over the teacups-第46章

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in　this　way。



I　find　the　great　charm　of　writing　consists　in　its　surprises。　　When

one　is　in　the　receptive　attitude　of　mind；　the　thoughts　which　are

sprung　upon　him；　the　images　which　flash　through　hisconsciousness；

are　a　delight　and　an　excitement。　　I　am　impatient　of　every　hindrance

in　setting　down　my　thoughts；of　a　pen　that　will　not　write；　of　ink

that　will　not　flow；　of　paper　that　will　not　receive　the　ink。　　And　here

let　me　pay　the　tribute　which　I　owe　to　one　of　the　humblest　but　most

serviceable　of　my　assistants；　especially　in　poetical　composition。

Nothing　seems　more　prosaic　than　the　stylographic　pen。　　It　deprives

the　handwriting　of　its　beauty；　and　to　some　extent　of　its　individual

character。　　The　brutal　communism　of　the　letters　it　forms　covers　the

page　it　fills　with　the　most　uniformly　uninteresting　characters。　　But；

abuse　it　as　much　as　you　choose；　there　is　nothing　like　it　for　the

poet；　for　the　imaginative　writer。　　Many　a　fine　flow　of　thought　has

been　checked；　perhaps　arrested；　by　the　ill　behavior　of　a　goose…quill。

Many　an　idea　has　escaped　while　the　author　was　dipping　his　pen　in　the

inkstand。　　But　with　the　stylographic　pen；　in　the　hands　of　one　who

knows　how　to　care　for　it　and　how　to　use　it；　unbroken　rhythms　and

harmonious　cadences　are　the　natural　products　of　the　unimpeded　flow　of

the　fluid　which　is　the　vehicle　of　the　author's　thoughts　and　fancies。

So　much　for　my　debt　of　gratitude　to　the　humble　stylographic　pen。　　It

does　not　furnish　the　proper　medium　for　the　correspondence　of

intimates；　who　wish　to　see　as　much　of　their　friends'　personality　as

their　handwriting　can　hold；still　less　for　the　impassioned

interchange　of　sentiments　between　lovers；　but　in　writing　for　the

press　its　use　is　open　to　no　objection。　　Its　movement　over　the　paper

is　like　the　flight　of　a　swallow；　while　the　quill　pen　and　the　steel

pen　and　the　gold　pen　are　all　taking　short；　laborious　journeys；　and

stopping　to　drink　every　few　minutes。



A　chief　pleasure　which　the　author　of　novels　and　stories　experiences

is　that　of　becoming　acquainted　with　the　characters　be　draws。　　It　is

perfectly　true　that　his　characters　must；　in　the　nature　of　things；

have　more　or　less　of　himself　in　their　composition。　　If　I　should　seek

an　exemplification　of　this　in　the　person　of　any　of　my　Teacups；　I

should　find　it　most　readily　in　the　one　whom　I　have　called　Number

Seven；　the　one　with　the　squinting　brain。　　I　think　that　not　only　I；

the　writer；　but　many　of　my　readers；　recognize　in　our　own　mental

constitution　an　occasional　obliquity　of　perception；　not　always

detected　at　the　time；　but　plain　enough　when　looked　back　upon。　　What

extravagant　fancies　you　and　I　have　seriously　entertained　at　one　time

or　another！　　What　superstitious　notions　have　got　into　our　heads　and

taken　possession　of　its　empty　chambers；or；　in　the　language　of

science；　seized　on　the　groups　of　nerve…cells　in　some　of　the　idle

cerebral　convolutions！





The　writer；　I　say；　becomes　acquainted　with　his　characters　as　be　goes

on。　　They　are　at　first　mere　embryos；　outlines　of　distinct

personalities。　　By　and　by；　if　they　have　any　organic　cohesion；　they

begin　to　assert　themselves。　　They　can　say　and　do　such　and　such

things；　such　and　such　other　things　they　cannot　and　must　not　say　or

do。　　The　story…writer's　and　play…writer's　danger　is　that　they　will

get　their　characters　mixed；　and　make　A　say　what　B　ought　to　have　said。

The　stronger　his　imaginative　faculty；　the　less　liable　will　the　writer

be　to　this　fault；　but　not　even　Shakespeare's　power　of　throwing

himself　into　his　characters　prevents　many　of　his　different　personages

