 ness? — 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 spec- 
 tacles, and shut up his book. 
 
 — Sat prata hiherunt, — 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 'U 
 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 ex- 
 
310 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLB. 
 
 cited than usual, and his voice just towards the close 
 a little tremulous. Perhaps I may attribute his im- 
 provement to the e£Eect of my criticisms, but whatever 
 the reason, I think these lines are very nearly as cor- 
 rect as they would have been if I had looked them 
 over. 
 
 WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS. 
 
 vn. 
 
 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 
 Prom 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 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 311 
 
 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 calloos 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, 
 Heady 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 ! 
 
 Pour 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 tenor as his trade 
 
312 THE POET AT THE BKEAKTAST-TABLE. 
 
 With threatening words of wrath that scorch like flame I 
 
 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 unfading flowers, 
 
 Of cities golden-paved with streets of pearl, 
 
 Of the white robes the winged creatures wear. 
 
 The crowns and harps from whose melodious strings 
 
 One long, sweet anthem flows forevermore ! 
 
 — We too had human mothers, even as Thou, 
 Whom we have learned to worship as remote 
 From mortal kindred, wast a cradled babe. 
 The milk of woman filled our branching veins, 
 She lulled us with her tender nursery-song. 
 And folded round us her untiring arms, 
 While the first unremembered twilight year 
 Shaped us to conscious being; still we feel 
 Her pulses in our own, — too faintly feel; 
 Would that the heart of woman warmed our creeds ! 
 
 Not from the sad-eyed hermit's lonely cell, 
 Not from the conclave where the holy men 
 Glare on each other, as with angry eyes 
 They battle for God's glory and their own. 
 Till, sick of wordy strife, a show of hands 
 Fixes the faith of ages yet imbom, — 
 Ah, not from these the listening soul can hear 
 The Father's voice that speaks itself divine ! 
 Love must be still our Master; till we learn 
 What he can teach us of a woman's heart. 
 We know not His, whose love embraces aU. 
 
 There are certain nervous conditions peculiar to 
 women in which the common efEects of poetry and of 
 music upon their sensibilities are strangely exagger- 
 ated. It was not perhaps to be wondered at that 
 Octavia f aiuted when Virgil in reading from his great 
 poem came to the line beginniug Tu Marcdlus eris. 
 It is not hard to believe the story told of one of the 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 318 
 
 two Davidson sisters, that the singing of some of 
 Moore's plaintive melodies would so impress her as 
 almost to take away the faculties of sense and motion. 
 But there must have been some special cause for the 
 singular nervous state into which this reading threw 
 the young girl, our Scheherezade. She was doubtless 
 tired with overwork and troubled with the thought 
 that she was not doing herself justice, and that she 
 was doomed to be the helpless prey of some of those 
 corbies who not only pick out corbies' eyes, but find 
 no other diet so nutritious and agreeable. 
 
 Whatever the cause may have been, her heart 
 heaved tnmultuously, her color came and went, and 
 though she managed to avoid a scene by the exercise 
 of all her self-control, I watched her very anxiously, 
 for I was afraid she would have had a hysteric turn, 
 or in one of her pallid moments that she would have 
 fainted and fallen like one dead before us. 
 
 I was very glad, therefore, when evening came, to 
 find that she was going out for a lesson on the stars. 
 I knew the open air was what she needed, and I 
 thought the walk would do her good, whether she made 
 any new astronomical acquisitions or not. 
 
 It was now late in the autumn, and the trees were 
 pretty nearly stripped of their leaves. There was no 
 place so favorable as the Common for the study of 
 the heavens. The skies were brilliant with stars, and 
 the air was just keen enough to remind our young 
 friends that the cold season was at hand. They wan- 
 dered round for a while, and at last found themselves 
 under the Great Ehn, drawn thither, no doubt, by 
 the magnetism it is so well known to exert over the 
 natives of its own soil and those who have often 
 been under the shadow of its outstretched arms. The 
 
B14 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 venerable survivor of its contemporaries that flour- 
 islied in the days when Blackstone rode beneath it 
 on his bull was now a good deal broken by age, yet 
 not without marks of lusty vitality. It had been 
 wrenched and twisted and battered by so many scores 
 of winters that some of its limbs were crippled and 
 many of its joints were shaky, and but for the sup- 
 port of the iron braces that lent their strong sinews 
 to its more infirm members it would have gone to 
 pieces in the first strenuous northeaster or the first 
 sudden and violent gale from the southwest. But 
 there it stood, and there it stands as yet, — though its 
 obituary was long ago written after one of the terri- 
 ble storms that tore its branches, — leafing out hope- 
 fully in April as if it were trying in its dumb lan- 
 guage to lisp "Our Father," and dropping its slender 
 burden of foliage in October as softly as if it were 
 whispering Amen! 
 
 Not far from the ancient and monumental tree lay 
 a small sheet of water, once agile with life and vocal 
 with evening melodies, but now stirred only by the 
 swallow as he dips his wing, or by the morning bath 
 of the English sparrows, those high-headed, thick- 
 bodied, full-feeding, hot-tempered little John Bulls 
 that keep up such a swashing and swabbing and spat- 
 tering round aU the water basins, one might think 
 from the fuss they make about it that a bird never 
 took a bath here before, and that they were the mis- 
 sionaries of ablution to the unwashed "Western world. 
 
 There are those who speak lightly of this small 
 aqueous expanse, the eye of the sacred enclosure, 
 which has looked unwinking on the happy faces of so 
 many natives and the curious features of so many 
 strangers. The music of its twilight minstrels has 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKTAST-TABLE. 315 
 
 long ceased, but their memory lingers like an echo 
 in the name it bears. Cherish it, inhabitants of 
 the two-hiUed city, once three-hilled; ye who have 
 said to the moimtain, "Kemove hence," and turned 
 the sea into dry land! May no contractor fill his 
 pockets by imdertaking to fill thee, thou granite- 
 girdled lakelet, or drain the civic purse by drawing 
 o£E thy waters! For art thou not the Palladium of 
 our Troy? Didst thou not, like the Divine image 
 which was the safeguard of Ilium, faU from the skies, 
 and if the Trojan could look with pride upon the 
 heaven-descended form of the Goddess of Wisdom, 
 cannot he who dwells by thy shining oval look in that 
 mirror and contemplate Himself, — the Native of 
 Boston. 
 
 There must be some fatality which carries our 
 young men and maidens in the direction of the Com- 
 mon when they have anything very particular to ex- 
 change their views about. At any rate I remember 
 two of our young friends brought up here a good many 
 years ago, and I understand that there is one path 
 across the enclosure which a young man must not ask 
 a young woman to take with him unless he means 
 business, for an action wiU hold for breach of prom- 
 ise, if she consents to accompany him, and he chooses 
 to forget his obligations. 
 
 Our two young people stood at the western edge of 
 the little pool, studying astronomy in the reflected 
 firmament. The Pleiades were trembling in the wave 
 before them, and the three great stars of Orion, — 
 for these constellations were both glittering in the 
 eastern sky. 
 
 "There is no place too humble for the glories of 
 heaven to shine in," she said. 
 
316 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 "And their splendor makes even this little pool 
 beautiful and noble," he answered. "Where is the 
 light to come from that is to do as much for our poor 
 human lives?" 
 
 A simple question enough, but the young girl felt 
 her color change as she answered, "From friendship, 
 I think." 
 
 — Grazing only as yet, — not striking fuU, — 
 hardly hitting at aU, — but there are questions and 
 answers that come so very near, the wind of them 
 alone almost takes the breath away. 
 
 There was an interval of silence. Two yoimg per- 
 sons can stand looking at water for a long time with- 
 out feeling the necessity of speaking. Especially 
 when the water is alive with stars and the yoimg per- 
 sons are thoughtful and impressible. The water 
 seems to do half the thinking while one is looking at 
 it; its movements are felt in the brain very much 
 like thought. When I was in fuU training as a 
 flaneur, I could stand on the Pont Neuf with the 
 other experts in the great science of passive cerebra- 
 tion and look at the river for half an hour with so lit- 
 tle mental articulation that when I moved on it seemed 
 as if my thinking-marrow had been asleep and was 
 just waking up refreshed after its nap. 
 
 So the reader can easily account for the interval of 
 silence. It is hard to tell how long it would have 
 lasted, but just then a lubberly intrusive boy threw 
 a great stone, which convidsed the firmament, — the 
 one at their feet, I mean. The six Pleiads disap- 
 peared as if in search of their lost sister; the belt of 
 Orion was broken asunder, and a hundred worlds 
 dissolved back into chaos. They turned away and 
 strayed off into one of the more open paths, where the 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 817 
 
 view of the sky over them was unobstructed. For 
 some reason or other the astronomical lesson did not 
 get on very fast this evening. 
 
 Presently the young man asked his pupil: 
 
 — Do you know what the constellation directly over 
 our heads is? 
 
 — Is it not Cassiopea? — she asked a little hesita- 
 tingly. 
 
 — No, it is Andromeda. You ought not to have 
 forgotten her, for I remember showing you a double 
 star, the one in her right foot, through the equatorial 
 telescope. You have not forgotten the double star, 
 — the two that shone for each other and made a little 
 world by themselves? 
 
 — No, indeed, — she answered, and blushed, and 
 felt ashamed because she had said indeed, as if it had 
 been an emotional recollection. 
 
 The double-star allusion struck another dead si- 
 lence. She would have given a week's pay to any 
 iavisible attendant that would have cut her stay-lace. 
 
 At last: Do you know the story of Andromeda? — 
 he said. 
 
 — Perhaps I did once, but suppose I don't remem- 
 ber it. 
 
 He told her the story of the unfortunate maiden 
 chained to a rock and waiting for a sea-beast that was 
 coming to devour her, and how Perseus came and set 
 her free, and won her love with her life. And then 
 he began something about a young man chained to his 
 rock, which was a star-gazer's tower, a prey by turns 
 to ambition, and lonely seK-contempt and unwholesome 
 scorn of the life he looked down upon after the seren- 
 ity of the firmament, and endless questionings that 
 led biTTi nowhere, — and now he had only one more 
 
318 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 question to ask. He loved her. Would she break 
 Ms chain? — He held both his hands out towards her, 
 the palms together, as if they were fettered at the 
 wrists. She took hold of them very gently; parted 
 them a little ; then wider — wider — and found herself 
 all at once folded, unresisting, in her lover's arms. 
 
 So there was a new double-star in the living firma- 
 ment. The constellations seemed to kindle with new 
 splendors as the student and the story-teller walked 
 homeward in their light; Alioth and Algol looked 
 down on them as on the first pair of lovers they shone 
 over, and the autumn air seemed full of harmonies as 
 when the morniag stars sang together. 
 
 xn. 
 
 The old Master had asked us, the Young Astrono- 
 mer and myself, into his library, to hear him read 
 some passages from his interleaved book. We three 
 had formed a kind of little club without knowing it 
 from the time when the young man began reading 
 those extracts from his poetical reveries which I have 
 reproduced in these pages. Perhaps we agreed in too 
 many things, — I suppose if we could have had a good 
 hard-headed, old-fashioned New England divine to 
 meet with us it might have acted as a wholesome cor- 
 rective. For we had it all our own way; the Lady's 
 kindly remonstrance was taken in good part, but did 
 not keep us from talking pretty freely, and as for the 
 Young Girl, she listened with the tranquillity and 
 fearlessness which a very simple trusting creed natu- 
 rally gives those who hold it. The fewer outworks to 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 319 
 
 the citadel of belief, the fewer points there are to be 
 threatened and endangered. 
 
 The reader must not suppose that I even attempt to 
 reproduce everything exactly as it took place in our 
 conversations, or when we met to listen to the Mas- 
 ter's prose or to the Young Astronomer's verse. I do 
 not pretend to give all the pauses and interruptions 
 by question or otherwise. I could not always do it if 
 I tried, but I do not want to, for oftentimes it is bet- 
 ter to let the speaker or reader go on continuously, 
 although there may have been many breaks in the 
 course of the conversation or reading. When, for 
 instance, I by and by reproduce what the Landlady 
 said to us, I shall give it almost without any hint that 
 it was arrested in its flow from time to time by vari- 
 ous expressions on the part of the hearers. 
 
 I can hardly say what the reason of it was, but it is 
 very certain that I had a vague sense of some impend- 
 ing event as we took our seats in the Master's library. 
 He seemed particularly anxious that we should be 
 comfortably seated, and shook up the cushions of the 
 arm-chairs himself, and got them iato the right 
 places. 
 
 Now go to sleep — he said — or listen, — just which 
 you like best. But I am going to begin by telling 
 you both a secret. 
 
