the professor at the breakfast table-第58部分

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windpiped；　in　the　street　running　down　to　the　Bridge；　beyond　which

dwelt　Sally；　told　of　in　a　book　of　a　friend　of　mine；　was　of　old　a

house　inhabited　by　three　maidens。　　They　left　no　near　kinsfolk；　I

believe；　whether　they　did　or　not；　I　have　no　ill　to　speak　of　them；

for　they　lived　and　died　in　all　good　report　and　maidenly　credit。　　The

house　they　lived　in　was　of　the　small；　gambrel…roofed　cottage

pattern；　after　the　shape　of　Esquires'　houses；　but　after　the　size　of

the　dwellings　of　handicraftsmen。　　The　lower　story　was　fitted　up　as　a

shop。　　Specially　was　it　provided　with　one　of　those　half…doors　now　so

rarely　met　with；　which　are　to　whole　doors　as　spencers　worn　by　old

folk　are　to　coats。　　They　speak　of　limited　commerce　united　with　a

social　or　observing　dispositionon　the　part　of　the　shopkeeper；

allowing；　as　they　do；　talk　with　passers…by；　yet　keeping　off　such　as

have　not　the　excuse　of　business　to　cross　the　threshold。　　On　the

door…posts；　at　either　side；　above　the　half…door；　hung　certain

perennial　articles　of　merchandise；　of　which　my　memory　still　has

hanging　among　its　faded　photographs　a　kind　of　netted　scarf　and　some

pairs　of　thick　woollen　stockings。　　More　articles；　but　not　very　many；

were　stored　inside；　and　there　was　one　drawer；　containing　children's

books；　out　of　which　I　once　was　treated　to　a　minute　quarto　ornamented

with　handsome　cuts。　　This　was　the　only　purchase　I　ever　knew　to　be

made　at　the　shop　kept　by　the　three　maiden　ladies；　though　it　is

probable　there　were　others。　　So　long　as　I　remember　the　shop；　the

same　scarf　and；　I　should　say；　the　same　stockings　hung　on　the　door…

posts。　You　think　I　am　exaggerating　again；　and　that　shopkeepers

would　not　keep　the　same　article　exposed　for　years。　　Come　to　me；　the

Professor；　and　I　will　take　you　in　five　minutes　to　a　shop　in　this

city　where　I　will　show　you　an　article　hanging　now　in　the　very　place

where　more　than　thirty　years　ago　I　myself　inquired　the　price　of　it

of　the　present　head　of　the　establishment。　＇　This　was　a　glass

alembic；　which　hung　up　in　Daniel　Henchman's　apothecary　shop；　corner

of　Cambridge　and　Chambers　streets。＇



The　three　maidens　were　of　comely　presence；　and　one　of　them　had　had

claims　to　be　considered　a　Beauty。　　When　I　saw　them　in　the　old

meeting…house　on　Sundays；　as　they　rustled　in　through　the　aisles　in

silks　and　satins；　not　gay；　but　more　than　decent；　as　I　remember　them；

I　thought　of　My　Lady　Bountiful　in　the　history　of　〃Little　King

Pippin；〃　and　of　the　Madam　Blaize　of　Goldsmith　（who；　by　the　way；　must

have　taken　the　hint　of　it　from　a　pleasant　poem；　〃Monsieur　de　la

Palisse；〃　attributed　to　De　la　Monnoye；　in　the　collection　of　French

songs　before　me）。　　There　was　some　story　of　an　old　romance　in　which

the　Beauty　had　played　her　part。　　Perhaps　they　all　had　had　lovers；

for；　as　I　said；　they　were　shapely　and　seemly　personages；　as　I

remember　them；　but　their　lives　were　out　of　the　flower　and　in　the

berry　at　the　time　of　my　first　recollections。



One　after　another　they　all　three　dropped　away；　objects　of　kindly

attention　to　the　good　people　round；　leaving　little　or　almost

nothing；　and　nobody　to　inherit　it。　　Not　absolutely　nothing；　of

course。　　There　must　have　been　a　few　old　dressesperhaps　some　bits

of　furniture；　a　Bible；　and　the　spectacles　the　good　old　souls　read　it

through；　and　little　keepsakes；　such　as　make　us　cry　to　look　at；　when

we　find　them　in　old　drawers；such　relics　there　must　have　been。　　But

there　was　more。　　There　was　a　manuscript　of　some　hundred　pages；

