over the teacups-第21章

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trutha　highly　flattering　obituary　of　myself　in　the　shape　of　an

extract　from　〃Le　National〃　of　the　10th　of　February　last。　　This　is　a

bi…weekly　newspaper；　published　in　French；　in　the　city　of　Plattsburg；

Clinton　County；　New　York。　　I　am　occasionally　reminded　by　my　unknown

friends　that　I　must　hurry　up　their　autograph；　or　make　haste　to　copy

that　poem　they　wish　to　have　in　the　author's　own　handwriting；　or　it

will　be　too　late；　but　I　have　never　before　been　huddled　out　of　the

world　in　this　way。　　I　take　this　rather　premature　obituary　as　a　hint

that；　unless　I　come　to　some　arrangement　with　my　well…meaning　but

insatiable　correspondents；　it　would　be　as　well　to　leave　it　in　type；

for　I　cannot　bear　much　longer　the　load　they　lay　upon　me。　　I　will

explain　myself　on　this　point　after　I　have　told　my　readers　what　has

frightened　me。



I　am　beginning　to　think　this　room　where　we　take　our　tea　is　more　like

a　tinder…box　than　a　quiet　and　safe　place　for　〃a　party　in　a　parlor。〃

It　is　true　that　there　are　at　least　two　or　three　incombustibles　at　our

table；　but　it　looks　to　me　as　if　the　company　might　pair　off　before　the

season　is　over；　like　the　crew　of　Her　Majesty's　ship　the　Mantelpiece；

three　or　four　weddings　clear　our　whole　table　of　all　but　one　or　two

of　the　impregnables。　　The　poem　we　found　in　the　sugar…bowl　last　week

first　opened　my　eyes　to　the　probable　state　of　things。　　Now；　the　idea

of　having　to　tell　a　love…story；　perhaps　two　or　three　love…stories；

when　I　set　out　with　the　intention　of　repeating　instructive；　useful；

or　entertaining　discussions；　naturally　alarms　me。　　It　is　quite　true

that　many　things　which　look　to　me　suspicious　may　be　simply　playful。

Young　people　（and　we　have　several　such　among　The　Teacups）　are　fond　of

make…believe　courting　when　they　cannot　have　the　real　thing；　…

〃flirting；〃　as　it　used　to　be　practised　in　the　days　of　Arcadian

innocence；　not　the　more　modern　and　more　questionable　recreation　which

has　reached　us　from　the　home　of　the　cicisbeo。　　Whatever　comes　of　it；

I　shall　tell　what　I　see；　and　take　the　consequences。



But　I　am　at　this　moment　going　to　talk　in　my　own　proper　person　to　my

own　particular　public；　which；　as　I　find　by　my　correspondence；　is　a

very　considerable　one；　and　with　which　I　consider　myself　in

exceptionally　pleasant　relations。



I　have　read　recently　that　Mr。　Gladstone　receives　six　hundred　letters

a　day。　　Perhaps　he　does　not　receive　six　hundred　letters　every　day；

but　if　he　gets　anything　like　half　that　number　daily；　what　can　he　do

with　them？　　There　was　a　time　when　he　was　said　to　answer　all　his

correspondents。　　It　is　understood；　I　think；　that　he　has　given　up

doing　so　in　these　later　days。



I　do　not　pretend　that　I　receive　six　hundred　or　even　sixty　letters　a

day；　but　I　do　receive　a　good　many；　and　have　told　the　public　of　the

fact　from　time　to　time；　under　the　pressure　of　their　constantly

increasing　exertions。　　As　it　is　extremely　onerous；　and　is　soon　going

to　be　impossible；　for　me　to　keep　up　the　wide　range　of　correspondence

which　has　become　a　large　part　of　my　occupation；　and　tends　to　absorb

all　the　vital　force　which　is　left　me；　I　wish　to　enter　into　a　final

explanation　with　the　well…meaning　but　merciless　taskmasters　who　have

now　for　many　years　been　levying　their　daily　tax　upon　me。　　I　have

preserved　thousands　of　their　letters；　and　destroyed　a　very　large

number；　after　answering　most　of　them。　　A　few　interesting　chapters

might　be　made　out　of　the　letters　I　have　kept；not　only　such　as　are

signed　by　the　names　of　well…known　personages；　but　many　from　unknown

friends；　of　whom　I　had　never　heard　before　and　have　never　heard　since。