 Ziiberavi animam meam. That is the meaning of 
 my book and of my literary life, if I may give such a 
 name to that party-colored shred of human existence. 
 I have unburdened myself in this book, and in some 
 other pages, of what I was born to say. Many things 
 that I have said in my ripe days have been aching 
 in my soul since I was a mere child. I say aching, 
 because they conflicted with many of my inherited 
 
320 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 beliefs, or rather traditions. I did not know then 
 that two strains of blood were striving in me for the 
 mastery, — two! twenty, perhaps, — twenty thousand, 
 for aught I know, — but represented to me by two, 
 — paternal and maternal. Blind forces in them- 
 selves ; shaping thoughts as they shaped features and 
 battled for the moulding of constitution and the min- 
 gling of temperament. 
 
 Philosophy and poetry came to me before I knew 
 their names. 
 
 Je fls mes premiers vers, sans savoir les ^erire. 
 
 Not verses so much as the stuff that verses are made 
 of. I don't suppose that the thoughts which came up 
 of themselves in my mind were so mighty different 
 from what come up in the minds of other young folks. 
 And that 's the best reason I coidd give for telling 
 'em. I don't believe anything I 've written is as good 
 as it seemed to me when I wrote it, — he stopped, for 
 he was afraid he was lying, — not nrnch that I 've 
 written, at any rate, — he said — with a smile at the 
 honesty which made him qualify his statement. But 
 I do know this : I have struck a good many chords, 
 first and last, in the consciousness of other people. I 
 confess to a tender feeling for my little brood of 
 thoughts. When they have been welcomed and 
 praised it has pleased me, and if at any time they have 
 been rudely handled and despitefully entreated it has 
 cost me a little worry. I don't despise reputation, 
 and I should like to be remembered as having said 
 something worth lasting well enough to last. 
 
 But all that is nothing to the main comfort I feel 
 as a writer. I have got rid of something my mind 
 coidd not keep to itself and rise as it was meant to 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 321 
 
 into higher regions. I saw the aeronauts the other 
 day emptying from the bags some of the sand that 
 served as ballast. It glistened a moment in the sun- 
 light as a slender shower, and then was lost and seen 
 no more as it scattered itself unnoticed. But the air- 
 ship rose higher as the sand was poured out, and so 
 it seems to me I have felt myself getting above the 
 mists and clouds whenever I have lightened myself of 
 some portion of the mental ballast I have carried with 
 me. Why should I hope or fear when I send out my 
 book? I have had my reward, for I have wrought 
 out my thought, I have said my say, I have freed my 
 soul. I can afford to be forgotten. 
 
 Look here ! — he said. I keep oblivion always be- 
 fore me. — He pointed to a singularly perfect and 
 beautiful trilobite which was lying on a pile of manu- 
 scripts. — Each time I fill a sheet of paper with what 
 I am writing, I lay it beneath this relic of a dead 
 world, and project my thought forward into eternity 
 as far as this extinct crustacean carries it backward. 
 When my heart beats too lustily with vain hopes of 
 being remembered, I press the cold fossil against it 
 and it grows calm. I touch my forehead with it, and 
 its anxious furrows grow smooth. Our world, too, 
 with all its breathing life, is but a leaf to be folded 
 with the other strata, and if I am only patient, by 
 and by I shall be just as famous as imperious Csesar 
 himself, embedded with me in a conglomerate. 
 
 He began reading : — "There is no new thing under 
 the sun," said the Preacher. He would not say so 
 now, if he should come to life for a little while, and 
 have his photograph taken, and go up in a balloon, 
 and take a trip by railroad and a voyage by steam- 
 
322 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 ship, and get a message from General Grant by the 
 cable, and see a man's leg cut off Avithout its hurting 
 him. If it did not take his breath away and lay him 
 out as flat as the Queen of Sheba was knocked over by 
 the splendors of his court, he must have rivalled our 
 Indians in the nil admirari line. 
 
 For aU that, it is a strange thing to see what num- 
 bers of new things are really old. There are many 
 modern contrivances that are of as early date as the 
 first man, if not thousands of centuries older. Every- 
 body knows how all the arrangements of our tele- 
 scopes and microscopes are anticipated in the eye, 
 and how our best musical instriunents are surpassed 
 by the larynx. But there are some very odd things 
 any anatomist can tell, showing how our recent con- 
 trivances are anticipated in the human body. In the 
 alimentary canal are certain pointed eminences called 
 villi, and certain ridges called valmdce conniventes. 
 The makers of heating apparatus have exactly repro- 
 duced the first in the "pot" of their furnaces, and 
 the second in many of the radiators to be seen in our 
 public buildings. The object in the body and the 
 heating apparatus is the same; to increase the extent 
 of surface. — We mix hair with plaster (as the Egyp- 
 tians mixed straw with clay to make bricks) so that 
 it shall hold more firmly. But before man had any 
 artificial dwelling the same contrivance of mixing 
 fibrous threads with a cohesive substance had been 
 employed in the jointed fabric of hig own spinal col- 
 umn. India-rubber is modern, but the yellow animal 
 substance which is elastic like that, and serves the 
 same purpose in the animal economy which that serves 
 in our mechanical contrivances, is as old as the mam- 
 malia. The dome, the round and the Gothic arch. 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKPAST-TABLE. 323 
 
 the groined roof, the flying buttress, are all familiar 
 to those who have studied the bony frame of man. 
 AH forms of the lever and all the principal kinds of 
 hinges are to be met with in our own frames. The 
 valvular arrangements of the blood-vessels are unap- 
 proached by any artificial apparatus, and the arrange- 
 ments for preventing friction are so perfect that two 
 surfaces will play on each other for fourscore years or 
 more and never once trouble their owner by catching 
 or rubbing so as to be felt or heard. 
 
 But stranger than these repetitions are the coinci- 
 dences one finds in the manners and speech of anti- 
 quity and our own time. In the days when Flood 
 Ireson was drawn in the cart by the Msenads of Mar- 
 blehead, that fishing town had the name of nxirturing 
 a young population not over fond of strangers. It 
 used to be said that if an unknown landsman showed 
 himself in the streets, the boys would foUow after 
 him, crying, "Eock him! Eock him! He's got a 
 long-tailed coat on! " 
 
 Now if one opens the Odyssey, he will find that the 
 Phaeacians, three thousand years ago, were wonder- 
 fully like these youthful Marbleheaders. The blue- 
 eyed Goddess who convoys Ulysses, imder the dis- 
 guise of a young maiden of the place, gives him some 
 excellent advice. "Hold your tongue," she says, 
 "and don't look at anybody or ask any questions, for 
 these are seafaring people, and don't like to have 
 strangers round or anybody that does not belong 
 here." 
 
 Who would have thought that the saucy question, 
 "Does your mother know you 're out? " was the very 
 same that Horace addressed to the bore who attacked 
 him in the Via /Sacra ? 
 
324 THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Interpellandi locus hie erat ; Est tibi mater ? 
 Cognati, quels te salvo est opus ? 
 
 And think of the London cockney's prefix of the 
 letter h to innocent words beginning with a vowel hav- 
 ing its prototype in the speech of the ATilgar Roman, 
 as may be seen in the verses of Catullus : 
 
 CAommoda dicebat, siquando oommoda vellet 
 
 Dicere, et Ainsidias Arrius insidias. 
 Et turn miriflce sperabat se esse locutum, 
 
 Cum qiiantnm poterat, dixerat Hnsidias . . . 
 Hoc misso in Syriam, requierant omnibus aures . . , 
 
 Cum subito afEertur nuncius horribilis ; 
 louios fluctus, postquam illuc Arrius isset, 
 Jam uon lonios esse, sed ^ionios. 
 
 — Our neighbors of Manhattan have an excellent 
 jest about our crooked streets which, if they were a 
 little more familiar with a native author of unques- 
 tionable veracity, they would strike out from the letter 
 of "Our Boston Correspondent," where it is a source 
 of perennial hilarity. It is worth while to reprint, 
 for the benefit of whom it may concern, a paragraph 
 from the authentic history of the venerable Diedrich 
 Knickerbocker : 
 
 "The sage council, as has been mentioned in a pre- 
 ceding chapter, not being able to determine upon any 
 plan for the building of their city, — the cows, in a 
 laudable fit of patriotism, took it imder their peculiar 
 charge, and as they went to and from pasture, estab- 
 lished paths through the bushes, on each side of which 
 the good folks built their houses ; which is one cause 
 of the rambling and picturesque turns and labyrinths, 
 which distinguish certain streets of New York at this 
 very day." 
 
 — When I was a little boy there came to stay with 
 us for a while a yotmg lady with a singularly white 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 325 
 
 complexion. Now I had often seen the masons slack- 
 ing lime, and I thought it was the whitest thing I 
 had ever looked upon. So I always called this fair 
 visitor of ours Slacked Lime. I think she is still 
 living in a neighboring State, and I am sure she has 
 never forgotten the fanciful name I gave her. But 
 within ten or a dozen years I have seen this very same 
 comparison going the round of the papers, and cred- 
 ited to a Welsh poet, David Ap GwyUym, or some- 
 thing like that, by name. 
 
 — I turned a pretty sentence enough in one of my 
 lectures about finding poppies springing up amidst 
 the corn; as if it had been foreseen by nature that 
 wherever there should be hunger that asked for food, 
 there would be pain that needed relief, — and many 
 years afterwards I had the pleasure of finding that 
 Mistress Piozzi had been beforehand with me in sug- 
 gesting the same moral reflection. 
 
 — I should like to carry some of my friends to see 
 a giant bee-hive I have discovered. Its hum can be 
 heard half a mile, and the great white swarm counts 
 its tens of thousands. They pretend to call it a plan- 
 ing-mill, but if it is not a bee-hive it is so like one 
 that if a hxmdred people have not said so before me, 
 it is very singular that they have not. If I wrote 
 verses I would try to bring it in, and I suppose people 
 would start up in a dozen places, and say, "Oh, that 
 bee-hive simile is mine, — and besides, did not Mr. 
 Bayard Taylor call the snowflakes 'white bees' ? " 
 
 I think the old Master had chosen these trivialities 
 on purpose to amuse the Yoimg Astronomer and my- 
 self, if possible, and so make sure of our keeping 
 awake while he went on reading, as follows : 
 
326 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 — How the sweet souls of all time strike tlie same 
 note, the same because it is in unison with the divine 
 voice that sings to them ! I read in the Zend Avesta, 
 "No earthly man with a hundred-fold strength speaks 
 so much evil as Mithra with heavenly strength speaks 
 good. No earthly man with a hundred-fold strength 
 does so much evil as Mithra with heavenly strength 
 does good." 
 
 And now leave Persia and Zoroaster, and come 
 down with me to our own New England and one of 
 our old Puritan preachers. It was in the dreadful 
 days of the Salem Witchcraft delusion that one Jon- 
 athan Singletary, being then in the prison at Ipswich, 
 gave his testimony as to certain fearful occurrences, 
 — a great noise, as of many cats climbing, skipping, 
 and jumping, of throwing about of furniture, and of 
 men walking in the chambers, with crackling and 
 shaking as if the house would fall upon him. 
 
 "I was at present," he says, " something affrighted ; 
 yet considering what I had lately heard made out by 
 Mr. Mitehel at Cambridge, that there is more good 
 in God than there is evil in sin, and that although 
 God is the greatest good and sin the greatest evil, yet 
 the first Being of evil cannot weane the scales or over- 
 power the first Being of good : so considering that the 
 authour of good was of greater power than the au- 
 thour of evil, God was pleased of his goodness to keep 
 me from being out of measure frighted." 
 
 I shall always bless the memory of this poor, timid 
 creature for saving that dear remembrance of "Match- 
 less Mitehel." How many, like him, have thought 
 they were preaching a new gospel, when they were 
 only reaffirming the principles which underlie the 
 Magna Charta of humanity, and are common to the 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKEAST-TABLE. 327 
 
 noblest utterances of all the nobler creeds! But 
 spoken by those solemn lips to those stern, simple- 
 minded hearers, the words I have cited seem to me to 
 have a fragrance like the precious ointment of spike- 
 nard with which Mary anointed her Master's feet. 
 I can see the little bare meeting-house, with the godly 
 deacons, and the grave matrons, and the comely maid- 
 ens, and the sober manhood of the village, with the 
 small group of college students sitting by themselves 
 under the shadow of the awful Presidential Presence, 
 all listening to that preaching, which was, as Cotton 
 Mather says, "as a very lovely song of one that hath 
 a pleasant voice "; and as the holy pastor utters those 
 blessed words, which are not of any one church or age, 
 but of all time, the humble place of worship is filled 
 with their perfume, as the house where Mary knelt was 
 filled with the odor of the precious ointment. 
 
