Part 4 (1/2)
”'Goldsmith's Animated Nature.'”
”Ah! you don't like that. What follows?”
”A long row of 'Buffon,' sir, and then 'Tytler's Universal History.' I haven't read 'Buffon,' and I think Tytler--well--very nice, but tiresome, you know.”
”Try the shelf above.”
”The first book, sir, is 'Irving's Goldsmith.'”
”Did you ever read it?”
I said Miss Crowen had given it to me to read, last vacation.
”You found it tiresome?”
”Tiresome! why, sir, I think it is the nicest book in the world. I can't help thinking how Goldsmith would love Mr. Irving, if he knew about it!
Next, sir, comes a very pretty copy of 'Macaulay's Roman Lays,' and five volumes of his 'Essays.'”
”Did Miss Crowen give you Macaulay to read?”
”I took it from the library, and she did not make any objection.”
”And what do you think of him as a writer?”
I did not need to look in his face to know how much diverted he was at the idea of extracting a criticism of the great historian from such a chit as I; and summoning all my courage to the aid of my pride, I answered steadily.
”If one of my 'age and s.e.x,' sir, can be considered to have an opinion, I should say, that though Mr. Macaulay is probably the most brilliant writer of the century, he is the one who has done the least good. I don't think any one who has the least faith, reverence, or loyalty, can read him except under protest.”
”Which means,” said Mr. Rutledge, ”that you and Mr. Macaulay are so unhappy as to differ on some points of politics and theology, _n'est ce pas?_”
”I know very little about politics, and less about theology; I only know how I feel when he calls King Charles the First 'a bungling villain,' 'a bad man,' and says even prettier things about Lord Stafford; I know it vexes me when he elevates Cromwell 'into a man whose talents were equal to the highest duties of a soldier and a prince,' and never omits an opportunity of sneering, with a mixture of contempt and pity, at that slow old inst.i.tution, the Church of England.”
”And you do not agree with him?”
”Agree with him!”
”What sentiments,” exclaimed Mr. Rutledge, ”what sentiments for a young republican! Do you mean to tell me that _you_ don't look upon the death-warrant of Charles as the 'Major Charta' of England? Do you mean to say that you don't regard it as the first step in that blessed march of liberty that is regenerating the world?”
”A blessed march indeed!” I cried indignantly, ”over the dead bodies of honor and obedience, faith and loyalty! A blessed march, to the tune of the Ma.r.s.eillaise and murder!”
”But, my young friend, how do you make that view of the subject agree with your patriotism as an American, and your veneration for Was.h.i.+ngton?
Were there no carca.s.ses of deceased obedience and loyalty under his chariot-wheels?”
”_Grace a Dieu_!” I cried, eagerly, ”it was Liberty, but Liberty with a different cap on, and marching under very different colors, that Was.h.i.+ngton fought for; no more the same deity that Cromwell and Robespierre acknowledged, than the idol of the Hindoo is the G.o.d we wors.h.i.+p!”
Mr. Rutledge shrugged his shoulders, and begged me to explain the difference to him. And with a vehement mixture of enthusiasm, ignorance and anger, I tried to explain my meaning to him, but, as was not difficult to foresee, made but little headway in my argument, every moment adding to my adversary's coolness and my own impatience. I altogether forgot my diffidence and alarm; I was too angry and excited to think who it was I was talking to; I only knew he was opposing and tripping me up, and saying the most hateful things in the coolest way, and exasperating me to the highest degree, and not being a bit exasperated with all my saucy replies; and it was not till I had exhausted all my combined wrath and logic, that I caught a lurking smile about his mouth, that flashed upon me the conviction that I was entirely the victim of his wit, and that he had just been arguing on the wrong side for the sake of argument and amus.e.m.e.nt.
”After all,” I exclaimed, ”I believe you think just as I do, and have only been talking so, to draw me out!”