A　great　deal　of　the　best　writing　the　languages　of　the　world　have　ever

known　has　been　committed　to　leaves　that　withered　out　of　sight　before

a　second　sunlight　had　fallen　upon　them。　　I　have　had　many　letters　I

should　have　liked　to　give　the　public；　had　their　nature　admitted　of

their　being　offered　to　the　world。　　What　straggles　of　young　ambition；

finding　no　place　for　its　energies；　or　feeling　its　incapacity　to　reach

the　ideal　towards　which　it　was　striving！　　What　longings　of

disappointed；　defeated　fellow…mortals；　trying　to　find　a　new　home　for

themselves　in　the　heart　of　one　whom　they　have　amiably　idealized！　　And

oh；　what　hopeless　efforts　of　mediocrities　and　inferiorities；

believing　in　themselves　as　superiorities；　and　stumbling　on　through

limping　disappointments　to　prostrate　failure！　　Poverty　comes

pleading；　not　for　charity；　for　the　most　part；　but　imploring　us　to

find　a　purchaser　for　its　unmarketable　wares。　　The　unreadable　author

particularly　requests　us　to　make　a　critical　examination　of　his　book；

and　report　to　him　whatever　may　be　our　verdict；as　if　he　wanted

anything　but　our　praise；　and　that　very　often　to　be　used　in　his

publisher's　advertisements。



But　what　does　not　one　have　to　submit　to　who　has　become　the　martyr

the　Saint　Sebastianof　a　literary　correspondence！　　I　will　not　dwell

on　the　possible　impression　produced　on　a　sensitive　nature　by　reading

one's　own　premature　obituary；　as　I　have　told　you　has　been　my　recent

experience。　　I　will　not　stop　to　think　whether　the　urgent　request　for

an　autograph　by　return　post；　in　view　of　the　possible　contingencies

which　might　render　it　the　last　one　was　ever　to　write；　is　pleasing　or

not。　　At　threescore　and　twenty　one　must　expect　such　hints　of　what　is

like　to　happen　before　long。　　I　suppose；　if　some　near　friend　were　to

watch　one　who　was　looking　over　such　a　pressing　letter；　he　might

possibly　see　a　slight　shadow　flit　over　the　reader's　features；　and

some　such　dialogue　might　follow　as　that　between　Othello　and　Iago；

after　〃this　honest　creature〃　has　been　giving　breath　to　his　suspicions

about　Desdemona　：



　　　　〃I　see　this　hath　a　little　dash'd　your　spirits。

　　　　　Not　a　jot；　not　a　jot。

　　　　　　　　　　。。。。。。。。。。。。。

　　　　　〃My　lord；　I　see　you're　moved。〃



And　a　little　later　the　reader　might；　like　Othello；　complain；



　　　　〃I　have　a　pain　upon　my　forehead　here。〃



Nothing　more　likely。　　But；　for　myself；　I　have　grown　callous　to　all

such　allusions。　　The　repetition　of　the　Scriptural　phrase　for　the

natural　term　of　life　is　so　frequent　that　it　wears　out　one's

sensibilities。



But　how　many　charming　and　refreshing　letters　I　have　received！　　How

often　I　have　felt　their　encouragement　in　moments　of　doubt　and

depression；　such　as　the　happiest　temperaments　must　sometimes

experience！



If　the　time　comes　when　to　answer　all　my　kind　unknown　friends；　even　by

dictation；　is　impossible；　or　more　than　I　feel　equal　to；　I　wish　to

refer　any　of　those　who　may　feel　disappointed　at　not　receiving　an

answer　to　the　following　general　acknowledgments：





I。　　I　am　always　grateful　for　any　attention　which　shows　me　that　I　am

kindly　remembered。　II。　　Your　pleasant　message　has　been　read　to　me；

and　has　been　thankfully　listened　to。　III。　　Your　book　（your　essay）

（your　poem）　has　reached　me　safely；　and　has　received　all　the

respectful　attention　to　which　it　seemed　entitled。　　It　would　take　more

than　all　the　time　I　have　at　my　disposal　to　read　all　the　printed

matter　and　all　the　manuscripts　which　are　sent　to　me；　and　you　would

not　ask　me　to　attempt　the　impossible。　　You　will　not；　therefore；

expect　me　to　express　a　critical　opinion　of　your　work。　　IV。　　I　am

deeply　sensible　to　your　expressions　of　personal　attachment　to　me　as