 — The Master rose, as he finished reading this sen- 
 tence, and, walking to the window, adjusted a cur- 
 tain which he seemed to find a good deal of trouble in 
 getting oo hang just as he wanted it. 
 
 He came back to his arm-chair, and began reading 
 again : 
 
 — If men would only open their eyes to the fact 
 which stares them in the face from history, and is 
 made clear enough by the slightest glance at the con- 
 dition of mankind, that humanity is of immeasurably 
 greater importance than their own or any other par- 
 ticular belief, they would no more attempt to make 
 private property of the grace of God than to fence in 
 the sunshine for their own special use and enjoyment. 
 
 We are all tattoed in our cradles with the beliefs of 
 our tribe; the record may seem superficial, but it is 
 
328 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 indelible. You cannot educate a man wholly out of 
 the superstitious fears which were early implanted in 
 his imagination; no matter how utterly his reason 
 may reject them, he wiU stiU feel as the famous woman 
 did about ghosts, Je n'y crois pas, maisje les crains, 
 — "I don't believe in them, but I am afraid of them, 
 nevertheless." 
 
 — As people grow older they come at length to live 
 so much in memory that they often think with a kind 
 of pleasure of losing their dearest blessings. Nothing 
 can be so perfect while we possess it as it will seem 
 when remembered. The friend we love best may 
 sometimes weary us by his presence or vex us by his 
 infirmities. How sweet to think of him as he will be 
 to us after we have outlived him ten or a dozen years ! 
 Then we can recall him in his best moments, bid him 
 stay with us as long as we want his company, and 
 send him away when we wish to be alone again. One 
 might alter Shenstone's well-known epitaph to suit 
 such a case : — 
 
 Heu ! quanto minus est cum te vivo versari 
 Quam erit (vel esset) tui mortui remiiiisse ! 
 
 " Alas ! how much less the delight of thy liying presence 
 Than will (or would) be that of remembering thee when thou 
 hast left us ! " 
 
 I want to stop here — I the Poet — and put in a 
 few reflections of my own, suggested by what I have 
 been giving the reader from the Master's Book, and 
 in a similar vein. 
 
 — How few things there are that do not change 
 their whole aspect in the course of a single genera- 
 tion! The landscape arotmd us is whoUy different. 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLB. 329 
 
 Even the outlines of the hills that surround us are 
 changed by the creeping of the villages with their 
 spires and school-houses up their sides. The sky re- 
 mains the same, and the ocean. A few old church- 
 yards look very much as they used to, except, of 
 course, in Boston, where the gravestones have been 
 rooted up and planted in rows with walks between 
 them, to the utter disgrace and ruin of our most ven- 
 erated cemeteries. The Kegistry of Deeds and the 
 Probate Office show us the same old folios, where we 
 can read our grandfather's title to his estate (if we 
 had a grandfather and he happened to own anything) 
 and see how many pots and kettles there were in his 
 kitchen by the inventory of his personal property. 
 
 Among living people none remain so long un- 
 changed as the actors. I can see the same Othello 
 to-day, if I choose, that when I was a boy I saw smo- 
 thering Mrs. Duff-Desdemona with the pillow, imder 
 the instigations of Mr. Cooper-Iago. A few stone 
 heavier than he was then, no doubt, but the same 
 truculent blackamoor that took by the thr-r-r-oat the 
 circumcised dog in Aleppo, and told us about it in the 
 old Boston Theatre. In the course of a fortnight, if 
 I care to cross the water, I can see Mademoiselle De- 
 jazet in the same parts I saw her in under Louis 
 Philippe, and be charmed by the same grace and viva- 
 city which delighted my grandmother (if she was in 
 Paris, and went to see her in the part of Fanchon 
 towte seule at the Theatre des Capucines) in the days 
 when the great Napoleon was stiU only First Consul. 
 
 The graveyard and the stage are pretty much the 
 only places where you can expect to find your friends 
 as you left them, five and twenty or fifty years ago. — 
 I have noticed, I may add, that old theatre-goers 
 
330 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 bring back the past witb their stories more vividly 
 than men with any other experiences. There were 
 two old New-Yorkers that I used to love to sit talk- 
 ing with about the stage. One was a scholar and a 
 writer of note; a pleasant old gentleman, with the 
 fresh cheek of an octogenarian Cupid. The other 
 not less noted in his way, deep in local lore, large- 
 brained, full-blooded, of somewhat perturbing and 
 tumultuous presence. It was good to hear them talk 
 of George Frederic Cooke, of Kean, and the lesser 
 stars of those earlier constellations. Better stUl to 
 breakfast with old Samuel Rogers, as some of my 
 readers have done more than once, and hear him an- 
 swer to the question who was the best actor he re- 
 membered, "I think, on the whole, Garrick." 
 
 If we did but know how to question these charming 
 old people before it is too late I About ten years, 
 more or less, after the generation in advance of our 
 own has aU died o£E, it occurs to us all at once, 
 "There! I can ask my old friend what he knows of 
 that picture, which must be a Copley; of that house 
 and its legends about which there is such a mystery. 
 He (or she) must know all about that." Too late! 
 Too late! 
 
 Still, now and then one saves a reminiscence that 
 means a good deal by means of a casual question. I 
 asked the first of those two old New-Yorkers the fol- 
 lowing question: "Who, on the whole, seemed to 
 you the most considerable person you ever met? " 
 
 Now it must be remembered that this was a man 
 who had lived in a city that calls itself the metropolis, 
 one who had been a member of the State and the Na- 
 tional Legislature, who had come in contact with men 
 of letters and men of business, with politicians and 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 331 
 
 members of all the professions, during a long and dis- 
 tinguished public career. I paused for his answer 
 with no little curiosity. "Would it be one of the great 
 Ex-Presidents whose names were known to all the 
 world? Would it be the silver-tongued orator of 
 Kentucky or the "God-like" champion of the Con- 
 stitution, our New-England Jupiter Capitolinus? 
 Who would it be? 
 
 "Take it altogether," he answered, very deliber- 
 ately, "I should say Colonel Elisha Williams was the 
 most notable personage that I have met with." 
 
 — Colonel Elisha Williams! And who might he 
 be, forsooth? A gentleman of singular distinction, 
 you may be well assured, even though you are not 
 familiar with his name ; but as I am not writing a 
 biographical dictionary, I shall leave it to my reader 
 to find out who and what he was. 
 
 — One would like to live long enough to witness 
 certain things which will no doubt come to pass by 
 and by. I remember that when one of our good kind- 
 hearted old millionnaires was growing very infirm, his 
 limbs failing him, and his trunk getting packed with 
 the infirmities which mean that one is bound on a long 
 journey, he said very simply and sweetly, "I don't 
 care about living a great deal longer, but I shmdd like 
 
 to live long enough to find out how much old 
 
 (a many-millioned fellow-citizen) is worth." 
 
 And without committing myself on the longevity- 
 question, I confess I should like to live long enough to 
 see a few things happen that are like to come, sooner 
 or later. 
 
 I want to hold the skull of Abraham in my hand. 
 They will go through the cave of Machpelah at 
 Hebron, I feel sure, in the course of a few genera- 
 
332 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 tions at the furthest, and as Dr. Kobinson knows of 
 nothing which should lead us to question the correct- 
 ness of the tradition which regards this as the place of 
 sepulture of Abraham and the other patriarchs, there 
 is no reason why we may not find his mummied body 
 in perfect preservation, if he was embalmed after the 
 Egyptian fashion. I suppose the tomb of David will 
 be explored by a commission in due time, and I should 
 like to see the phrenological developments of that 
 great king and divine singer and warm-blooded man. 
 If, as seems probable, the anthropological section of 
 society manages to get round the curse that protects 
 the bones of Shakespeare, I should like to see the 
 dome which roimded itself over his imperial brain. — 
 Not that I am what is called a phrenologist, but I am 
 curious as to the physical developments of these fel- 
 low-mortals of mine, and a little in want of a sensa- 
 tion. 
 
 I should like to live long enough to see the course 
 of the Tiber turned, and the bottom of the river thor- 
 oughly dredged. I wonder if they would find the 
 seven-branched golden candlestick brought from Jeru- 
 salem by Titus, and said to have been dropped from 
 the Milvian bridge. I have often thought of goiag 
 fishing for it some year when I wanted a vacation, as 
 some of my friends used to go to Ireland to fish for 
 salmon. There was an attempt of that kind, I think, 
 a few years ago. We all know how it looks well 
 enough, from the figure of it on the Arch of Titus, 
 but I should Uke to "heft" it in my own hand, and 
 carry it home and shine it up (excuse my colloquial- 
 isms), and sit down and look at it, and think and 
 think and think until the Temple of Solomon built up 
 its walls of hewn stone and its roofs of cedar around 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 333 
 
 me as noiselessly as when it rose, and "there was 
 neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in 
 the house while it was in building." 
 
 All this, you will remember. Beloved, is a digres- 
 sion on my own account, and I return to the old 
 Master whom I left smiling at his own alteration of 
 Shenstone's celebrated inscription. He now begins 
 reading again : 
 
 — I want it to be understood that I consider that a 
 certain number of persons are at liberty to dislike me 
 peremptorily, without showing cause, and that they 
 give no offence whatever in so doing. 
 
 If I did not cheerfully acquiesce in this sentiment 
 towards myself on the part of others, I should not 
 feel at liberty to indulge my own aversions. I try to 
 cultivate a Christian feeling to all my fellow-crea- 
 tures, but inasmuch as I must also respect truth and 
 honesty, I confess to myself a certain number of in- 
 alienable dislikes and prejudices, some of which may 
 possibly be shared by others. Some of these are 
 purely instiuctive, for others I can assign a reason. 
 Our likes and dislikes play so important a part in the 
 Order of Things that it is well to see on what they 
 are founded. 
 
 There are persons I meet occasionally who are too 
 intelligent by half for my liking. They know my 
 thoughts beforehand, and teU me what I was going to 
 say. Of course they are masters of aU my knowledge, 
 and a good deal besides; have read all the books I 
 have read, and in later editions; have had all the ex- 
 periences I have been through, and more too. In my 
 private opinion every mother's son of them will lie at 
 any time rather than confess ignorance. 
 
 — I have a kiad of dread, rather than hatred, of 
 
334 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 persons witi a large excess of vitality ; great feeders, 
 great laughers, great story-tellers, who come sweeping 
 over their company with a huge tidal wave of animal 
 spirits and boisterous merriment. I have pretty good 
 spirits myself, and enjoy a little mild pleasantry, but 
 I am oppressed and extinguished by these great lusty, 
 noisy creatures, and feel as if I were a mute at a 
 funeral when they get into full blast. 
 
 — I cannot get along much better with those droop- 
 ing, languid people, whose vitality falls short as much 
 as that of the others is in excess. I have not life 
 enough for two; I wish I had. It is not very en- 
 livening to meet a fellow-creature whose expression 
 and accents say, "You are the hair that breaks the 
 camel's back of my endurance, you are the last drop 
 that makes my cup of woe run over"; persons whose 
 heads drop on one side like those of toothless infants, 
 whose voices recall the tones in which our old snuf- 
 fling choir used to wail out the verses of 
 
 " Life is the time to serve the Lord." 
 
 — There is another style which does not captivate 
 me. I recognize an attempt at the grand manner 
 now and then, in persons who are well enough in their 
 way, but of no particular importance, socially or oth- 
 erwise. Some family tradition of wealth or distinc- 
 tion is apt to be at the bottom of it, and it survives 
 all the advantages that used to set it off. I like fam- 
 ily pride as well as my neighbors, and respect the 
 high-born feUow-citizen whose progenitors have not 
 worked in their shirt-sleeves for the last two genera- 
 tions full as much as I ought to. But grand-phre 
 oblige; a person with a known grandfather is too dis- 
 tinguished to find it necessary to put on airs. The 
 
THK POET AT THE BEEAKEAST-TABLB. 335 
 
 few Royal Princes I have happened to know were very 
 easy people to get along with, and had not half the 
 social knee-action I have often seen in the collapsed 
 dowagers who lifted their eyebrows at me in my ear- 
 lier years. 
 
 — My heart does not warm as it should do towards 
 the persons, not intimates, who are always too glad to 
 see me when we meet by accident, and discover all at 
 once that they have a vast deal to unbosom themselves 
 of to me. 
 
 — There is one blameless person whom I cannot 
 love and have no excuse for hating. It is the innocent 
 feUow-creature, otherwise inoffensive to me, whom I 
 find I have involuntarily joined on turning a comer. 
 I suppose the Mississippi, which was flowing quietly 
 along, minding its own business, hates the Missouri 
 for coming into it all at once with its muddy stream. 
 I suppose the Missouri in like manner hates the Mis- 
 sissippi for diluting with its limpid, but insipid cur- 
 rent the rich reminiscences of the varied soils through 
 which its own stream has wandered. I will not com- 
 pare myself to the clear or the turbid current, but I 
 will own that my heart sinks when I find all of a sud- 
 den I am in for a comer confluence, and I cease lov- 
 ing my neighbor as myself until I can get away from 
 him. 
 
