over the teacups-第11章

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There　sits　a　ghost　in　every　chair！



One　breathing　form　no　more；　alas！

Amid　our　slender　group　we　see；

With　him　we　still　remained　〃The　Class；〃

without　his　presence　what　are　we？



The　hand　we　ever　loved　to　clasp；

That　tireless　hand　which　knew　no　rest；

Loosed　from　affection's　clinging　grasp；

Lies　nerveless　on　the　peaceful　breast。



The　beaming　eye；　the　cheering　voice；

That　lent　to　life　a　generous　glow；

whose　every　meaning　said　〃Rejoice；〃

we　see；　we　hear；　no　more　below。



The　air　seems　darkened　by　his　loss；

Earth's　shadowed　features　look　less　fair；

And　heavier　weighs　the　daily　cross

His　willing　shoulders　helped　as　bear。



Why　mourn　that　we；　the　favored　few



Whom　grasping　Time　so　long　has　spared

Life's　sweet　illusions　to　pursue；

The　common　lot　of　age　have　shared？



In　every　pulse　of　Friendship's　heart

There　breeds　unfelt　a　throb　of　pain；

One　hour　must　rend　its　links　apart；

Though　years　on　years　have　forged　the　chain。



So　ends　〃The　Boys；〃a　lifelong　play。

We　too　must　hear　the　Prompter's　call

To　fairer　scenes　and　brighter　day

Farewell！　I　let　the　curtain　fall。









IV



If　the　reader　thinks　that　all　these　talking　Teacups　came　together　by

mere　accident；　as　people　meet　at　a　boarding…house；　I　may　as　well　tell

him　at　once　that　he　is　mistaken。　　If　he　thinks　I　am　going　to　explain

how　it　is　that　he　finds　them　thus　brought　together；　whether　they　form

a　secret　association；　whether　they　are　the　editors　of　this　or　that

periodical；　whether　they　are　connected　with　some　institution；　and　so

on；I　must　disappoint　him。　　It　is　enough　that　he　finds　them　in　each

other's　company；　a　very　mixed　assembly；　of　different　sexes；　ages；　and

pursuits；　and　if　there　is　a　certain　mystery　surrounds　their　meetings；

he　must　not　be　surprised。　　Does　he　suppose　we　want　to　be　known　and

talked　about　in　public　as　〃Teacups〃？　　No；　so　far　as　we　give　to　the

community　some　records　of　the　talks　at　our　table　our　thoughts　become

public　property；　but　the　sacred　personality　of　every　Teacup　must　be

properly　respected。　　If　any　wonder　at　the　presence　of　one　of　our

number；　whose　eccentricities　might　seem　to　render　him　an　undesirable

associate　of　the　company；　he　should　remember　that　some　people　may

have　relatives　whom　they　feel　bound　to　keep　their　eye　on；　besides　the

cracked　Teacup　brings　out　the　ring　of　the　sound　ones　as　nothing　else

does。　　Remember　also　that　soundest　teacup　does　not　always　hold　the

best　tea；　or　the　cracked　teacup　the　worst。



This　is　a　hint　to　the　reader；　who　is　not　expected　to　be　too　curious

about　the　individual　Teacups　constituting　our　unorganized

association。





The　Dictator　Discourses。



I　have　been　reading　Balzac's　Peau　de　Chagrin。　　You　have　all　read　the

story；　I　hope；　for　it　is　the　first　of　his　wonderful　romances　which

fixed　the　eyes　of　the　reading　world　upon　him；　and　is　a　most

fascinating　if　somewhat　fantastic　tale。　　A　young　man　becomes　the

possessor　of　a　certain　magic　skin；　the　peculiarity　of　which　is　that；

while　it　gratifies　every　wish　formed　by　its　possessor；　it　shrinks　in

all　its　dimensions　each　time　that　a　wish　is　gratified。　　The　young　man

makes　every　effort　to　ascertain　the　cause　of　its　shrinking；　invokes

