Papers from Overlook-House. Beasley Frederic W.

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Cæsar gave his prompt order. It was immediately obeyed, and the oxen were brought to a pause in their exertions. It was evident from the absence of explanation to those without, and from the perfect composure of the master of the ceremony, that similar scenes were of frequent occurrence.

      The chain being removed and the oxen led away, the log was rolled by the application of the levers to its place. There it lay, the crushed snow melting and falling on the hot hearth, the singing sound of the steam rising from the stones.

      So there was the measure of the fancied increase of freedom from labor during the Christmas season. Nothing now remained but the gathering of all the household to the evening devotions. The Judge read the Scriptures, and after the singing of a hymn offered up the prayers. There was an indescribable reality in the attention, and a fervor in the kneeling church in the house. It led you to reflect how One who came down from above and took our nature upon him has taught man how to make his life on earth the dawn of an eternal day. I had felt the presence of God in the shades of the great mountain forest during past hours. But here in the stillness of this evening worship, as the light of the Redeemer revealed the grandeur of all that is immortal in men, of all that stands ever so near the portal of endless glory, as all earthly distinctions faded away among those who to the eye of faith, were now the sons of God, – distinctions overlooked at this hour, as the last fragment of the moulted plumage is unknown to the eagle soaring in its strength, no words could better express the sentiment of the time than those noble ones of old, – "This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven."

      CHAPTER IV.

       HOW THE OVERLOOK PAPERS CAME TO BE WRITTEN

      "I believe," said the Judge one morning shortly after my arrival, "that I must supply you with pen and paper, and assign to you a task."

      "What can I do? Tell me how to be useful."

      "Do not offer too hastily. Let me inform you of a custom which is observed here like the laws of the Medes and Persians.

      "All our guests, at our festival seasons, and I hope that whenever it can be in your power you will be present, are most seriously enjoined to bring with them a contribution to our Overlook Papers. From each is demanded a story, a poem, or an essay. In the evening these are read. And indeed, I require from each of my friends who receives an invitation, if he cannot accept it, still to transmit his paper.

      "These or copies of them are preserved in the huge book-case in the library. We sometimes draw upon the old collection, and it is pleasant to revive the old associations as they are again read to a happy circle. I ought to have sent you word, and told you to prepare your paper. It is an unusual thing for me to be guilty of such an omission. As I have been negligent I must now enjoin you to prepare to do your part with the others."

      "My dear sir, has ever any guest written a paper after his arrival here?"

      "Come! come! I have never asked any guest to do it after he came, who could probably accomplish it more easily than yourself."

      "What shall I write?"

      "Whatever you please. A Poem if you will."

      "I might make the attempt. But will poetry come 'under compulsion?' Surely not 'under compulsion.' Shall I cudgel my brains? Will Pegasus go at my will when I smite him with my staff? How long might I sit here, the image of despair, and what despair on monumental marble, as desolate as the poet with fixed eye, unable to indite a line? How long might I be like the hopeless bird – all promise, but not one unfolded gleam of beauty? In this free air am I to find the poetic pressure of a prison? In this old cheerful home, a poet's garret? With your abundant and hospitable board before me, can I write as famous men of old, when they wanted a dinner? Am I to sit here, as one has said, waiting for inspiration as a rusty conductor for a flash of lightning? My dear sir, I surely can plead exemption. Let me come here, if we live, next Christmas season or at the early spring or autumnal gathering. I will provide two if you please. If the first should weary, then the circle can hope that I have kept the best for the last."

      "I do not think that it will answer for one to be a hearer who has no paper of his own. So let me insist on your compliance."

      "Well sir, if you insist on it, I must see what I can do. Would you object to my producing a poem already published by me in a New York paper?"

      "I am sorry to say that would not be in accordance with our rules. The piece must be composed for our social gathering."

      "Well I must then make the attempt. I would weave a short romance out of some story I have heard in my travels. But I am always afraid of the sad being who, searching to the fag-end of memory says, after hearing you, and approving, let me see, I have heard that, or something like it, before! I once learned a lesson and received a nervous shock which easily returns, as I was about to address a meeting, and under a sudden impression asked the most knowing inhabitant of the village, 'Did any of the speakers who have addressed you ever tell such a story?' 'Oh! yes,' said he, with sudden alarm, 'Every one who has been here has told that story.' Yet that was my main stay, argument, illustration, eloquence. I had to do the best I could without it. Since then I am in a trepidation lest I fall into the pit from which I kept my feet at that time."

      "Well so much the better. Such caution will insure variety."

      "Do not be too sure of that. Excessive care often leads us to the very errors it would avoid."

      So our conversation closed. The paper was written and read. I looked some time ago in vain for my piece among the Overlook papers. Strange to say, it was not there. I saw the Judge originally endorse it and tie it up in the collection. Meta told me when I expressed my surprise that the document was missing, that she must confess that when she was younger and more silly, and had her taste less cultivated, she took it one day, after I had left her father's, secretly from the pile. Regarding it as of such small consequence, she had not put it back in its place; and as it was also particularly weak in having a few sentences evidently meant for her to understand as no one else could. She will find it, she says, when she next examines her old papers and letters. And she assures me that it must be safe, because the old house would not trouble itself to destroy it; the Overlook moths would not dare to touch it, and that it is destined to outlive its author, even if he had brass enough in him to make a monument.

      I.

       DR. BENSON, OR THE LIVING MAN EMBALMED FOR TWENTY YEARS

      The United States is the oldest country in the world. Many of its institutions are of a venerable antiquity which cast those of Europe into the shade. By their side those of Great Britain, France and Germany seem but of yesterday. The honest impressions of each man substantiate these assertions so clearly that all argument on the subject would be as great a work of supererogation as that of carrying shade to a forest. Ages, countless ages, as all reflecting men are aware, have been requisite for the development of man into the highest type of civilization. Not less, it is obvious, than five thousand years could elevate any human being into a genuine Yankee. Such an immense space of time must have elapsed before man, passing through each primeval epoch, could have worn away on Plymouth Rock the caudal appendages that impeded the progress of humanity.

      We have such remarkable institutions among us, such progressive theorists upon all possible subjects, that the foundations of our cities must have been laid simultaneously with those of the Pyramids.

      A like conviction arises as we compare our accomplished financiers who can raise up in any plain, mountains of gold, and turn little streams of promise into seas of bank notes, with the Indian magician whose alchemy transmuted mutterings and strange figures in the ashes into comfortable fires, venison, bear's meat, and a variety of comforts for his terror-striking wigwam. Are there not noted streets СКАЧАТЬ