 — These antipathies are at least weaknesses ; they 
 may be sins in the eye of the Recording Angel. I often 
 reproach myself with my wrong-doings. I should like 
 sometimes to thank Heaven for saving me from some 
 kinds of transgression, and even for granting me some 
 qualities that if I dared I should be disposed to call 
 virtues. I should do so, I suppose, if I did not re- 
 member the story of the Pharisee. That ought not to 
 
336 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 hinder me. The parable was told to illustrate a single 
 virtue, humility, and the most unwarranted inferences 
 have been drawn from it as to the whole character of 
 the two parties. It seems not at aU unlikely, but 
 rather probable, that the Pharisee was a fairer dealer, 
 a better husband, and a more charitable person than 
 the Publican, whose name has come down to us "linked 
 with one virtue," but who may have been guilty, for 
 aught that appears to the contrary, of "a thousand 
 crimes." Remember how we limit the application of 
 other parables. The lord, it will be recollected, com- 
 mended the unjust steward because he had done 
 wisely. His shrewdness was held up as an example, 
 but after all he was a miserable swindler, and de- 
 served the state-prison as much as many of our finan- 
 cial operators. The parable of the Pharisee and the 
 Publican is a perpetual warning against spiritual 
 pride. But it must not frighten any one of us out of 
 being thankful that he is not, like this or that neigh- 
 bor, under bondage to strong drink or opium, that he 
 is not an Erie-EaUroad Manager, and that his head 
 rests in virtuous calm on his own pillow. If he prays 
 in the morning to be kept out of temptation as well 
 as for his daily bread, shall he not return thanks at 
 night that he has not fallen into sin as well as that his 
 stomach has been filled? I do not think the poor 
 Pharisee has ever had fair play, and I am afraid a 
 good many people sin with the comforting, half -latent 
 intention of smiting their breasts afterwards and re- 
 peating the prayer of the Publican. 
 (_8ensation.') 
 This little movement which I have thus indicated 
 seemed to give the Master new confidence in his audi- 
 ence. He turned over several pages imtil he came to 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 337 
 
 a part of the interleaved volmne where we could all 
 see he had written in a passage of new matter in red 
 ink as of special interest. 
 
 — I told you, he said, in Latin, and I repeat it in 
 English, that I have freed my soul in these pages, — I 
 have spoken my mind. I have read you a few ex- 
 tracts, most of them of rather slight texture, and 
 some of them, you perhaps thought, whimsical. But 
 I meant, if I thought you were in the right mood for 
 listening to it, to read you some paragraphs which 
 give in small compass the pith, the marrow, of all that 
 my experience has taught me. Life is a fatal com- 
 plaint, and an eminently contagious one. I took it 
 early, as we all do, and have treated it all along with 
 the best palliatives I could get hold of, inasmuch as 
 I could find no radical cure for its evils, and have 
 so far managed to keep pretty comfortable under it. 
 
 It Is a great thing for a man to put the whole 
 meaning of his life into a few paragraphs, if he does 
 it so that others can make anything out of it. If he 
 conveys his wisdom after the fashion of the old alche- 
 mists, he may as well let it alone. He must talk in 
 very plain words, and that is what I have done. You 
 want to know what a certain number of scores of years 
 have taught me that I think best worth telling. If I 
 had half a dozen square inches of paper, and one pen- 
 ful of ink, and five minutes to use them in for the in- 
 struction of those who come after me, what should I 
 put down in writing? That is the question. 
 
 Perhaps I should be wiser if I refused to attempt 
 any such brief statement of the most valuable lesson 
 that life has taught me. I am by no means sure that 
 I had not better draw my pen through the page that 
 holds the quintessence of my vital experiences, and 
 
338 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 leave those who wish to know what it is to distil to 
 themselves from my many printed pages. But I have 
 excited your curiosity, and I see that you are impa- 
 tient to hear what the wisdom, or the folly, it may be, 
 of a life shows for, when it is crowded into a few lines 
 as the fragrance of a gardenful of roses is concen- 
 trated in a few drops of perfume. 
 
 — By this time I confess I was myself a little ex- 
 cited. What was he going to tdl us ? The Young 
 Astronomer looked upon him with an eye as clear and 
 steady and brilliant as the evening star, but I could 
 see that he too was a little nervous, wondering what 
 would come next. 
 
 The old Master adjusted his large round spectacles, 
 and began : 
 
 — It has cost me fifty years to find my place in the 
 Order of Things. I had explored all the sciences; I 
 had studied the literature of all ages; I had travelled 
 in many lands; I had learned how to follow the work- 
 ing of thought in men and of sentiment and instinct 
 in women. I had examined for myself all the reli- 
 gions that could make out any claim for themselves. 
 I had fasted and prayed with the monks of a lonely 
 convent; I had mingled with the crowds that shouted 
 glory at camp-meetings; I had listened to the threats 
 of Calvinists and the promises of Universalists ; I had 
 been a devout attendant on a Jewish Synagogue; I 
 was in correspondence with an intelligent Buddhist; 
 and I met frequently with the inner circle of Ration- 
 alists, who believed in the persistence of Eorce, and 
 the identity of alimentary substances with virtue, and 
 were reconstructing the imiverse on this basis, with 
 absolute exclusion of all Superniuneraries. In these 
 pursuits I had passed the larger part of my haif-cen- 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKFA8T-TABLE. 339 
 
 tury of existence, as yet witli little satisfaction. It 
 was on the morning of my fiftieth "birthday that the 
 solution of the great problem I had sought so long 
 came to me as a simple formula, with a few grand but 
 obvious inferences. I will repeat the substance of this 
 final intuition : 
 
 The one central fact in the Order of Things wMch 
 solves all questions is — 
 
 At this moment we were interrupted by a knock at 
 the Master's door. It was most inopportune, for he 
 was on the point of the great disclosure, but common 
 politeness compelled him to answer it, and as the 
 step which we had heard was that of one of the softer- 
 footed sex, he chose to rise from his chair and admit 
 his visitor. 
 
 This visitor was our Landlady. She was dressed 
 with more than usual nicety, and her countenance 
 showed clearly that she came charged with an impor- 
 tant communication. 
 
 — I did n't know there was company with you, — 
 said the Landlady, — but it 's jest as well. I 've got 
 something to tell my boarders that I don't want to teU 
 them, and if I must do it, I may as well teU you all at 
 once as one to a time. I 'm agoing to give up keeping 
 boarders at the end of this year, — I mean come the 
 end of December. 
 
 She took out a white handkerchief, at hand in ex- 
 pectation of what was to happen, and pressed it to 
 her eyes. There was an interval of silence. The 
 Master closed his book and laid it on the table. The 
 Young Astronomer did not look as much surprised 
 as I should have expected. I was completely taken 
 aback, — I had not thought of such a sudden breaking 
 up of our little circle. 
 
340 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 When the Landlady had recovered her composure, 
 she began again : 
 
 The Lady that 's been so long with me is going to 
 a house of her own, — one she has bought back again, 
 for it used to belong to her folks. It 's a beautiful 
 house, and the sun shines in at the front windows all 
 day long. She 's going to be wealthy again, but it 
 doos n't make any difference in her ways. I 've had 
 boarders complain when I was doing as well as I 
 knowed how for them, but I never heerd a word from 
 her that was n't as pleasant as if she 'd been talking 
 to the Governor's lady. I 've knowed what it was to 
 have women-boarders that find fault, — there 's some 
 of 'em would quarrel with me and everybody at my 
 table ; they would quarrel with the Angel Gabriel if 
 he lived in the house with 'em, and scold at him and 
 tell him he was always dropping his feathers round, 
 if they could n't find anything else to bring up against 
 him. 
 
 Two other boarders of mine has given me notice 
 that they was expecting to leave come the first of Jan- 
 uary. I could fill up their places easy enough, for 
 ever since that first book was wrote that caUed peo- 
 ple's attention to my boarding-house, I 've had more 
 wanting to come than I wanted to keep. 
 
 But I 'm getting along in life, and I ain't quite so 
 rugged as I used to be. My daughter is well settled 
 and my son is making his own living. I 've done a 
 good deal of hard work in my time, and I feel as if I 
 had a right to a little rest. There 's nobody knows 
 what a woman that has the charge of a family goes 
 through, but God Almighty that made her. I've 
 done my best for them that I loved, and for them that 
 was under my roof. My husband and my children 
 
THE POET AT THE BKEAKEAST-TABLE. 341 
 
 was well eared for when they lived, and he and them 
 little ones that I buried has white marble head-stones 
 and foot-stones, and an iron fence round the lot, and 
 a place left for me betwixt him and the . . . 
 
 Some has always been good to me, — some has 
 made it a little of a strain to me to get along. When 
 a woman's back aches with overworking herself to 
 keep her house in shape, and a dozen mouths are 
 opening at her three times a day, like them little 
 yoimg birds that split their heads open so you can 
 a'most see into their empty stomachs, and one wants 
 this and another wants that, and provisions is dear and 
 rent is high, and nobody to look to, — then a sharp 
 word cuts, I tell you, and a hard look goes right to 
 your heart. I 've seen a boarder make a face at what 
 I set before him, when I had tried to suit him jest as 
 well as I knew how, and I haven't cared to eat a 
 thing myself all the rest of that day, and I 've laid 
 awake without a wink of sleep all night. And then 
 when you come down the next morning all the board- 
 ers stare at you and wonder what makes you so low- 
 spirited, and why you don't look as happy and talk 
 as cheerful as one of them rich ladies that has dinner- 
 parties, where they 've nothing to do but give a few 
 orders, and somebody comes and cooks their dinner, 
 and somebody else comes and puts flowers on the 
 table, and a lot of men dressed up like ministers come 
 and wait on everybody, as attentive as undertakers at 
 a funeral. 
 
 And that reminds me to teU you that I 'm agoing to 
 live with my daughter. Her husband 's a very nice 
 man, and when he is n't following a corpse, he 's as 
 good company as if he was a member of the city coun- 
 cil. My son, he 's agoing into business with the old 
 
342 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 Doctor he studied with, and he's agoing to board 
 with me at my daughter's for a while, — I suppose 
 Ae'll be getting a wife before long. [This with a 
 pointed look at our young friend, the Astronomer.] 
 
 It is n't but a little while longer that we are going 
 to be together, and I want to say to you gentlemen, 
 as I mean to say to the others and as I have said to 
 our two ladies, that I feel more obligated to you for 
 the way you 've treated me than I know very well how 
 to put into words. Boarders sometimes expect too 
 much of the ladies that provides for them. Some 
 days the meals are better than other days; it can't 
 help being so. Sometimes the provision-market is n't 
 well supplied, sometimes the fire in the cooking-stove 
 does n't burn so well as it does other days; sometimes 
 the cook is n't so lucky as she might be. And there 
 is boarders who is always laying in wait for the days 
 when the meals is not quite so good as they commonly 
 be, to pick a quarrel with the one that is trying to 
 serve them so as that they shall be satisfied. But 
 you 've all been good and kind to me. I suppose I 'm 
 not quite so spry and quick-sighted as I was a dozen 
 years ago, when my boarder wrote that first book so 
 many have asked me about. But now I 'm going to 
 stop taking boarders. I don't believe you '11 think 
 much about what I didn't do, — because I couldn't, 
 — but remember that at any rate I tried honestly to 
 serve you. I hope God will bless all that set at my 
 table, old and young, rich and poor, merried and 
 single, and single that hopes soon to be merried. My 
 husband that 's dead and gone always believed that 
 we all get to heaven sooner or later, — and sence I 've 
 grown older and buried so many that I 've loved I 've 
 come to feel that perhaps I should meet all of them 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 343 
 
 that I 've known here — or at least as many of 'em as 
 I wanted to — in a better world. And though I don't 
 calculate there is any boarding-houses in heaven, I 
 hope I shall some time or other meet them that has set 
 round my table one year after another, aU together, 
 where there is no fault-finding with the food and no 
 occasion for it, — and if I do meet them and you there 
 — or anywhere, — if t^ere is anything I can do for 
 you . . . 
 
 . . . Poor dear soul I Her ideas had got a little 
 mixed, and her heart was overflowing, and the white 
 handkerchief closed the scene with its timely and 
 greatly needed service. 
 