from　talking　philosophy　in　the　same　strain　and　in　a　style　common　to

them　all。



You　will　often　observe　that　authors　fall　in　love　with　the　imaginary

persons　they　describe；　and　that　they　bestow　affectionate　epithets

upon　them　which　it　may　happen　the　reader　does　not　consider　in　any　way

called　for。　　This　is　a　pleasure　to　which　they　have　a　right。　　Every

author　of　a　story　is　surrounded　by　a　little　family　of　ideal　children；


as　dear　to　him；　it　may　be；　as　are　flesh…and…blood　children　to　their

parents。　　You　may　forget　all　about　the　circle　of　Teacups　to　which　I

have　introduced　you；on　the　supposition　that　you　have　followed　me

with　some　degree　of　interest；　but　do　you　suppose　that　Number　Five

does　not　continue　as　a　presence　with　me；　and　that　my　pretty　Delilah

has　left　me　forever　because　she　is　going　to　be　married？



No；　my　dear　friend；　our　circle　will　break　apart；　and　its　different

members　will　soon　be　to　you　as　if　they　had　never　been。　　But　do　you

think　that　I　can　forget　them？　　Do　you　suppose　that　I　shall　cease　to

follow　the　love　（or　the　loves；　which　do　you　think　is　the　true　word；

the　singular　or　the　plural？）　of　Number　Five　and　the　young　Tutor　who

is　so　constantly　found　in　her　company？　　Do　you　suppose　that　I　do　not

continue　my　relations　with　the　〃Cracked　Teacup；〃the　poor　old　fellow

with　whom　I　have　so　much　in　common；　whose　counterpart；　perhaps；　you

may　find　in　your　own　complex　personality？



I　take　from　the　top　shelf　of　the　hospital　department　of　my　library…

the　section　devoted　to　literary　cripples；　imbeciles；　failures；

foolish　rhymesters；　and　silly　eccentricsone　of　the　least

conspicuous　and　most　hopelessly　feeble　of　the　weak…minded　population

of　that　intellectual　almshouse。　　I　open　it　and　look　through　its

pages。　　It　is　a　story。　　I　have　looked　into　it　once　before；on　its

first　reception　as　a　gift　from　the　author。　　I　try　to　recall　some　of

the　names　I　see　there：　they　mean　nothing　to　me；　but　I　venture　to　say

the　author　cherishes　them　all；　and　cries　over　them　as　he　did　when　he

was　writing　their　history。　　I　put　the　book　back　among　its　dusty

companions；　and；　sitting　down　in　my　reflective　rocking…chair；　think

how　others　must　forget；　and　how　I　shall　remember；　the　company　that

gathered　about　this　table。



Shall　I　ever　meet　any　one　of　them　again；　in　these　pages　or　in　any

other？　　Will　the　cracked　Teacup　hold　together；　or　will　he　go　to

pieces；　and　find　himself　in　that　retreat　where　the　owner　of　the

terrible　clock　which　drove　him　crazy　is　walking　under　the　shelter　of

the　high　walls？　　Has　the　young　Doctor's　crown　yet　received　the　seal

which　is　Nature's　warrant　of　wisdom　and　proof　of　professional

competency？　　And　Number　Five　and　her　young　friend　the　Tutor；have

they　kept　on　in　their　dangerous　intimacy？　　Did　they　get　through　the

tutto　tremante　passage；　reading　from　the　same　old　large　edition　of

Dante　which　the　Tutor　recommended　as　the　best；　and　in　reading　from

which　their　heads　were　necessarily　brought　perilously　near　to　each

other？



It　would　be　very　pleasant　if　I　could；　consistently　with　the　present

state　of　affairs；　bring　these　two　young　people　together。　　I　say　two

young　people；　for　the　one　who　counts　most　years　seems　to　me　to　be

really　the　younger　of　the　pair。　　That　Number　Five　foresaw　from　the

first　that　any　tenderer　feeling　than　that　of　friendship　would　intrude

itself　between　them　I　do　not　believe。　　As　for　the　Tutor；　he　soon

found　where　he　was　drifting。　　It　was　his　first　experience　in　matters

concerning　the　heart；　and　absorbed　his　whole　nature　as　a　thing　of

course。　　Did　he　tell　her　he　loved　her？　　Perhaps　he　did；　fifty　times；

perhaps　he　never　had　the　courage　to　say　so　outright。　　But　sometimes

