按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
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 understand； 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
ever all that they represent of earthly and angelic 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 prosaic being we are in the habit of thinking him。 He is a
dreamer； almost 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 felicitous 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 willing 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 Spain； 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 institutions for the endowment of two or three
professorships。 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
perpetuating his remembrance。 Who was Sir Matthew Holworthy； that
his name is a household word on the lips of thousands of scholars；
and will 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 edifice she caused to be erected preserved
as her monument from generation to generation？ All these
possibilities； the lust of the eye； the lust of the flesh； the pride
of life； the tears of grateful orphans by the gallon； the prayers of
Westminster Assembly's Catechism 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
glittering 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 young 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 parsimony 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
Cyclopaedias； that 〃the non…clerical mind in all ages is disposed to
look favorably upon the doctrine of the universal restoration to
holiness and happiness of all fallen intelligences； whether human or
angelic。〃 Certainly； most of the poets who have reached the heart of
men； since Burns dropped the tear for poor 〃auld Nickie…ben〃 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 will say it for them；
not a few clerical as wall as 〃non…clerical 〃 persons among them。
WIND…CLOUDS AND STAR…DRIFTS。
V
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 folly 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！
If we are only as the potter's clay
Made to be fashioned as the artist wills；
And broken into shards if we offend
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 will 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 Hi