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Updated: June 12, 2025
Then Wasson adds: "And it is no more than a different application of this aphorism to say that one may be an idolater in the reverence of that which is truly venerable; for if he render it homage only in blind conformity to custom, and in implicit submission to the discipline of ancient use and wont, though the object be worthy, yet his worship is an idolatry."
Hull's office, I paused in my study of anatomy and wrote "Waiting." I had at that time had some literary correspondence with David A. Wasson whose essays in the "Atlantic" I had read with deep interest. I sent him a copy of the poem. He spoke of it as a vigorous piece of work, but seemed to see no special merit in it.
Neither do the two always go hand in hand. There are persons who are formally careful in regard to the truth, and yet live in perpetual delusion. Wasson recognized this danger and protected himself against it by a constant and severe self-examination. He knew himself at least better than most, and if he erred anywhere it was in too moderate an opinion of his own value.
Like Sumner, he would rather lose a case than make use of an unfair argument. This may seem to many a super-sensitive morality, but it was not so for the work which these men had to do. Wasson believed in telling lies; to save life, to protect innocence, or even to prevent people from obtaining information which they had no right to.
Wasson disposes of Addison and Swift; he says, nothing is to be learned from Swift; why, a sense for the blatant nonsense and claptrap which constitutes three-fourths of our public writing and speaking, and which is a greater curse to your country that even to ours, is to be got from him.
Even the paper they were printed on was such as Wasson especially disliked. It seems a pity that he should have been denied this little celebrity. He received better justice from Mr. Frothingham, who has published an excellent memoir of his life and work together with a number of his essays, a handsome volume well bound and printed.
With an oath he forced himself to act; reloaded his revolver, thrust it back into the holster at his hip, and, with one parting glance at poor Sam, ploughed across through the drifts to Carroll. He realized now his duty, the thing he must strive to accomplish. Wade and Wasson were gone; no human effort could aid them, but Carroll lived, and might be saved.
Pond, and inquired if there was any truth in this. The doctor, who really liked Wasson, received him with a kindly, patriarchal manner and said: "Do not be troubled, my young friend, we all have our seasons of doubt. I have had mine; but take my word for it that it is all right. For look at those saints up there in glory. How did they get there?"
Suddenly Wasson lifted his hand, and turned his face up to the sky. "Snow," he announced soberly. "Thought I felt it afore, and the wind 's changed." Hamlin turned in the saddle, feeling already the sharp sting of snow pellets on his face. Before he could even answer the air was full of whiteness, a fierce gust of wind hurling the flying particles against them.
You 're an old hand, and know your business, and there is no better scout on the plains than Sam Wasson. Good-bye, and good luck." The four men, heavily armed, and equipped for winter service, rode up the bank of the ravine to the irregularity of plain beyond.
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