they　looked　each　other　straight　in　the　eyes；　and　strange　messages

seemed　to　pass　from　one　consciousness　to　the　other。　　Will　the　Tutor

ask　Number　Five　to　be　his　wife；　and　if　he　does；　will　she　yield　to　the

dictates　of　nature；　and　lower　the　flag　of　that　fortress　so　long

thought　impregnable？　　Will　be　go　on　writing　such　poems　to　her　as　〃The

Rose　and　the　Fern　〃　or　〃I　Like　You　and　I　Love　You；〃　and　be　content

with　the　pursuit　of　that　which　he　never　can　attain？　　That　is　all　very

well；　on　the　〃Grecian　Urn〃　of　Keats；beautiful；　but　not　love　such　as

mortals　demand。　　Still；　that　may　be　all；　for　aught　that　we　have　yet

seen。





〃Fair　youth；　beneath　the　trees；　thou　canst　not　leave

Thy　song；　nor　ever　can　those　trees　be　bare；

Bold　lover；　never；　never；　canst　thou　kiss；

Though　winning　near　the　goal；yet　do　not　grieve；

She　cannot　fade；　though　thou　hast　not　thy　bliss；

Forever　wilt　thou　love；　and　she　be　fair！



　　　　　　　　　　。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。



〃More　happy　love！　more　happy；　happy　love！

Forever　warm；　and　still　to　be　enjoyed；

Forever　panting　and　forever　young！〃





And　so；　good…bye；　young　people；　whom　we　part　with　here。　　Shadows　you

have　been　and　are　to　my　readers；　very　real　you　have　been　and　are　to

me；as　real　as　the　memories　of　many　friends　whom　I　shall　see　no

more。



As　I　am　not　in　the　habit　of　indulging　in　late　suppers；　the　reader

need　not　think　that　I　shall　spread　another　board　and　invite　him　to

listen　to　the　conversations　which　take　place　around　it。　　If；　from

time　to　time；　he　finds　a　slight　refection　awaiting　him　on　the

sideboard；　I　hope　he　may　welcome　it　as　pleasantly　as　he　has　accepted

what　I　have　offered　him　from　the　board　now　just　being　cleared。







　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。







It　is　a　good　rule　for　the　actor　who　manages　the　popular　street　drama

of　Punch　not　to　let　the　audience　or　spectators　see　his　legs。　　It　is

very　hard　for　the　writer　of　papers　like　these；　which　are　now　coming

to　their　conclusion；　to　keep　his　personality　from　showing　itself　too

conspicuously　through　the　thin　disguises　of　his　various　characters。

As　the　show　is　now　over；　as　the　curtain　has　fallen；　I　appear　before

it　in　my　proper　person；　to　address　a　few　words　to　the　friends　who

have　assisted；　as　the　French　say；　by　their　presence；　and　as　we　use

the　word；　by　the　kind　way　in　which　they　have　received　my　attempts　at

their　entertainment。



This　series　of　papers　is　the　fourth　of　its　kind　which　I　have　offered

to　my　readers。　　I　may　be　allowed　to　look　back　upon　the　succession　of

serial　articles　which　was　commenced　more　than　thirty　years　ago；　in

1857。　　〃The　Autocrat　of　the　Breakfast…Table〃　was　the　first　of　the

series。　　It　was　begun　without　the　least　idea　what　was　to　be　its

course　and　its　outcome。　　Its　characters　shaped　themselves　gradually

as　the　manuscript　grew　under　my　hand。　　I　jotted　down　on　the　sheet　of

blotting　paper　before　me　the　thoughts　and　fancies　which　came　into　my

head。　　A　very　odd…looking　object　was　this　page　of　memoranda。　　Many　of

the　hints　were　worked　up　into　formal　shape；　many　were　rejected。

Sometimes　I　recorded　a　story；　a　jest；　or　a　pun　for　consideration；　and

made　use　of　it　or　let　it　alone　as　my　second　thought　decided。　　I

remember　a　curious　coincidence；　which；　if　I　have　ever　told　in　print；

I　am　not　sure　whether　I　have　or　not；I　will　tell　over　again。　　I

mention　it；　not　for　the　pun；　which　I　rejected　as　not　very　edifying

and　perhaps　not　new；　though　I　did　not　recollect　having　seen　it。



Mulier；　Latin　for　woman；　why　apply　that　name　to　one　of　the　gentle　but

occasionally　obstinate　sex？　　The　answer　was　that　a　woman　is

（sometimes）　more　mulish　than　a　mule。　　Please　observe　that　I　did　not