the　aid　of　the　physicist；　the　chemist；　the　student　of　natural

history；　but　all　in　vain。　　He　draws　a　red　line　around　it。　　That　same

day　he　indulges　a　longing　for　a　certain　object。　　The　next　morning

there　is　a　little　interval　between　the　red　line　and　the　skin；　close

to　which　it　was　traced。　　So　always；　so　inevitably。　　As　he　lives　on；

satisfying　one　desire；　one　passion；　after　another；　the　process　of

shrinking　continues。　　A　mortal　disease　sets　in；　which　keeps　pace　with

the　shrinking　skin；　and　his　life　and　his　talisman　come　to　an　end

together。



One　would　say　that　such　a　piece　of　integument　was　hardly　a　desirable

possession。　　And　yet；　how　many　of　us　have　at　this　very　moment　a　peau

de　chagrin　of　our　own；　diminishing　with　every　costly　wish　indulged；

and　incapable；　like　the　magical　one　of　the　story；　of　being　arrested

in　its　progress



Need　I　say　that　I　refer　to　those　coupon　bonds；　issued　in　the　days　of

eight　and　ten　per　cent　interest；　and　gradually　narrowing　as　they　drop

their　semiannual　slips　of　paper；　which　represent　wishes　to　be

realized；　as　the　roses　let　fall　their　leaves　in　July；　as　the　icicles

melt　away　in　the　thaw　of　January？



How　beautiful　was　the　coupon　bond；　arrayed　in　its　golden　raiment　of

promises　to　pay　at　certain　stated　intervals；　for　a　goodly　number　of

coming　years！　　What　annual　the　horticulturist　can　show　will　bear

comparison　with　this　product　of　auricultural　industry；　which　has

flowered　in　midsummer　and　midwinter　for　twenty　successive　seasons？

And　now　the　last　of　its　blossoms　is　to　be　plucked；　and　the　bare　stem；

stripped　of　its　ever　maturing　and　always　welcome　appendages；　is

reduced　to　the　narrowest　conditions　of　reproductive　existence。　　Such

is　the　fate　of　the　financial　peau　de　chagrin。　　Pity　the　poor

fractional　capitalist；　who　has　just　managed　to　live　on　the　eight　per

cent　of　his　coupon　bonds。　　The　shears　of　Atropos　were　not　more　fatal

to　human　life　than　the　long　scissors　which　cut　the　last　coupon　to　the

lean　proprietor；　whose　slice　of　dry　toast　it　served　to　flatter　with

oleomargarine。　　Do　you　wonder　that　my　thoughts　took　the　poetical

form；　in　the　contemplation　of　these　changes　and　their　melancholy

consequences？　　If　the　entire　poem；　of　several　hundred　lines；　was

〃declined　with　thanks〃　by　an　unfeeling　editor；　that　is　no　reason　why

you　should　not　hear　a　verse　or　two　of　it。





　　　　　　　　　　THE　PEAU　DE　CHAGRIN　OF　STATE　STREET。



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　How　beauteous　is　the　bond

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　In　the　manifold　array

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Of　its　promises　to　pay；

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　While　the　eight　per　cent　it　gives

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　And　the　rate　at　which　one　lives

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Correspond！



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　But　at　last　the　bough　is　bare

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Where　the　coupons　one　by　one

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Through　their　ripening　days　have　run；

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　And　the　bond；　a　beggar　now；

