over the teacups-第8部分

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image　it　worships　over　again；the　present　age　and　our　own　country

are　busily　engaged　in　the　task　at　this　time。　　We　unmake　Presidents

and　make　new　ones。　　This　is　an　apprenticeship　for　a　higher　task。　　Our

doctrinal　teachers　are　unmaking　the　Deity　of　the　Westminster

Catechism　and　trying　to　model　a　new　one；　with　more　of　modern　humanity

and　less　of　ancient　barbarism　in　his　composition。　　If　Jonathan

Edwards　had　lived　long　enough；　I　have　no　doubt　his　creed　would　have

softened　into　a　kindly；　humanized　belief。



Some　twenty　or　thirty　years　ago；　I　said　to　Longfellow　that　certain

statistical　tables　I　had　seen　went　to　show　that　poets　were　not　a

long…lived　race。　　He　doubted　whether　there　was　anything　to　prove　they

were　particularly　short…lived。　　Soon　after　this；　he　handed　me　a　list

he　had　drawn　up。　　I　cannot　lay　my　hand　upon　it　at　this　moment；　but　I

remember　that　Metastasio　was　the　oldest　of　them　all。　　He　died　at　the

age　of　eighty…four。　　I　have　had　some　tables　made　out；　which　I　have

every　reason　to　believe　are　correct　so　far　as　they　go。　　From　these；

it　appears　that　twenty　English　poets　lived　to　the　average　age　of

fifty…six　years　and　a　little　over。　　The　eight　American　poets　on　the

list　averaged　seventy…three　and　a　half；　nearly；　and　they　are　not　all

dead　yet。　　The　list　including　Greek；　Latin；　Italian；　and　German

poets；　with　American　and　English；　gave　an　average　of　a　little　over

sixty…two　years。　　Our　young　poets　need　not　be　alarmed。　　They　can

remember　that　Bryant　lived　to　be　eighty…three　years　old；　that

Longfellow　reached　seventy…five　and　Halleck　seventy…seven；　while

Whittier　is　living　at　the　age　of　nearly　eighty…two。　　Tennyson　is

still　writing　at　eighty；　and　Browning　reached　the　age　of　seventy…

seven。



Shall　a　man　who　in　his　younger　days　has　written　poetry；　or　what

passed　for　it；　continue　to　attempt　it　in　his　later　years？　　Certainly；

if　it　amuses　or　interests　him；　no　one　would　object　to　his　writing　in

verse　as　much　as　he　likes。　　Whether　he　should　continue　to　write　for

the　public　is　another　question。　　Poetry　is　a　good　deal　a　matter　of

heart…beats；　and　the　circulation　is　more　languid　in　the　later　period

of　life。　　The　joints　are　less　supple；　the　arteries　are　more　or　less

〃ossified。〃　　Something　like　these　changes　has　taken　place　in　the

mind。　　It　has　lost　the　flexibility；　the　plastic　docility；　which　it

had　in　youth　and　early　manhood；　when　the　gristle　had　but　just　become

hardened　into　bone。　　It　is　the　nature　of　poetry　to　writhe　itself

along　through　the　tangled　growths　of　the　vocabulary；　as　a　snake　winds

through　the　grass；　in　sinuous；　complex；　and　unexpected　curves；　which

crack　every　joint　that　is　not　supple　as　india…rubber。



I　had　a　poem　that　I　wanted　to　print　just　here。　　But　after　what　I　have

this　moment　said；　I　hesitated；　thinking　that　I　might　provoke　the

obvious　remark　that　I　exemplified　the　unfitness　of　which　I　had　been

speaking。　　I　remembered　the　advice　I　had　given　to　a　poetical　aspirant

not　long　since；　which　I　think　deserves　a　paragraph　to　itself。



My　friend；　I　said；　I　hope　you　will　not　write　in　verse。　　When　you

write　in　prose　you　say　what　you　mean。　　When　you　write　in　rhyme　you

say　what　you　must。



Should　I　send　this　poem　to　the　publishers；　or　not？



　　　　　〃Some　said；　'John；　print　it；'　others　said；　'Not　so。'〃



I　did　not　ask　〃some〃　or　〃others。〃　　Perhaps　I　should　have　thought　it

best　to　keep　my　poem　to　myself　and　the　few　friends　for　whom　it　was

written。　　All　at　once；　my　daimonthat　other　Me　over　whom　I　button　my

waistcoat　when　I　button　it　over　my　own　personput　it　into　my　head　to

look　up　the　story　of　Madame　Saqui。　　She　was　a　famous　danseuse；　who

danced　Napoleon　in　and　out；　and　several　other　dynasties　besides。　　Her

last　appearance　was　at　the　age　of　seventy…six；　which　is　rather　late

in　life　for　the　tight　rope；　one　of　her　specialties。　　Jules　Janin

mummified　her　when　she　died　in　1866；　at　the　age　of　eighty。　　He　spiced

her　up　in　his　eulogy　as　if　she　had　been　the　queen　of　a　modern

Pharaoh。　　His　foamy　and　flowery　rhetoric　put　me　into　such　a　state　of

good…nature　that　I　said；　I　will　print　my　poem；　and　let　the　critical

Gil　Blas　handle　it　as　he　did　the　archbishop's　sermon；　or　would　have

done；　if　he　had　been　a　writer　for　the　〃Salamanca　Weekly。〃



It　must　be　premised　that　a　very　beautiful　loving　cup　was　presented　to

me　on　my　recent　birthday；　by　eleven　ladies　of　my　acquaintance。　　This

was　the　most　costly　and　notable　of　all　the　many　tributes　I　received；

