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The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table-Part29_Oliver Wendell Holmes(1809-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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died. But what death was I never had any very distinct idea, until



one day I climbed the low stone wall of the old burial-ground and

mingled with a group that were looking into a very deep, long,



narrow hole, dug down through the green sod, down through the brown

loam, down through the yellow gravel, and there at the bottom was



an oblong red box, and a still, sharp, white face of a young man

seen through an opening at one end of it. When the lid was closed,



and the gravel and stones rattled down pell-mell, and the woman in

black, who was crying and wringing her hands, went off with the



other mourners, and left him, then I felt that I had seen Death,

and should never forget him.



One other acquaintance I made at an earlier period of life than the

habit of romancers authorizes. - Love, of course. - She was a



famous beauty afterwards. - I am satisfied that many children

rehearse their parts in the drama of life before they have shed all



their milk-teeth. - I think I won't tell the story of the golden

blonde. - I suppose everybody has had his childish fancies; but



sometimes they are passionate impulses, which anticipate all the

tremulous emotions belonging to a later period. Most children



remember seeing and adoring an angel before they were a dozen years

old.



[The old gentleman had left his chair opposite and taken a seat by

the schoolmistress and myself, a little way from the table. - It's



true, it's true, - said the old gentleman. - He took hold of a

steel watch-chain, which carried a large, square gold key at one



end and was supposed to have some kind of time-keeper at the other.

With some trouble he dragged up an ancient-looking, thick, silver,



bull's-eye watch. He looked at it for a moment, - hesitated, -

touched the inner corner of his right eye with the pulp of his



middle finger, - looked at the face of the watch, - said it was

getting into the forenoon, - then opened the watch and handed me



the loose outside case without a word. - The watch-paper had been

pink once, and had a faint tinge still, as if all its tender life



had not yet quite faded out. Two little birds, a flower, and, in

small school-girl letters, a date, - 17 . . - no matter. - Before I



was thirteen years old, - said the old gentleman. - I don't know

what was in that young schoolmistress's head, nor why she should



have done it; but she took out the watch-paper and put it softly to

her lips, as if she were kissing the poor thing that made it so



long ago. The old gentleman took the watch-paper carefully from

her, replaced it, turned away and walked out, holding the watch in



his hand. I saw him pass the window a moment after with that

foolish white hat on his head; he couldn't have been thinking what



he was about when he put it on. So the schoolmistress and I were

left alone. I drew my chair a shade nearer to her, and continued.]



And since I am talking of early recollections, I don't know why I

shouldn't mention some others that still cling to me, - not that



you will attach any very particular meaning to these same images so

full of significance to me, but that you will find something



parallel to them in your own memory. You remember, perhaps, what I

said one day about smells. There were certain SOUNDS also which



had a mysterious suggestiveness to me, - not so intense, perhaps,

as that connected with the other sense, but yet peculiar, and never



to be forgotten.

The first was the creaking of the wood-sleds, bringing their loads



of oak and walnut from the country, as the slow-swinging oxen

trailed them along over the complaining snow, in the cold, brown



light of early morning. Lying in bed and listening to their dreary

music had a pleasure in it akin to the Lucretian luxury, or that



which Byron speaks of as to be enjoyed in looking on at a battle by

one "who hath no friend, no brother there."



There was another sound, in itself so sweet, and so connected with

one of those simple and curious superstitions of childhood of which



I have spoken, that I can never cease to cherish a sad sort of love

for it. - Let me tell the superstitious fancy first. The Puritan



"Sabbath," as everybody knows, began at "sundown" on Saturday

evening. To such observance of it I was born and bred. As the



large, round disk of day declined, a stillness, a solemnity, a

somewhat melancholy hush came over us all. It was time for work to



cease, and for playthings to be put away. The world of active life

passed into the shadow of an eclipse, not to emerge until the sun



should sink again beneath the horizon.

It was in this stillness of the world without and of the soul






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