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Seeks　investment　anyhow；

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Anywhere！



The　Mistress　commonly　contents　herself　with　the　general　supervision

of　the　company；　only　now　and　then　taking　an　active　part　in　the

conversation。　　She　started　a　question　the　other　evening　which　set

some　of　us　thinking。



〃Why　is　it；〃　she　said；　〃that　there　is　so　common　and　so　intense　a

desire　for　poetical　reputation？　　It　seems　to　me　that；　if　I　were　a

man；　I　had　rather　have　done　something　worth　telling　of　than　make

verses　about　what　other　people　had　done。〃



〃You　agree　with　Alexander　the　Great；〃　said　the　Professor。　　〃You　would

prefer　the　fame　of　Achilles　to　that　of　Homer；　who　told　the　story　of

his　wrath　and　its　direful　consequences。　　I　am　afraid　that　I　should

hardly　agree　with　you。　　Achilles　was　little　better　than　a　Choctaw

brave。　　I　won't　quote　Horace's　line　which　characterizes　him　so

admirably；　for　I　will　take　it　for　granted　that　you　all　know　it。　　He

was　a　gentleman；so　is　a　first…class　Indian；a　very　noble　gentleman

in　point　of　courage；　lofty　bearing；　courtesy；　but　an　unsoaped；　ill…

clad；　turbulent；　high…tempered　young　fellow；　looked　up　to　by　his

crowd　very　much　as　the　champion　of　the　heavy　weights　is　looked　up　to

by　his　gang　of　blackguards。　　Alexander　himself　was　not　much　better；

a　foolish；　fiery　young　madcap。　　How　often　is　he　mentioned　except　as　a

warning？　　His　best　record　is　that　he　served　to　point　a　moral　as

'Macedonian's　madman。'　　He　made　a　figure；　it　is　true；　in　Dryden's

great　Ode；　but　what　kind　of　a　figure？　　He　got　drunk；in　very　bad

company；　too；and　then　turned　fire…bug。　　He　had　one　redeeming

point；he　did　value　his　Homer；　and　slept　with　the　Iliad　under　his

pillow。　　A　poet　like　Homer　seems　to　me　worth　a　dozen　such　fellows　as

Achilles　and　Alexander。〃



〃Homer　is　all　very　well　far　those　that　can　read　him；〃　said　Number

Seven；　〃but　the　fellows　that　tag　verses　together　nowadays　are　mostly

fools。　　That's　my　opinion。　　I　wrote　some　verses　once　myself；　but　I

had　been　sick　and　was　very　weak；　hadn't　strength　enough　to　write　in

prose；　I　suppose。〃



This　aggressive　remark　caused　a　little　stir　at　our　tea…table。　　For

you　must　know；　if　I　have　not　told　you　already；　there　are　suspicions

that　we　have　more　than　one　〃poet〃　at　our　table。　　I　have　already

confessed　that　I　do　myself　indulge　in　verse　now　and　then；　and　have

given　my　readers　a　specimen　of　my　work　in　that　line。　　But　there　is　so

much　difference　of　character　in　the　verses　which　are　produced　at　our

table；　without　any　signature；　that　I　feel　quite　sure　there　are　at

least　two　or　three　other　contributors　besides　myself。　　There　is　a

tall；　old…fashioned　silver　urn；　a　sugar…bowl　of　the　period　of　the

Empire；　in　which　the　poems　sent　to　be　read　are　placed　by　unseen

hands。　　When　the　proper　moment　arrives；　I　lift　the　cover　of　the　urn

and　take　out　any　manuscript　it　may　contain。　　If　conversation　is　going

on　and　the　company　are　in　a　talking　mood；　I　replace　the　manuscript　or

manuscripts；　clap　on　the　cover；　and　wait　until　there　is　a　moment's

quiet　before　taking　it　off　again。　　I　might　guess　the　writers

sometimes　by　the　handwriting；　but　there　is　more　trouble　taken　to

disguise　the　chirography　than　I　choose　to　take　to　identify　it　as　that

of　any　particular　member　of　our　company。



The　turn　the　conversation　took；　especially　the　slashing　onslaught　of

Number　Seven　on　the　writers　of　verse；　set　me　thinking　and　talking

about　the　matter。　　Number　Five　turned　on　the　stream　of　my　discourse

by　a　question。



〃You　receive　a　good　many　volumes　of　verse；　do　you　not？〃　she　said；

with　a　look　which　implied　that　she　knew　I　did。



I　certainly　do；　I　answered。　　My　table　aches　with　them。　　My　shelves

groan　with　them。　　Think　of　what　a　fuss　Pope　made　about　his　trials；

when　he　complained　that



　　　　　　　　　　〃All　Bedlam　or　Parnassus　is　let　out〃！



What　were　the　numbers　of　the



　　　　　　　　　　〃Mob　of　gentlemen　who　wrote　with　ease〃



to　that　great　multitude　of　contributors　to　our　magazines；　and　authors

of　little　volumessometimes；　alas！　big　onesof　verse；　which　pour

out　of　the　press；　not　weekly；　but　daily；　and　at　such　a　rate　of

increase　that　it　seems　as　if　before　long　every　hour　would　bring　a

book；　or　at　least　an　article　which　is　to　grow　into　a　book　by　and　by？



I　thanked　Heaven；　the　other　day；　that　I　was　not　a　critic。　　These

attenuated　volumes　of　poetry　in　fancy　bindings　open　their　covers　at

one　like　so　many　little　unfledged　birds；　and　one　does　so　long　to　drop

a　worm　in；a　worm　in　the　shape　of　a　kind　word　for　the　poor

fledgling！　　But　what　a　desperate　business　it　is　to　deal　with　this

army　of　candidates　for　immortality！　　I　have　often　had　something　to

say　about　them；　and　I　may　be　saying　over　the　same　things；　but　if　I　do

not　remember　what　I　have　said；　it　is　not　very　likely　that　my　reader

will；　if　he　does；　he　will　find；　I　am　very　sure；　that　I　say　it　a

l