 — What a pity, I have often thought, that she 
 came in just at that precise moment! For the old 
 Master was on the point of telling us, and through 
 one of us the reading world, — I mean that fraction of 
 it which has reached this point of the record, — at 
 any rate, of telling you, Beloved, through my pen, 
 his solution of a great problem we aU have to deal 
 with. We were some weeks longer together, but he 
 never offered to continue his reading. At length I 
 ventured to give him a hint that our young friend and 
 myself would both of us be greatly gratified if he 
 would begin reading from his impublished page where 
 he had left off. 
 
 — No, sir, — he said, — better not, better not. 
 That which means so much to me, the writer, might 
 be a disappointment, or at least a puzzle, to you, the 
 listener. Besides, if you 'U take my printed book and 
 be at the trouble of thinking over what it says, and 
 put that with what you 've heard me say, and then 
 make those comments and reflections which will be 
 suggested to a mind in so many respects like mine as 
 
344 THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 is your own, — excuse my good opinion of myself, — 
 (It is a high compliment to me, I replied) you will 
 perhaps find you have the elements of the formula 
 and its consequences which I was about to read you. 
 It 's quite as well to crack your own filberts as to bor- 
 row the use of other people's teeth. I think we will 
 wait awhile before we pour out the Elixir Vitce. 
 
 — To tell the honest truth, I suspect the Master 
 has found out that his formula does not hold water 
 quite so perfectly as he was thinking, so long as he 
 kept it to himself, and never thought of imparting it 
 to anybody else. The very minute a thought is 
 threatened with publicity it seems to shrink towards 
 mediocrity, as I have noticed that a great pumpkin, 
 the wonder of a village, seemed to lose at least a third 
 of its dimensions between the field where it grew and 
 the cattle-show fair-table, where it took its place with 
 other enormous pumpkins from other wondering vil- 
 lages. But however that may be, I shall always re- 
 gret that I had not the opportunity of judging for 
 myself how completely the Master's formtda, which, 
 for him, at least, seemed to have solved the great 
 problem, would have accomplished that desirable end 
 for me. 
 
 The Landlady's aimouncement of her Intention to 
 give up keeping boarders was heard with regret by all 
 who met around her table. The Member of the 
 Haouse inquired of me whether I could tell him if the 
 Lamb Tahvem was kept well abaout these times. He 
 knew that members from his place used to stop there, 
 but he had n't heerd much abaout it of late years. — 
 I had to inform him that that fold of rural inno- 
 cence had long ceased offering its hospitalities to the 
 legislative flock. He found refuge at last, I have 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKPA8T-TABLE. 345 
 
 learned, in a great public house in the northern sec- 
 tion of the city, where, as he said, the folks aU went 
 up stairs in a rat-trap, and the last I heard of him 
 was looking out of his somewhat elevated attic-window 
 in a northwesterly direction in hopes that he might 
 perhaps get a sight of the Grand Monadnock, a 
 mountain in New Hampshire which I have myself 
 seen from the top of Bimker Hill Monument. 
 
 The Member of the Haouse seems to have been 
 more in a hurry to find a new resting-place than the 
 other boarders. By the first of January, however, 
 our whole company was scattered, never to meet again 
 around the board where we had been so long together. 
 
 The Lady moved to the house where she had passed 
 many of her prosperous years. It had been occupied 
 by a rich family who had taken it nearly as it stood, 
 and as the pictures had been dusted regularly, and the 
 books had never been handled, she found everything 
 in many respects as she had left it, and in some points 
 improved, for the rich people did not know what else 
 to do, and so they spent money without stint on their 
 house and its adornments, by all of which she could not 
 help profiting. I do not choose to give the street and 
 number of the house where she lives, but a great many 
 poor people know very well where it is, and as a mat- 
 ter of course the rich ones roll up to her door in their 
 carriages by the dozen every fine Monday while any- 
 body is in town. 
 
 It is whispered that our two young folks are to be 
 married before another season, and that the Lady has 
 asked them to come and stay with her for a while. 
 Our Scheherezade is to write no more stories. It is 
 astonishing to see what a change for the better in her 
 aspect a few weeks of brain-rest and heart's ease have 
 
346 THE POET AT THE BEEAKTAST-TABLE. 
 
 wrought in her. I doubt very much whether she ever 
 returns to literary labor. The work itself was almost 
 heart-breaking, but the effect upon her of the sneers 
 and cynical insolences of the literary rough who came 
 at her in mask and brass knuckles was to give her 
 what I fear wiU be a lifelong disgust against any writ- 
 ing for the public, especially in any of the periodi- 
 cals. I am not sorry that she should stop writing, but 
 I am sorry that she should have been silenced in such 
 a rude way. I doubt, too, whether the Yoimg Astron- 
 omer will pass the rest of his life in hunting for com- 
 ets and planets. I think he has found an attraction 
 that will call him down from the celestial luminaries to 
 a light not less pure and far less remote. And I am 
 inclined to believe that the best answer to many of 
 those questions which have haunted him and found 
 expression in his verse will be reached by a very dif- 
 ferent channel from that of lonely contemplation, — 
 the duties, the cares, the responsible realities of a 
 life drawn out of itself by the power of newly awak- 
 ened instincts and affections. The double star was 
 prophetic, — I thought it would be. 
 
 The Register of Deeds is understood to have been 
 very handsomely treated by the boarder who owes her 
 good fortune to his sagacity and activity. He has 
 engaged apartments at a very genteel boarding-house 
 not far from the one where we have all been living. 
 The Salesman found it a simple matter to transfer 
 himself to an establishment over the way; he had very 
 little to move, and required very small accommoda- 
 tions. 
 
 The Capitalist, however, seems to have felt it im- 
 possible to move without ridding himself of a part 
 at least of his encumbrances. The community was 
 
THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 347 
 
 startled by the announcement that a citizen who did 
 not wish his name to be known had made a free gift 
 of a large sum of money — it was in tens of thousands 
 — to an institution of long standing and high charac- 
 ter in the city of which he was a quiet resident. The 
 source of such a gift could not long be kept secret. It 
 was our economical, not to say parsimonious Capi- 
 talist who had done this noble act, and the poor man 
 had to skulk through back streets and keep out of 
 sight, as if he were a show character in a travelling 
 caravan, to avoid the acknowledgments of his liberal- 
 ity, which met him on every hand and put him fairly 
 out of countenance. 
 
 That Boy has gone, in virtue of a special invitation, 
 to make a visit of indefinite length at the house of the 
 father of the older boy, whom we know by the name 
 of Johnny. Of course he is having a good time, for 
 Johnny's father is full of fun, and tells fijrstrate sto- 
 ries, and if neither of the boys gets his brains kicked 
 out by the pony, or blows himself up with gunpowder, 
 or breaks through the ice and gets drowned, they will 
 have a fine time of it this winter. 
 
 The Scarabee could not bear to remove his collec- 
 tions, and the old Master was equally unwilling to 
 disturb his books. It was arranged, therefore, that 
 they should keep their apartments until the new tenant 
 should come into the house, when, if they were satis- 
 fied with her management, they would continue as her 
 boarders. 
 
 The last time I saw the Scarabee he was stiU at 
 work on the melo'e question. He expressed himself 
 very pleasantly towards aU of us, his fellow-board- 
 ers, and spoke of the kindness and consideration with 
 which the Landlady had treated him when he had 
 
348 THE POET AT THE BBEAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 been straitened at times for want of means. Espe- 
 cially lie seemed to be interested in our young couple 
 who were soon to be united. His tired old eyes glis- 
 tened as lie asked about them, — could it be that their 
 little romance recalled some early vision of his own? 
 However that may be, he got up presently and went 
 to a little box in which, as he said, he kept some 
 choice specimens. He brought to me in his hand 
 something which glittered. It was an exquisite dia- 
 mond beetle. 
 
 — If you could get that to her, — he said, — they 
 tell me that ladies sometimes wear them in their hair. 
 If they are out of fashion, she can keep it till after 
 they 're married, and then perhaps after a while there 
 may be — you know — you know what I mean — there 
 may be — larvce, that 's what I 'm thinking there may 
 be, and they 'U like to look at it. 
 
 — As he got out the word larvce, a faint sense of 
 the ridiculous seemed to take hold of the Scarabee, 
 and for the first and only time during my acquaint- 
 ance with him a slight attempt at a smile showed itself 
 on his features. It was barely perceptible and gone 
 almost as soon as seen, yet I am pleased to put it on 
 record that on one occasion at least in his life the 
 Scarabee smiled. 
 
 The old Master keeps adding notes and reflections 
 and new suggestions to his interleaved volume, but I 
 doubt if he ever gives them to the public. The study 
 he has proposed to himself does not grow easier the 
 longer it is pursued. The whole Order of Things can 
 hardly be completely unravelled in any single person's 
 lifetime, and I suspect he will have to adjourn the 
 final stage of his investigations to that more lumraous 
 realm where the Landlady hopes to rejoin the com- 
 
THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 349 
 
 pany of boarders who are nevermore to meet aroimd 
 her cheerful and well-ordered table. 
 
 The curtain has now fallen, and I show myself a 
 moment before it to thank my audience and say fare- 
 well. The second comer is commonly less welcome 
 than the first, and the third makes but a rash venture. 
 I hope I have not wholly disappointed those who have 
 been so kind to my predecessors. 
 
 To you, Beloved, who have never failed to cut the 
 leaves which hold my record, who have never nodded 
 over its pages, who have never hesitated in your al- 
 legiance, who have greeted me with unfailing smiles 
 and part from me with unfeigned regrets, to you I 
 look my last adieu as I bow myself out of sight, trust- 
 ing my poor efforts to your always kind remembrance. 
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE BKEAKPAST-TABLE SERIES; 
 
 AUTOCRAT — PEOFESSOK — POET. 
 AT A BOOKSTORE. 
 
 Anno Domini 1972. 
 
 A crazy bookcase, placed before 
 
 A low-price dealer's open door ; 
 
 Therein arrayed in broken rows 
 
 A ragged crew of rhyme and prose, 
 
 The homeless vagrants, waifs and strays 
 
 Whose low estate this line betrays 
 
 (Set forth the lesser birds to lime) 
 
 rOUB CHOICE AMONG THESE BOOKS, 1 DIME1 
 
 Ho ! dealer ; for its motto's sake 
 This scarecrow from the shelf I take ; 
 Three starveling volumes bound in one, 
 Its covers warping in the sun. 
 
350 THE POET AT THE BEEAKPAST-TABLE. 
 
 Methinks it hath a musty smell, 
 
 I like its flavor none too weU, 
 
 But Yoriok's biain was far from dull, 
 
 Though Hamlet pah 1 'd, and dropped his sknlL 
 
 Why, here comes rain I The sky grows dark, — 
 
 Was that the roll of thunder ? Hark ! 
 
 The shop afEords a safe retreat, 
 
 A chair extends its welcome seat, 
 
 The tradesman has a civil look 
 
 (I 've paid, impromptu, for my book), 
 
 The clouds portend a sudden shower,— 
 
 I 'U read my purchase for an hour. 
 
 What have I rescued from the shelf ? 
 A Boswell, writing out himself ! 
 For though he changes dress and name, 
 The man beneath is still the same. 
 Laughing or sad, by fits and starts, 
 One actor in a dozen parts, 
 And whatsoe'er the mask may be. 
 The voice assures us. This is he., 
 
 I say not this to cry him down ; 
 I find my Shakespeare in his clown. 
 His rogues the self-same parent own ; 
 Nay ! Satan talks in Milton's tone ! 
 Where'er the ocean inlet strays, 
 The salt sea wave its source betrays. 
 Where'er the queen of summer blows. 
 She tells the zephyr, " I 'm the rose ! " 
 
 And his is not the playwright's page ; 
 His table does not ape the stage ; 
 What matter if the figures seen 
 Are only shadows on a screen, 
 He finds in them his lurking thought. 
 And on their lips the words he sought, 
 Like one who sits before the keys 
 And plays a tune himself to please. 
 
THE POET AT THE BREAKPAST-TABLE. 351 
 
 And was he noted in his day ? 
 
 Bead, flattered, honored ? Who shall say ? 
 
 Poor wreck of time the wave has cast 
 
 To find a peaceful shore at last. 
 
 Once glorying in thy gilded name 
 
 And freighted deep with hopes of fame, 
 
 Thy leaf is moistened with a tear, 
 
 The first for many a long, long year I 
 
 For be it more or less of art 
 
 That veils the lowliest human heart 
 
 Where passion throbs, where friendship glows, 
 
 Where pity's tender tribute flows, 
 
 Where love has lit its fragrant Are, 
 
 And sorrow quenched its vain desire, 
 
 For me the altar is divine. 
 
 Its flame, its ashes, — all are mine ! 
 
 And thou, my brother, as I look 
 And see thee pictured in thy book. 
 Thy years on every page confessed 
 In shadows lengthening from the west. 
 Thy glance that wanders, as it sought 
 Some freshly opening flower of thought, 
 Thy hopeful nature, light and free, 
 I start to find myself in thee ! 
 
 Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn 
 In leather jerkin stained and torn. 
 Whose talk has filled my idle hour 
 And made me half forget the shower, 
 I '11 do at least as much for yon. 
 Your coat I'U patch, your gilt renew, 
 Head you, — perhaps, — some other time. 
 Not bad, my bargain ! Price one dime ! 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Ablution, misfiionaties-of, 914. 
 Abraham, burial place of, 331. 
 Accidents of life confounded with life 
 
 itself, 296. 
 Act, an, to make the poor richer by 
 
 making the rich poorer, 3. 
 Actors change less than other people, 
 
 329. 
 Acupuncture, instrument for, 121, 122. 
 Adam and Eve, creation of, 83. 
 Addison's disease, 67. 
 Advertisement, trap to obtain for new 
 
 book, 302. 
 Advice to young men and women with 
 
 literary aspirations, 158. 
 Affinities, elective, 129, 130. 
 Age in the eyes of youth, 14. 
 Alchemy, old books of, 27. 
 Alexander the Great, coins of, 111. 
 Allegiance to what is highest in one's 
 
 own nature, 270. 
 **Amatoors," the Scarabee has no fear 
 
 of, 250. 
 America, lack of permanent homes in, 
 
 11. 
 Americans like cuckoos, 10 ; the talking 
 
 dynasty bard upon, 265. 
 Angelina's verses, how to treat them, 
 
 153. 
 Angels might learn from human beings, 
 
 248. 
 Angier, Joseph, poem in memory of, 
 
 115. 
 Animus tuus oculus, a freshman's Lat- 
 in, 302. 
 Ankle, wonderful effects of breakiug a 
 
 bone in, 97. 
 Antagonism, laws of, 130. 
 Anthropology. See Man. 
 Antiquity of many modem customs, 
 
 322. 
 Apologies for human nature, 20. 
 Arago, 138. 
 
 Articulated sound, fascination of, 46, 47. 
 Artists need freedom from disturbance, 
 
 100 ; their idiosyncrasies, 102. 
 Ashbumham, Lord, possessor of the 
 
 ring of Thothmes III., 111. 
 Aspect of things changes entirely in a 
 
 single generation, 328. 
 
 Athos, Mount, monks of, 106. 
 Attention long fixed on a single object, 
 
 strange effects of, 107. 
 Attraction, laws of, 130. 
 Aunt Tahitha^ 87. 
 Authors repeat in conversation what 
 
 they have said in their books, 206 ; 
 
 compliments to authors, 207 ; fate of 
 
 presentation copies of their books, 
 
 301 ; they should read friendly and 
 
 unfriendly criticism, 303. 
 Authorship, rewards of, 160. 
 Average, laws of, 130. 
 Averages, human, tolerable steadiness 
 
 of, 221 et seq. 
 Aversions, personal, indulgence in, 333. 
 
 Baby's fingers, 51. 
 
 Ballet dancing, 95, 96. 
 
 Sambino, 308. 
 
 Bancroft, George, his comment on Cal- 
 vin, 184. 
 
 Bamum, P. T.,127. 
 
 Bee-parasites, 76. 
 
 Beehive, giant, planing-mill compared 
 to, 325. 
 
 Beliefs in which we are trained indeli- 
 ble, 327. 
 
 Biography, cost of being its subject, 
 163 et seq. 
 
 Blackstone, 314. 
 
 Blair's Chronology, 83. 
 
 Boarding-house fever, 64. 
 
 Boarding-houses, their inmates, 244 ; 
 trials of keeping, 341. 
 
 Book advertisement, trap to obtain, 302. 
 
 Book infirmary should be attached to 
 every library, 25 ; the master's, 213. 
 
 Books, fate of presentation copies of, 
 301 ; like leaky boats on a sea of wis- 
 dom, 302. 
 
 Bores may be good talkers, 301. 
 
 Boston Common, 313, 315 ; Frog pond, 
 314 ; streets, 324 ; graveyards, 329. 
 
 Boyle, Robert, his approach to modern 
 philosophers, 216. 
 
 Breakfast-table series, Epilogue to, 349. 
 
 Bronze skin, 67. 
 
 Browne, Simon, the man without a 
 soul, dedication of his Answer to 
 
354 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Tindal's '' Ghriatianity as old as the 
 
 Creation," 215. 
 *' Bub," abbreviation of Beelzebub, 7. 
 Bunker Hill monument, 95, 148, 149, 
 
 166 ; man of the monument, 151, 166. 
 Bunyan, John, quotation from, 276; 
 
 anticipates Galton and the Professor, 
 
 Gaddice-worm, 211. 
 
 Calvin, criticised by Bancroft, 184. 
 
 Candlestick, seven-branched, 332. 
 
 Cannibalism, 150. 
 
 Canute, King, 187, 267, 
 
 Capitalist, his economies, 40 ; treated by 
 Dr. B. Franklin, 253 ; his unexpected 
 generosity, 346. 
 
 CapsulsB suprarenalea, 68. 
 
 Caput mortuum, 281. 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas, 265. 
 
 Castles, Buskin's aversion to a country 
 vrithout, 11. 
 
 Catullus, his story of the cockney Ro- 
 man, 324. 
 
 Celebrities of to-day all look alike, 103. 
 
 Cephalalgia, 127. 
 
 Cerebration, passive, 316. 
 
 Character affected by soil, 21 ; sudden 
 development of, 306- 
 
 Ghildren modified by the soil of the re- 
 gion in which they are bom, 20, 21 ; 
 their likeness to animals, 82. 
 
 Chronological History of Mew England, 
 by Thomas Prince, 121. 
 
 Church-going, its humanizing effect, 193. 
 
 Citadel of belief, the fewer its outworks 
 the better, 319. 
 
 City life, gain to health from, 278. 
 
 Gl^ization, power of over natural 
 forces, 271. 
 
 Clerg^rmen, varieties of, 16, 17 ; charac- 
 teristics of, 125. 
 
 Coarse-fibred people, 275. 
 
 Cockney, Roman, 324. 
 
 Coincidences in manners and speech of 
 antiquity and our own time, 323. 
 
 Coins of Alexander the 0reat, 111. 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel, 263, 265. 
 
 Common, Boston, as a place for study- 
 ing the heavens, 313 ; tradition re- 
 garding one of its paths, 315. 
 
 Commonplace people sometimes have a 
 deep inner life, 204, 205. 
 
 Common sense and science, 120. 
 
 Comparative theology as necessary as 
 comparative anatomy, 149. 
 
 Compliments, some advice in regard to 
 paying them, 208. 
 
 Condescension, graciousness mistaken 
 for, 65. 
 
 Conscience, paralysis of, 268. 
 
 Conscious life the aim and end of crea* 
 tion, 105. 
 
 Consciousness, Dual. See Dual con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 Contemplation, necessary conditions ofj 
 
 Contradiction may turn a good talker 
 into an insufferable bore, 301. 
 
 Conversation, commonplace character 
 of ordinary, 246. 
 
 Conversationalist, discomfort of being 
 thought one, 44. 
 
 Cooper, the actor, 329. 
 
 Corain, Captain, and his sinking ship, 
 171. 
 
 Country, ^e for possessed by military 
 men, 105. 
 
 Country life, some dsmgers of, 278. 
 
 Cowper, his mental neuralgia, 101. 
 
 Creation, conscious life its aim and end, 
 105. 
 
 Creative power demands freedom from 
 disturbance, 100. 
 
 Criticism based on personal feeling, 85 ; 
 needlessnesB of much of it, 152 ; that 
 which falls upon the critics them- 
 selves, 153 ; private criticism, 153 et seq. 
 
 Cuckoos, resemblance of Americans to, 
 10. 
 
 Customs, modem, antiquity of many, 
 322. 
 
 Cutis £Bnea, 67. 
 
 Cuvier, 240. 
 
 Daemons, 127. 
 
 Dancing, 97. 
 
 Darwin's theory, 82, 83 ; secret of the 
 interest in, 305. 
 
 David, tomb of, 332. 
 
 Davidson sisters, effect upon one of 
 them of the singing of Moore's melo- 
 dies, 313. 
 
 Deadheads apt to have lively appetites, 
 281. 
 
 Dejazet, Mile., the actress, 329. 
 
 Dermestes lardarius, 93. 
 
 Development sudden in some dua-ac- 
 ters, 306. 
 
 Devout disposition and weak constitu- 
 tion, correlation between, 303. 
 
 Discu^on, gain in freedom of, 185 ; dis- 
 cussions, religious, worth and dangers 
 of, 187 et seq. 
 
 Disease, a manifestation of the vital 
 processes, 305. 
 
 Distinctions, social, 67. 
 
 Doctor B. Franklin, his education, 38 ; 
 he is consulted by the Poet, 64 ; his 
 office. 65 ; the examination, 66 ; treats 
 the Capitalist, 253. 
 
 Doctors, old preferred to young, 118 ; 
 yoxmg doctors start with much pro- 
 fessional but little practical know- 
 ledge, 123 ; doctors in this country 
 have less culture than lawyers ana 
 ministers, 126; doctors in earlier 
 days, 306. 
 
 Dogmatists, 262 et seq. 
 
 Double star, 73, 139, 317, 346. 
 
 Doubt, spiritual, 148 ; ^e of, 194. 
 
 Drudgery of writing, 299. 
 
 Dual consciousness, 81, 206, 207, 227, 243. 
 
 Duff, Mrs., the actress, 329. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 355 
 
 Duty of accepting good fortune when it 
 
 defrauds no one, 293. 
 Dynasty, the talMng, 263; hard on 
 
 Americans, 265. 
 
 Education, theological, should include 
 pathology and toxicology, 304. 
 
 Egg, the Creator's private studio, 106. 
 
 Egyptian obelisks, 149. • 
 
 Elective affinities, 129, 130. 
 
 Ellsler, Fanny, 95. 
 
 Elma, 19; great elm on Boston Com- 
 mon, 313. 
 
 Encouragement to young writers, 159. 
 
 Enforced economics, 296. 
 
 English sparrow, 314. 
 
 Epidemic of thinking, 269. 
 
 Epilogue to the Breakfast-table series, 
 a49. 
 
 Equation, eye for, 105. 
 
 Experts, our pride in the superiority of, 
 243. 
 
 External conditions valued too highly, 
 296. 
 
 Eye for an equation, 105. 
 
 Eye for coimtry possessed by military 
 men, 105. 
 
 Eyebrows, line between the, 52. 
 
 Faber, Peter John, 27. 
 
 Facsimile of each of us to be found 
 somewhere, 36. 
 
 Facts as mental food, 174 ; reluctance 
 to accept those which throw doubt 
 upon cherished beliefs, 185. 
 
 Faith stronger in women than in men, 
 186. 
 
 False sentiment, 136. 
 
 Fame, desire for, 160, 163 ; penalty of, 
 161, 162. 
 
 Fantasia^ 61. 
 
 Fucination of spoken sounds, 46, 47. 
 
 Fate of books given by authors to their 
 friends, 301. 
 
 Fear, power of, 127 ; fear, superstitious, 
 not easily banished, 328. 
 
 Feeders for the mind, 80. 
 
 Firebugs, political, 3. 
 
 Fish which stopped the leak in Captain 
 Corain's ship, 171. 
 
 Flies, house, 244 ei seq. 
 
 Forgotten, pleasure of being, 161. 
 
 Foster, John, of Brighton, 14. 
 
 Fox, Eev. Jabez, of Wobum, 13. 
 
 Frailties of the rich, 296. 
 
 Franklin, BenJEunin, his look, 6 ; as re- 
 ferred to by Dr. Johnson, 265. 
 
 Franklin, Dr. B. See Doctor B. Frank- 
 lin. 
 
 Freaks of nature. See Monstrosities. 
 
 Free discussion, in scientific questions, 
 182 ; gain in, 185. 
 
 Freedom from disturbance demanded 
 by creative power, 100. 
 
 Freedom of thought difficult to recon- 
 cile with respect for the convictions 
 of others, 307. 
 
 Frenchman, the eccentric, 225. 
 
 Friends, unexpected, the result of sym- 
 pathetic disposition, 154. 
 
 Friendship, no time for among natural- 
 ists, 249. 
 
 Frog pond on Boston Common, 314. 
 
 Oalton, Francis, 303. 
 
 Gambrel-roofed house, the Poet's recol- 
 lections of, 10 et seq. ; its unpreten- 
 tiousnesB, 12 ; its tenants, 13, 18 ; its 
 clerical visitors, 14 et seq. ; its trees, 
 19 ; its garden, 20 et seq. ; its out- 
 look, 22 ; its cellar, 22 ; its garret, 24 
 ei seq. ; the old books of the garret, 
 26 ; its historic associations, 28 ; its 
 later use, 28; its romances, 29; its 
 improvements, 30. 
 