closely　written；　in　which　the　poor　things　had　chronicled　for　many

years　the　incidents　of　their　daily　life。　　After　their　death　it　was

passed　round　somewhat　freely；　and　fell　into　my　hands。　　How　I　have

cried　and　laughed　and　colored　over　it！　　There　was　nothing　in　it　to

be　ashamed　of；　perhaps　there　was　nothing　in　it　to　laugh　at；　but　such

a　picture　of　the　mode　of　being　of　poor　simple　good　old　women　I　do

believe　was　never　drawn　before。　　And　there　were　all　the　smallest

incidents　recorded；　such　as　do　really　make　up　humble　life；　but　which

die　out　of　all　mere　literary　memoirs；　as　the　houses　where　the

Egyptians　or　the　Athenians　lived　crumble　and　leave　only　their

temples　standing。　　I　know；　for　instance；　that　on　a　given　day　of　a

certain　year；　a　kindly　woman；　herself　a　poor　widow；　now；　I　trust；

not　without　special　mercies　in　heaven　for　her　good　deeds；for　I

read　her　name　on　a　proper　tablet　in　the　churchyard　a　week　ago；sent

a　fractional　pudding　from　her　own　table　to　the　Maiden　Sisters；　who；

I　fear；　from　the　warmth　and　detail　of　their　description；　were

fasting；　or　at　least　on　short　allowance；　about　that　time。　　I　know

who　sent　them　the　segment　of　melon；　which　in　her　riotous　fancy　one

of　them　compared　to　those　huge　barges　to　which　we　give　the

ungracious　name　of　mudscows。　　But　why　should　I　illustrate　further

what　it　seems　almost　a　breach　of　confidence　to　speak　of？　　Some　kind

friend；　who　could　challenge　a　nearer　interest　than　the　curious

strangers　into　whose　hands　the　book　might　fall；　at　last　claimed　it；

and　I　was　glad　that　it　should　be　henceforth　sealed　to　common　eyes。

I　learned　from　it　that　every　good　and；　alas！　every　evil　act　we　do

may　slumber　unforgotten　even　in　some　earthly　record。　　I　got　a　new

lesson　in　that　humanity　which　our　sharp　race　finds　it　so　hard　to

learn。　　The　poor　widow；　fighting　hard　to　feed　and　clothe　and　educate

her　children；　had　not　forgotten　the　poorer　ancient　maidens。

I　remembered　it　the　other　day；　as　I　stood　by　her　place　of　rest；　and

I　felt　sure　that　it　was　remembered　elsewhere。　　I　know　there　are

prettier　words　than　pudding；　but　I　can't　help　it；the　pudding　went

upon　the　record；　I　feel　sure；　with　the　mite　which　was　cast　into　the

treasury　by　that　other　poor　widow　whose　deed　the　world　shall

remember　forever；　and　with　the　coats　and　garments　which　the　good

women　cried　over；　when　Tabitha；　called　by　interpretation　Dorcas；　lay

dead　in　the　upper　chamber；　with　her　charitable　needlework　strewed

around　her。



Such　was　the　Book　of　the　Maiden　Sisters。　　You　will　believe　me　more

readily　now　when　I　tell　you　that　I　found　the　soul　of　Iris　in　the　one

that　lay　open　before　me。　　Sometimes　it　was　a　poem　that　held　it；

sometimes　a　drawing；　angel；　arabesque；　caricature；　or　a　mere

hieroglyphic　symbol　of　which　I　could　make　nothing。　　A　rag　of　cloud

on　one　page；　as　I　remember；　with　a　streak　of　red　zigzagging　out　of

it　across　the　paper　as　naturally　as　a　crack　runs　through　a　China

bowl。　　On　the　next　page　a　dead　bird；some　little　favorite；　I

suppose；　for　it　was　worked　out　with　a　special　love；　and　I　saw　on　the

leaf　that　sign　with　which　once　or　twice　in　my　life　I　have　had　a

letter　sealed；a　round　spot　where　the　paper　is　slightly　corrugated；

and；　if　there　is　writing　there；　the　letters　are　somewhat　faint　and

blurred。　　Most　of　the　pages　were　surrounded　with　emblematic

traceries。　　It　was　strange　to　me　at　first　to　see　how　often　she

introduced　those　homelier　wild…flowers　which　we　call　weeds；for　it

seemed　there　was　none　of　them　too　humble　for　her　to　love；　and　none

too　little　cared