over the teacups- 第7部分

themselves　bare…armed　and　ready　for　the　contest。　　The　English　elms

are　of　a　more　robust　build；　and　stand　defiant；　with　all　their　summer

clothing　about　their　sturdy　frames。　　They　may　yet　have　to　learn　a

lesson　of　their　American　cousins；　for　notwithstanding　their　compact

and　solid　structure　they　go　to　pieces　in　the　great　winds　just　as　ours

do。　　We　must　drop　much　of　our　foliage　before　winter　is　upon　us。　　We

must　take　in　sail　and　throw　over　cargo；　if　that　is　necessary；　to　keep

us　afloat。　　We　have　to　decide　between　our　duties　and　our　instinctive

demand　of　rest。　　I　can　believe　that　some　have　welcomed　the　decay　of

their　active　powers　because　it　furnished　them　with　peremptory　reasons

for　sparing　themselves　during　the　few　years　that　were　left　them。



Age　brings　other　obvious　changes　besides　the　loss　of　active　power。

The　sensibilities　are　less　keen；　the　intelligence　is　less　lively；　as

we　might　expect　under　the　influence　of　that　narcotic　which　Nature

administers。　　But　there　is　another　effect　of　her　〃black　drop〃　which

is　not　so　commonly　recognized。　　Old　age　is　like　an　opium…dream。

Nothing　seems　real　except　what　is　unreal。　　I　am　sure　that　the

pictures　painted　by　the　imagination；the　faded　frescos　on　the　walls

of　memory；come　out　in　clearer　and　brighter　colors　than　belonged　to

them　many　years　earlier。　　Nature　has　her　special　favors　for　her

children　of　every　age；　and　this　is　one　which　she　reserves　for　our

second　childhood。



No　man　can　reach　an　advanced　age　without　thinking　of　that　great

change　to　which；　in　the　course　of　nature；　he　must　be　so　near。　　It　has

been　remarked　that　the　sterner　beliefs　of　rigid　theologians　are　apt

to　soften　in　their　later　years。　　All　reflecting　persons；　even　those

whose　minds　have　been　half　palsied　by　the　deadly　dogmas　which　have

done　all　they　could　to　disorganize　their　thinking　powers；all

reflecting　persons；　I　say；　must　recognize；　in　looking　back　over　a

long　life；　how　largely　their　creeds；　their　course　of　life；　their

wisdom　and　unwisdom；　their　whole　characters；　were　shaped　by　the

conditions　which　surrounded　them。　　Little　children　they　came　from　the

hands　of　the　Father　of　all　；　little　children　in　their　helplessness；

their　ignorance；　they　are　going　back　to　Him。　　They　cannot　help

feeling　that　they　are　to　be　transferred　from　the　rude　embrace　of　the

boisterous　elements　to　arms　that　will　receive　them　tenderly。　　Poor

planetary　foundlings；　they　have　known　hard　treatment　at　the　hands　of

the　brute　forces　of　nature；　from　the　control　of　which　they　are　soon

to　be　set　free。　　There　are　some　old　pessimists；　it　is　true；　who

believe　that　they　and　a　few　others　are　on　a　raft；　and　that　the　ship

which　they　have　quitted；　holding　the　rest　of　mankind；　is　going　down

with　all　on　board。　　It　is　no　wonder　that　there　should　be　such　when　we

remember　what　have　been　the　teachings　of　the　priesthood　through　long

series　of　ignorant　centuries。　　Every　age　has　to　shape　the　Divine

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　qu