and　for　which　in　different　forms　I　expressed　my　gratitude。





　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　TO　THE　ELEVEN　LADIES



WHO　PRESENTED　ME　WITH　A　SILVER　LOVING　CUP　ON　THE

　　　　　TWENTY…NINTH　OF　AUGUST；　M　DCCC　LXXXIX。



〃Who　gave　this　cup？〃　　The　secret　thou　wouldst　steal

Its　brimming　flood　forbids　it　to　reveal：

No　mortal's　eye　shall　read　it　till　he　first

Cool　the　red　throat　of　thirst。



If　on　the　golden　floor　one　draught　remain；

Trust　me；　thy　careful　search　will　be　in　vain；

Not　till　the　bowl　is　emptied　shalt　thou　know

The　names　enrolled　below。



Deeper　than　Truth　lies　buried　in　her　well

Those　modest　names　the　graven　letters　spell

Hide　from　the　sight；　but；　wait；　and　thou　shalt　see

Who　the　good　angels　be



Whose　bounty　glistens　in　the　beauteous　gift

That　friendly　hands　to　loving　lips　shall　lift：

Turn　the　fair　goblet　when　its　floor　is　dry；

Their　names　shall　meet　thine　eye。



Count　thou　their　number　on　the　beads　of　Heaven；

Alas！　the　clustered　Pleiads　are　but　seven；

Nay；　the　nine　sister　Muses　are　too　few；

The　Graces　must　add　two。



〃For　whom　this　gift？〃　For　one　who　all　too　long

Clings　to　his　bough　among　the　groves　of　song；

Autumn's　last　leaf；　that　spreads　its　faded　wing

To　greet　a　second　spring。



Dear　friends；　kind　friends；　whate'er　the　cup　may　hold；

Bathing　its　burnished　depths；　will　change　to　gold

Its　last　bright　drop　let　thirsty　Maenads　drain；

Its　fragrance　will　remain。



Better　love's　perfume　in　the　empty　bowl

Than　wine's　nepenthe　for　the　aching　soul

Sweeter　than　song　that　ever　poet　sung；

It　makes　an　old　heart　young！







III



After　the　reading　of　the　paper　which　was　reported　in　the　preceding

number　of　this　record；　the　company　fell　into　talk　upon　the　subject

with　which　it　dealt。



The　Mistress。　　〃I　could　have　wished　you　had　said　more　about　the

religious　attitude　of　old　age　as　such。　　Surely　the　thoughts　of　aged

persons　must　be　very　much　taken　up　with　the　question　of　what　is　to

become　of　them。　　I　should　like　to　have　The　Dictator　explain　himself　a

little　more　fully　on　this　point。〃



My　dear　madam；　I　said；　it　is　a　delicate　matter　to　talk　about。　　You

remember　Mr。　Calhoun's　response　to　the　advances　of　an　over…zealous

young　clergyman　who　wished　to　examine　him　as　to　his　outfit　for　the

long　journey。　　I　think　the　relations　between　man　and　his　Maker　grow

more　intimate；　more　confidential；　if　I　may　say　so；　with　advancing

years。　　The　old　man　is　less　disposed　to　argue　about　special　matters

of　belief；　and　more　ready　to　sympathize　with　spiritually　minded

persons　without　anxious　questioning　as　to　the　fold　to　which　they

belong。　　That　kindly　judgment　which　he　exercises　with　regard　to

others　he　will；　naturally　enough；　apply　to　himself。　　The　caressing

tone　in　which　the　Emperor　Hadrian　addresses　his　soul　is　very　much

like　that　of　an　old　person　talking　with　a　grandchild　or　some　other

pet：

　　　　〃Animula；　vagula；　blandula；

　　　　　Hospes　comesque　corporis。〃



　　　　〃Dear　little；　flitting；　pleasing　sprite；

　　　　　The　body's　comrade　and　its　guest。〃



How　like　the　language　of　Catullus　to　Lesbia's　sparrow！





More　and　more　the　old　man　finds　his　pleasures　in　memory；　as　the

present　becomes　unreal　and　dreamlike；　and　the　vista　of　his　earthly

future　narrows　and　closes　in　upon　him。　　At　last；　if　he　live　long

enough；　life　comes　to　be　little　more　than　a　gentle　and　peaceful

delirium　of　pleasing　recollections。　　To　say；　as　Dante　says；　that

there　is　no　greater　grief　than　to　remember　past　happiness　in　the　hour

of　misery　is　not　giving　the　whole　truth。　　In　the　midst　of　the　misery；

as　many　would　call　it；　of　extreme　old　age；　there　is　often　a　divine

consolation　in　recalling　the　happy　moments　and　days　and　years　of

times　long　past。　　So　beautiful　are　the　visions　of　bygone　delight　that

one　could　hardly　wish　them　to　become　real；　lest　they　should　lose

their　ineffable　charm。　　I　can　almost　conceive　of　a　dozing　and　dreamy

centenarian　saying　to　one　he　loves；　〃Go；　darling；　go！　　Spread　your

wings　and　leave　me。　　So　shall　you　enter　that　world　of　memory　where

all　is　lovely。　　I　shall　not　hear　the　sound　of　your　footsteps　any

more；　but　you　will　float　before　me；　an　aerial　presence。　　I　shall　not

hear　any　word　from　your　lips；　but　I　shall　have　a　deeper　sense　of　your

nearness　to　me　than　speech　can　give。　　I　shall　feel；　in　my　still

solitude；　as　the　Ancient　Mariner　felt　when　the　seraph　band　gathered

before　him：



　　　〃'No　voice　did　they　impart

　　　　　No　voice；　but　oh！　the　silence　sank

　　　　　Like　music　on　my　heart。'〃