The Poet at the Breakfast-TableHolmes, Oliver Wendell
General
The Poet at the Breakfast-Table
Holmes, Oliver Wendell
American fiction -- 19th century; Conversation -- Fiction; Poetry
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 the base-ball 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 drapeau rouge, and succeeded in establishing a vegetable commune
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 I looked 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 under 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 schoolhouse, and hard by it Ma'am Hancock's
cottage, never so called in those days, but rather “tenfooter”; then
houses scattered near and far, open spaces, the shadowy elms, 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, unless it were flattened out like Ravel, Brother,
after the millstone had fallen on him. There was not a nook or a corner
in the whole horse fit to lodge any respectable 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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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