 Genius for religion, 128. 
 
 Ghosts, no opportunities for in modem 
 houses, 23. 
 
 Gibbon's story of the monks of Mount 
 Athos, 106. 
 
 Girls. See Women. 
 
 Gods of the heathen, servants of to-day, 
 271. 
 
 Gold, the charm and power of, 255 et 
 seq. 
 
 Good manners, worth of, 58. 
 
 Good Samaritan, 306. 
 
 Gospel of Saint Petroleum, 40. 
 
 Grace of God not private property, 327. 
 
 Grace opposed to nature in the scholas- 
 tic theology, 304. 
 
 Graciousness mistaken for condescen- 
 sion, 55. 
 
 Grafted trees, 165. 
 
 Grand manner, 334. 
 
 Graveyards change their outward aspect 
 less than other places, 329. 
 
 Great elm on Boston Common, 313. 
 
 Great organ in Boston Music Hall, 95. 
 
 Guilt, heritable, doctrine of, 268. 
 
 Gwyllyn, David ap, 325. 
 
 Gynmotus, 45. 
 
 Halford, Sir Henry, 102. 
 
 Hall, Bishop, prefers nature before 
 grace in the election of a wife, 304. 
 
 Hannibal, 300. 
 
 Harris, Thaddeus Mason, D, D., died 
 1847, 15. 
 
 Harvard College : Harvard haU, 10 ; 
 Massachusetts haJl, 10 ; Holden chap- 
 el, 10. 
 
 Harvard hall. See Harvard College. 
 
 Harvey, William, 106. 
 
 Herbert, George, 110. 
 
 Heritable guilt, doctrine of, 268. 
 
 Herschel, his discovery of Georgium 
 Sidus, 218 ; his telescope, 219. 
 
 High Church service, responses in, 128. 
 
 Holden Chapel. See Harvard College.^ 
 
 Holding the tongue, significance of in 
 women, 300. 
 
 Holmes house, Cambridge. See Gam- 
 brel-roofed house. 
 
356 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Homer, quotation from, 47. 
 
 Homer, Jonathan, his external resem- 
 blance to Yoltaire, 15. 
 
 Homes, permanent, lack of ^n America, 
 11. 
 
 Homesich in Heaven^ 32. 
 
 Horace, 323. 
 
 House-flies, 244 et seq. 
 
 Human averages, tolerable steadiness 
 of, 221 ei seq. 
 
 Human beings raised under glass, 278. 
 
 Human body, structure of has suggested 
 many modem contrivances, 322. 
 
 Human experiences, similarity of, 31. 
 
 Human nature, apologies for, 20. 
 
 Humanity, revival of, 305; virtues of, 
 306 ; of more importance than any 
 belief, 327. 
 
 Humanizing effect of church-going, 193. 
 
 Hutchinson, Mrs. Ann, 224. 
 
 Ideas, transplanted, 146 ; association of 
 by their accidental cohesion rather 
 than by their vital afBnities, 289, 
 
 Idiosyncrasies of artists, 102. 
 
 India-rubber, 322. 
 
 Infirmary for invalid books, 25; the 
 Master's, 213. 
 
 Inheritance of the world belongs to the 
 phlegmatic people, 41. 
 
 Instincts, inherited, their development, 
 166. 
 
 Intellects, varieties of, 43. 
 
 Intellectual invalids, 17. 
 
 Intellectual irritation produced by rub- 
 bing against other people's prejudices, 
 6. 
 
 Intellectual life of race gains nothing 
 from unquestioning minds, 270. 
 
 Intellectual opium-eating, 39. 
 
 Intelligence, general diffusion of, 302, 
 
 Interrupted literary work, supposed 
 case of, 8. 
 
 Interviewing one's self, 1. 
 
 Invalids, intellectual, 17. 
 
 Inventions, recent, anticipated in the 
 human body, 322. 
 
 Ireson, Flood, 323. 
 
 Irving, Edward, 183. 
 
 Irving, Washington, quotation from his 
 Knickerbocker's history regarding 
 New York streets, 324. 
 
 Japanese figures with points for acu- 
 puncture, 121, 122. 
 
 Johnson, Samuel, his estimate of scien- 
 tists, 263 ; what he might say on re- 
 ceiving a cablegram, 264; his refer- 
 ence to Franklin, 265. 
 
 Johnny, That Boy's friend, his first ap- 
 pearance, 281; his family history, 
 
 Joke-blindness, 247. 
 
 Justice, human conception of, 270. 
 
 Keats's Endymdon, 306. 
 Kellogg, Elijah, 15. 
 
 Knickerbocker's history, quotation from 
 
 regarding New York streets, 324. 
 Knowledge, its specialization, 265 ; its 
 advance, 267 ; pursuit of, difficult, 307. 
 
 Laboring classes, a suggestion for, 299. 
 
 Lady, The, her history, 54 ; her friend- 
 ship for Scheherezade, 85 ; her letter to 
 the Foet, 187 ei seq. / her acquaintance 
 with the Register of Deeds, 196 ; her 
 growing interest in him, 289 ; tins in- 
 timacy explained, 289 ; her good for- 
 tune, 292. 
 
 Lamb tavern, 344. 
 
 Landlady, personal appearance, 37 ; 
 her family, 38 ; her fitness for matri- 
 mony, 38, 39 ; fame of her house 
 brought superior people, 48 ; her mis- 
 take regarding complementary colors, 
 140 ; character of her conversation, 
 252 ; probable characteristics of her 
 deceased husband, 253; her reminis- 
 cences, 283 ; tells the story of The 
 Lady's good fortune, 290 et seq. 
 
 Langdon, Samuel, 28. 
 
 Language, mtma^ement of in poetry, 
 98 ; its inadequacy for expression of 
 spiritual ideas, 183; inexactnesa of, 
 217. 
 
 Latreille, Pierre Andr^, 240. 
 
 Lawyers unsympathetic, 124. 
 
 Left-handedness, moral, 222. 
 
 Letters, Red republic of, 10. 
 
 Levelling process, 4, 5. 
 
 Liability of misjudging our fellows, 255. 
 
 Liberty to dislike us accorded a certain 
 number of people, 333. 
 
 Libraries, book infirmary should be at- 
 tached to, 25; use of in many fine 
 houses, 209; how they should grow, 
 211 et seq. 
 
 Life, conscious, the aim and end of crea- 
 tion, 105. 
 
 Xiife, fulness of to the poet, 107 ; chances 
 of better in cities than in towns, 279 ; 
 its accidents confounded wit^ life it- 
 self, 296. 
 
 Likes and dislikes, metaphysics of, 71 ; 
 ground of, 333 et seq. 
 
 Line between the eyebrows, 62. 
 
 Literary adviser, confidential, much ex- 
 pected of him, 158. 
 
 Literary aspirants, difficulties of dealing 
 with, 155 et seq. 
 
 Literary police, 152. 
 
 Literary roughs with brass knuckles, 
 275, 346. 
 
 Local influences, how greatly they affect 
 the human organization, OT7. 
 
 Louis, XrV., anecdote of, 185. 
 
 Love-cure believed in by women, 272. 
 
 Lovers as talkers, 95. 
 
 Machpelah, cave of, 331. 
 
 Maine produces a large proportion of 
 
 our natural nobility, 276. 
 Man, study of, 183, 184, 268 ; it needs a 
 
INDEX. 
 
 357 
 
 new terminology , 307 ; natural man, 
 234. 
 Man of letters, 52 ; his air of superiority, 
 
 151 ; leaves the boarding-house, 202. 
 Man of the monument. See Bunker 
 
 Hill Monument. 
 Man without a soul. See Browne, Si- 
 mon. 
 Manhood, occidental, based on self-re- 
 spect, 270 ; orient, based on self- 
 abasement, ibid. 
 
 Mantis religiosa, 239. 
 Map, sanitary, needed of every State in 
 the Union, 280. 
 
 Marblehead, people of, like the Phsea- 
 cians, 323. 
 
 Massachusetts Hall. See Harvard Col- 
 lege. 
 
 Master, his prejudices, 6 ; his originality, 
 41 ; his experiments, 174 et seq. ; Ms 
 library, 210 et seq. ; his book infirm- 
 ary, 213 ; his book, 221 ; his ambition, 
 262 ; his physiological observations, 
 277 ; his reasons for having written 
 books, 319 et seq. ; begins to tell the 
 story of his life, and to disclose the 
 central fact in the order of things, 
 337 et seq. ; is interrupted by the 
 liondlady, 339. 
 
 Mastigophori, the whip-holders, 274. 
 
 Matchless Mitchel. See Mitchel, Jona- 
 than. 
 
 Mathematical ability lacking in many 
 strong minds, 104. 
 
 Mather, Cotton, 14, 327. 
 
 Mather, Increase, 224, 
 
 Medioated.noveIs, 26. 
 
 Mediocrity often given to a thought by 
 publicity, 344. 
 
 " Member of the Haouse," 1 ; his native 
 place, 7. 
 
 Memory, curiosities of, 219 j pleasures 
 of, 328. 
 
 Mental ballast, 321. 
 
 Military men have an eye for country, 
 105. 
 
 Milton, John, 91, 92. 
 
 Mind, feeders for the, 80. 
 
 Minds with skylights, 42; different 
 minds move like the different pieces 
 on a chess-board, 220 ; non-clerical 
 minds, 257. 
 
 Ministers. See Clergymen ; Priests. 
 
 Misers, Visions of, 2^ et seq. 
 
 Misery that we smile at, 84. 
 
 Misjudgment, liability to, 255, 
 
 Missionaries of ablution, 314. 
 
 Mississippi River, 335. 
 
 Missouri River, 335. 
 
 Mrs. Midas Goldenrod, her visits to the 
 Lady, 55 ; her likes and dislikes, 294. 
 
 Mitchel, Jonathan, 326. 
 
 Mithra, 326. 
 
 Modem customs, antiquity of many, 
 322. 
 
 Modem houses afford no opportumties 
 for ghosts, 23. 
 
 Monadnock, Mount, 345. 
 
 Monks of Mount Athos, 106. 
 
 Monstrosities subject to laws, 223 ; the 
 Poet's fondness for, 229. 
 
 Moon as seen through the telescope by 
 the boarding-house party, 137 et seq. 
 
 Moon-hoax of 1835, 138. 
 
 Moore, Thomas, 313. 
 
 Moral left-handedness, 222. 
 
 Moral order of things, reason for believ- 
 ing in, 221. 
 
 Moral reflections, we often find our own 
 anticipated by others, 325. 
 
 Moral teratology, 225. 
 
 Morbus Addisonii, 67. 
 
 Morrissey, John, 45. 
 
 Mothers, hardships of, 340. 
 
 Muscarium) home for house-fiies, 244 
 et seq. 
 
 Music-pounding, 62. 
 
 Natural forces well under control of 
 
 civilization, 271. 
 Natiural man, 234. 
 Natural nobility, 276. 
 Naturalists, have no time for friend- 
 ships, 249. 
 Nature and grace, 304. 
 Nature, study of, its difficulties, 307. 
 Nebular theory, 180. 
 New York streets, quotation from 
 
 Knickerbocker's history regarding, 
 
 324. 
 New Yorkers, two, their reminiscences, 
 
 330. 
 Newgate calendar, 222, 265. 
 Newton, Sir Isaac, his mathematical 
 
 power, 105. 
 Nightingale, Florence, her saying about 
 
 music, 62. 
 Nobility, natural, 276. 
 Novels, medicated, 26 ; fate of, 112. 
 
 Obelisks, Egyptian, 149. 
 
 Observatory, visit of the boarding-house 
 party to, 131 et seq. ; description of, 
 133 ; solemnity of, 134. 
 
 Occasional talkers, 266. 
 
 Occidental manhood based on self-re- 
 spect, 270. 
 
 Octavia on hearing Virgil's verses, 312. 
 
 Odyssey, 323. 
 
 Old people are monsters to little ones, 
 14 ; worth of their reminiscences, 
 169. 
 
 One, two and three story intellects, 43. 
 
 Opium-eating, intellectual, 99. 
 
 Order of Things, the Master's specialty, 
 41. 
 
 Oriental manhood based on self-abase- 
 ment, 270. 
 
 Ornaments, personal, as reminders of 
 the New Jerusalem, 295. 
 
 Osgood, David, minister of Medford, 
 14. 
 
 Outworks to the citadel of belief, the 
 fewer the better, 319. 
 
358 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Palladium Spagyricum, P. J. Faber's, 
 27. 
 
 Parable of the Pharisee and Fublicui, 
 lesBon of, 335. 
 