the　author　of　certain　writings　which　have　brought　me　very　near　to

you；　in　virtue　of　some　affinity　in　our　ways　of　thought　and　moods　of

feeling。　　Although　I　cannot　keep　up　correspondences　with　many　of　my

readers　who　seem　to　be　thoroughly　congenial　with　myself；　let　them　be

assured　that　their　letters　have　been　read　or　heard　with　peculiar

gratification；　and　are　preserved　as　precious　treasures。





I　trust　that　after　this　notice　no　correspondent　will　be　surprised　to

find　his　or　her　letter　thus　answered　by　anticipation；　and　that　if　one

of　the　above　formulae　is　the　only　answer　he　receives；　the　unknown

friend　will　remember　that　he　or　she　is　one　of　a　great　many　whose

incessant　demands　have　entirely　outrun　my　power　of　answering　them　as

fully　as　the　applicants　might　wish　and　perhaps　expect。



I　could　make　a　very　interesting　volume　of　the　letters　I　have　received

from　correspondents　unknown　to　the　world　of　authorship；　but　writing

from　an　instinctive　impulse；　which　many　of　them　say　they　have　long

felt　and　resisted。　　One　must　not　allow　himself　to　be　flattered　into

an　overestimate　of　his　powers　because　he　gets　many　letters　expressing

a　peculiar　attraction　towards　his　books；　and　a　preference　of　them　to

those　with　which　he　would　not　have　dared　to　compare　his　own。　　Still；

if　the　homo　unius　librithe　man　of　one　bookchoose　to　select　one　of

our　own　writing　as　his　favorite　volume；　it　means　something；not

much；　perhaps；　but　if　one　has　unlocked　the　door　to　the　secret

entrance　of　one　heart；　it　is　not　unlikely　that　his　key　may　fit　the

locks　of　others。　　What　if　nature　has　lent　him　a　master　key？　　He　has

found　the　wards　and　slid　back　the　bolt　of　one　lock；　perhaps　he　may

have　learned　the　secret　of　others。　　One　success　is　an　encouragement

to　try　again。　　Let　the　writer　of　a　truly　loving　letter；　such　as

greets　one　from　time　to　time；　remember　that；　though　he　never　hears　a

word　from　it；　it　may　prove　one　of　the　best　rewards　of　an　anxious　and

laborious　past；　and　the　stimulus　of　a　still　aspiring　future。



Among　the　letters　I　have　recently　received；　none　is　more　interesting

than　the　following。　　The　story　of　Helen　Keller；　who　wrote　it；　is　told

in　the　well…known　illustrated　magazine　called　〃The　Wide　Awake；〃　in

the　number　for　July；　1888。　　For　the　account　of　this　little　girl；　now

between　nine　and　ten　years　old；　and　other　letters　of　her　writing；　I

must　refer　to　the　article　I　have　mentioned。　　It　is　enough　to　say　that

she　is　deaf　and　dumb　and　totally　blind。　　She　was　seven　years　old　when

her　teacher；　Miss　Sullivan；　under　the　direction　of　Mr。　Anagnos；　at

the　Blind　Asylum　at　South　Boston；　began　her　education。　　A　child

fuller　of　life　and　happiness　it　would　be　hard　to　find。　　It　seems　as

if　her　soul　was　flooded　with　light　and　filled　with　music　that　had

found　entrance　to　it　through　avenues　closed　to　other　mortals。　　It　is

hard　to　understand　how　she　has　learned　to　deal　with　abstract　ideas；

and　so　far　to　supplement　the　blanks　left　by　the　senses　of　sight　and

hearing　that　one　would　hardly　think　of　her　as　wanting　in　any　human

faculty。　　Remember　Milton's　pathetic　picture　of　himself；　suffering

from　only　one　of　poor　little　Helen's　deprivations：



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃Not　to　me　returns

　　　　　Day；　or　the　sweet　approach　of　even　or　morn；

　　　　　Or　sight　of　vernal　bloom；　or　summer's　rose；

　　　　　Or　flocks；　or　herds；　or　human　face　divine；

　　　　　But　cloud　instead；　and　ever…during　dark

　　　　　Surrounds　me；　from　the　cheerful　ways　of　men

　　　　　Cut　off；　and　for　the　book　of　knowledge　fair

　　　　　Presented　with　a　universal　blank

　　　　　Of　Nature's　works；　to　me　expunged　and　rased；

　　　　　And　wisdom　at　one　entrance　quite　shut　out。〃



Surel