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82 lines
5.1 KiB
82 lines
5.1 KiB
My Dear Hawthorne, -- People think that if a man has undergone any hardship, he
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should have a reward; but for my part, if I have done the hardest possible day's
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work, and then come to sit down in a corner and eat my supper comfortably --
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why, then I don't think I deserve any reward for my hard day's work -- for am I
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not now at peace? Is not my supper good? My peace and my supper are my reward,
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my dear Hawthorne. So your joy-giving and exultation-breeding letter is not
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my reward for my ditcher's work with that book, but is the good goddess's
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bonus over and above what was stipulated -- for for not one man in five
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cycles, who is wise, will expect appreciative recognition from his fellows,
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or any one of them. Appreciation! Recognition! Is Jove appreciated? Why,
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ever since Adam, who has got to the meaning of this great allegory -- the
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world? Then we pygmies must be content to have our paper allegories but ill
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comprehended. I say your appreciation is my glorious gratuity. In my proud,
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humble way, -- a shepherd-king, -- I was lord of a little vale in the
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solitary Crimea; but you have now given me the crown of India. But on trying
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it on my head, I found it fell down on my ears, notwithstanding their
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asinine length -- for it's only such ears that sustain such crowns.
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Your letter was handed me last night on the road going to Mr. Morewood's, and I
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read it there. Had I been at home, I would have sat down at once and answered
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it. In me divine maganimities are spontaneous and instantaneous -- catch them
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while you can. The world goes round, and the other side comes up. So now I can't
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write what I felt. But I felt pantheistic then -- your heart beat in my ribs and
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mine in yours, and both in God's. A sense of unspeakable security is in me this
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moment, on account of your having understood the book. I have written a wicked
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book, and feel spotless as the lamb. Ineffable socialities are in me. I would
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sit down and dine with you and all the gods in old Rome's Pantheon. It is a
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strange feeling -- no hopefulness is in it, no despair. Content -- that is it;
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and irresponsibility; but without licentious inclination. I speak now of my
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profoundest sense of being, not of an incidental feeling.
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Whence come you, Hawthorne? By what right do you drink from my flagon of life?
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And when I put it to my lips -- lo, they are yours and not mine. I feel that the
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Godhead is broken up like the bread at the Supper, and that we are the pieces.
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Hence this infinite fraternity of feeling. Now, sympathizing with the paper, my
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angel turns over another page. you did not care a penny for the book. But, now
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and then as you read, you understood the pervading thought that impelled the
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book -- and that you praised. Was it not so? You were archangel enough to
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despise the imperfect body, and embrace the soul. Once you hugged the ugly
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Socrates because you saw the flame in the mouth, and heard the rushing of the
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demon, -- the familiar, -- and recognized the sound; for you have heard it in
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your own solitudes.
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My dear Hawthorne, the atmospheric skepticisms steal into me now, and make me
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doubtful of my sanity in writing you thus. But, believe me, I am not mad, most
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noble Festus! But truth is ever incoherent, and when the big hearts strike
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together, the concussion is a little stunning. Farewell. Don't write a word
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about the book. That would be robbing me of my miserly delight. I am heartily
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sorry I ever wrote anything about you -- it was paltry. Lord, when shall we be
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done growing? As long as we have anything more to do, we have done nothing.
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So,now, let us add Moby Dick to our blessing, and step from that. Leviathan is
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not the biggest fish; -- I have heard of Krakens.
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This is a long letter, but you are not at all bound to answer it. Possibly, if
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you do answer it, and direct it to Herman Melville, you will missend it -- for
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the very fingers that now guide this pen are not precisely the same that just
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took it up and put it on this paper. Lord, when shall we be done changing? Ah!
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it's a long stage, and no inn in sight, and night coming, and the body cold. But
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with you for a passenger, I am content and can be happy. I shall leave the
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world, I feel, with more satisfaction for having come to know you. Knowing you
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persuades me more than the Bible of our immortality.
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What a pity, that, for your plain, bluff letter, you should get such gibberish!
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Mention me to Mrs. Hawthorne and to the children, and so, good-by to you, with
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my blessing.
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Herman.
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P.S. I can't stop yet. If the world was entirely made up of Magians, I'll tell
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you what I should do. I should have a paper-mill established at one end of the
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house, and so have an endless riband of foolscap rolling in upon my desk; and
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upon that endless riband I should write a thousand -- a million -- billion
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thoughts, all under the form of a letter to you. The divine magnet is on you,
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and my magnet responds. Which is the biggest? A foolish question -- they are
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One.
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H.
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P.P.S. Don't think that by writing me a letter, you shall always be bored with
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an immediate reply to it -- and so keep both of us delving over a writing-desk
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eternally. No such thing! I sh'n't always answer your letters, and you may do
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just as you please.
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