 FaBsive cerebration, 316. 
 
 Pathological piety, 303. 
 
 Pathology as part of theological educa- 
 tion, 304. 
 
 Pearson, Eliphalet, 13, 18. 
 
 PediculuB melittae, 74, 75. 
 
 People who are too glad to see ub, 334. 
 
 Peril escaped makes a great story-teller 
 of a common person, 266. 
 
 Permanent homes, lack of in America, 11. 
 
 Personal aversions, indulgence in, 333. 
 
 Personality of the poet, 109. 
 
 Petroleiun, Saint, gospel of, 40. 
 
 Fhseacians of three thousand years ago, 
 resemblance to Marbleheaders of Ij-e- 
 son's day, 323. 
 
 Pharisee and Publican, lesson of the 
 parable, 335. 
 
 Phlegmatic people, inheritance of the 
 world belongs to them, 41. 
 
 Phylliun siccif olium, 240. 
 
 Physiology, laws of not altered by re- 
 publicanism, 276. 
 
 Piety, pathologicid, 303. 
 
 Fiozzi, Madame, 186, 325. 
 
 Pitch-pine Yankees, 276. 
 
 Planing-mill, resemblance to a bee-hire, 
 325. 
 
 Pleasure of being forgotten, 161. 
 
 Pleasures of memory, 328, 
 
 Poem, each one represents a great ex- 
 penditure of -vital force, 97, 98. 
 
 Poetry a luxury, not a necessity, 100. 
 
 Poets, their inner nature, 11 ; their 
 knowledge of the subjects with which 
 they de£d, 72, 73 ; those who never 
 write verses the best talkers, 94; 
 treated as privileged persons, 99 ; all 
 real ones artists, 100 ; concessions 
 should be made to their idiosyncra- 
 sies, 101 ; personality of, 109 ; fond- 
 ness for reading their own composi- 
 tions to others, 202 ; their non-clerical 
 minds, 257. 
 
 Police, literary, 152. 
 
 Political firebugs, 3. 
 
 Pope, quotation from an epistle of his 
 to Addison, 111. 
 
 Popgun, That Boy's, its first appear- 
 ance, 63 ; its latit appearance, 236 ; its 
 eflaciency, 237. 
 
 Poplar, Lombardy, 19. 
 
 Power, creative, demands freedom from 
 
 disturbance, 100. 
 Power, feared only when it cannot be 
 
 mastered, 271. 
 Prejudices, their value, 6 ; intellectual 
 irritation produced by rubbing against 
 other people's prejudices, 6. 
 Pride, spiritual, warning against, 336. 
 Priests and ministers, 125. 
 Prince, Thomas, 121. 
 Private property cannot include matters 
 
 of universal interest, 271 ; private 
 property in thought, 303. 
 Publicity often gives a thought medioc- 
 rity, 344. 
 
 Queen of Sheba, 322. 
 
 Reader, every writer of individuality 
 may expect to have one, 36, 37. 
 
 Readers who have no libraries of their 
 own, 209. 
 
 Red republic of letters, 10. 
 
 Red sorrel, 22. 
 
 Register of deeds, his daily life, 60 ; 
 his investigations, 168 ; discussion as 
 to whether he is a superfluous person, 
 170 ; his interest in the Lady, 289 ; the 
 intimacy explained, 289 et seq. 
 
 Religion, genius for, 128 ; not an intel- 
 lectual luxury, 190; need of, 193 et 
 seq, ; does not rid a man of his natu- 
 ral qualities, 304, 
 
 Religious discussions, worth and dan- 
 gers of, 187 et seq. 
 
 Reporters, how they make up their re- 
 ports, 3. 
 
 Republic of letters, red, 10. 
 
 Republicanism does not alter the laws 
 of physiology, 276. 
 
 Responses in High Church service, 128. 
 
 Reverence, spirit of should be cultivated 
 in young people, 195 ; should begin 
 with self-respect, 270. 
 
 Revival of humanity, 305. 
 
 Rewards of authorship, 160. 
 
 Rhyme as a narcotic, 99. 
 
 Rhymes, paucity of the language in, 72, 
 73. 
 
 Rhyming and clever writing, capacity 
 for, often mistaken for extraordinary 
 endowment, 155. 
 
 Rich, frailties of, 296. 
 
 Right of reentry released, case of, 293. 
 
 Ring, found by Thaddeus M. Harris, 
 D. D., 15 ; ring of Thothmes III., 111. 
 
 Robinson, Dr., 332. 
 
 Rogers, Samuel, 330. 
 
 Ruskin, his aversion to a country with- 
 out castles, 11, 
 
 Saint Petroleum, gospel of, 40. 
 
 Salem witchcraft, 326. 
 
 Salesman, 60; why he does not talk 
 more, 205. 
 
 Sanitary map of every State in the 
 Union needed, 280. 
 
 Sappho, 110. 
 
 Scarabee, 49 ; receives a visit from the 
 Master and the Poet, 238 et seq. ; ab- 
 sorption in his studies, 244 ; his re- 
 semblance to his beetles, 248 ; prefers 
 spiders to men, 250 ; gift to Schehere- 
 zade, 347. 
 
 Scheherazade, her personal appearance, 
 52 ; her stories, 53 ; her unfriendly 
 critics, 83; she looks at the double- 
 star,. 140 ; her Eiympathy for the Young 
 
INDEX. 
 
 359 
 
 Astronomer, 141; thelesaonB in as- 
 tronomy, 234 et seq. ; her conspiracy 
 with That Boy discovered, 236 ; change 
 in her manner, 297 ; effect of absence 
 of mind upon her stories, 300 ; efEect 
 of the Young Astronomer's poem upon 
 her, 313 ; abandons story-writing, 346. 
 
 Science and common sense, 120 ; the 
 disturbing facts of science, 180 et 
 seq. ; change of feeling regarding 
 these facts, 181 ; humility of science, 
 185. 
 
 Scientific men, Dr. Johnson's estimate 
 of, 263. 
 
 Scientific questions, free discussion of, 
 182. 
 
 Scientific wrappers, 123. 
 
 Self-abasement the basis of Oriental 
 manhood, 270. 
 
 Self-respect the basis of reverence and 
 Occidental manhood, 270. 
 
 Sense of superiority to our fellow-crea- 
 tures, 273. 
 
 Sentimentality better than affectation 
 of superiority to human weakness, 
 136. 
 
 Seven-branched golden candlestick, 332. 
 
 Sewall, Samuel, 14. 
 
 Shenstone, quotation from, 328. 
 
 Shirley, James, 110. 
 
 Siamese twins, 223. 
 
 Simonides, 110. 
 
 Sin a function, not an entity, 306, 307. 
 
 Singers, immediate triumphs of, 113. 
 
 Singletary, Jonathan, quotes Jonathan 
 Mitchel, 326. 
 
 Smiles that make wrinkles and not 
 dimples, 84. 
 
 Smith, Isaac, poorhouse parson, 16. 
 
 Smith, Samuel Stanhope, 166. 
 
 Smith, Sydney, 6. 
 
 Social distinctions, 57. 
 
 Soil, its effect on character, 21. 
 
 Solomon, temple of, 332. 
 
 Sorrel, red, 22. 
 
 Soul, man without. See Browne, Si- 
 mon. 
 
 Sparrow, English, 314. 
 
 Specialists like coral insects, 78; their 
 limitations, 79 ; their value, 82. 
 
 Spider, the Scarabee's favorite, 244, 
 
 Spiritual doubts, 148. 
 
 Spiritual pathology, 306. 
 
 Spiritual pride, warning against, 336. 
 
 Spontaneous generation, experiment in, 
 175 et seq. 
 
 *' Squirt," college boy's term, 252. 
 
 Star-dust, 179. 
 
 Stars, double, 73, 139, 317, 346. 
 
 Stars, nursery legend concerning, 307. 
 
 Steams, Charles, of Lincoln, 14. 
 
 Stereoscope, deceptions of, 219. 
 
 Stethoscope, wrong end used by wise- 
 looking doctor, 118. 
 
 Story-writing for support, 53. 
 
 Streets of Boston and New York, 324. 
 
 Superfluous people, 170. 
 
 Superiority to our fellow-creatures, sense 
 of, 273. 
 
 Superstitious fears not easily banished 
 328. 
 
 Sympathetic disposition brings unex- 
 pected friends, 154. 
 
 Taglioni, 95. 
 
 TzUk, its value in helping us find out 
 ourselves, not other people, 2; it 
 should be governed by the way in 
 which others will imderstand it, 4; 
 conditions of good talk, 45 ; philosophy 
 of, 46. 
 
 Talkers, the best are poets who never 
 write verses, 94 ; lovers as, 95 ; occa- 
 sional talkers, 266 ; good talkers apt 
 to be bores, 301. 
 
 Talking dynasty, 263 et seq. 
 
 Taylor, Bayard, 325. 
 
 Taylor, Jeremy, his tolerance 191, 
 
 Teratology, the science of monstrosities, 
 223 ef seq. 
 
 That Boy, 7 ; his method of interrupting 
 a tiresome conversation, 63 ; his con- 
 spiracy with Scheherezade discovered, 
 236 ; his friend Johnny, 281. 
 
 Theatre-goers, their stories more vivid 
 than those of men with other experi- 
 ences, 330. 
 
 Theological education should include 
 pathology and toxicology, 304. 
 
 Theology must be studied through an- 
 thropology, 183. 
 
 Theology, comparative, as necessary as 
 comparative anatomy, 149. 
 
 Thinking, the epidemic of, 269. 
 
 Thinking-cell, an egg the best form for, 
 105, 106. 
 
 Thothmes in., ring of. 111. 
 
 Thoughts, how one is helped to get at 
 one's own, 1, 2 ; loss of their original 
 form, 2; some kinds like the blind 
 fishes in the Mammoth cave, 2 ; some 
 feed on others, 2 ; mediocrity often 
 given them by publicity, 344. 
 
 Tiber, 332. 
 
 Titles, the Poet's passion for, 274. 
 
 Titus, arch of, 332. 
 
 Townley, 213. 
 
 Toxicology as part of theological educar 
 tion, 314. 
 
 Transplanted ideas, 146. 
 
 Trap set by authors to get booksellers' 
 advertisements, 302. 
 
 Trees, grafted, 165. 
 
 Elms, 19; Great elm on Boston 
 
 Common, 313. 
 Lombardy poplars, 19. 
 
 Trixunphs, immediate, of singers, 113. 
 
 Ulysses, 323. 
 
 Vernon, Fortescue, 29. 
 
 Virgil, 312. 
 
 Virtues of common humanity, 306. 
 
 Vital force expended upon poem, 97, 98. 
 
360 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Vitality, 334. 
 
 Voltaire, Jonathan Homer's external 
 resemblance to, 15 ; hia chapel, 193. 
 
 Ward, Gen. Axtemas, 28. 
 
 Warren, Joseph, 28. 
 
 Washington elm, 19. 
 
 Weak constitution and devout disposi- 
 tion, correlation between, 303. 
 
 Week in a French Country-House, 161. 
 
 Whips, fascination of for youth, 273. 
 
 White-pine Yankees, 276. 
 
 Wife, Bishop Hall on election of a, 
 304. 
 
 Williams, Colonel Elisha, 331. 
 
 Wmd-clouds and Star-drifts, 144, 172, 
 197, 230, 258, 285. 
 
 Wine, famous Tintages of, 102. 
 
 Winthrop, John, 224. 
 
 Winthrop, Prof. James, 224. 
 
 Wisdom leaks into books, 302. 
 
 Witchcraft, Salem, 326. 
 
 Woman's rights, 2i!&. 
 
 Women, as listeners, 90 ; their desire to 
 please, 91 ; in social life, 94 ; their 
 
 compassion for suffering, 141 ; need 
 faith more than men, 186 ; power of 
 a^pting themselveB to changing stand- 
 ards, 189 } their belief in the love-cure, 
 272. 
 
 Worcester's dictionary used instead of 
 the Bible to take oath upon, 8. 
 
 Words, certain short ones like Japanese 
 toys, 89. 
 
 Writers like lovers, 35. 
 
 Writing, drudgery of, 299. 
 
 Wyman, Dr. JefEries, 178. 
 
 Yankees, pitch-pine and white-pine, 276. 
 
 Young Astronomer, devotion to his work, 
 59 ; his loneUness, 141 ; his poem, 144, 
 172, 197, 230, 258, 285; gives Sche- 
 herezade astronomy lessons, 234 et 
 seq. ; changes his seat at the table, 235 ; 
 tells Scheherezade the story of Andro- 
 meda, 317. 
 
 Young Girl. See Scheherezade. 
 
 " Young surgeon, old phymcian," 119. 
 
 Zend Avesta, quotation from, 326.