over the teacups-第4节

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talking　that　matter　over　we　got　conversing　on　other　subjects；　among

the　rest　a　family　relationship　existing　between　us；not　a　very　near

one；　but　one　which　I　think　I　had　seen　mentioned　in　genealogical

accounts。　　Mary　S。　（the　last　name　being　the　same　as　that　of　my

visitant）；　it　appeared；　was　the　great…great…grandmother　of　Mrs。　H。

and　myself。　　After　cordially　recognizing　our　forgotten　relationship；

now　for　the　first　time　called　to　mind；　we　parted；　my　guest　leaving　me

for　his　own　home。　　We　had　been　sitting　in　my　library　on　the　lower

floor。　　On　going　up…stairs　where　Mrs。　H。　was　sitting　alone；　just　as　I

entered　the　room　she　pushed　a　paper　across　the　table　towards　me；

saying　that　perhaps　it　might　interest　me。　　It　was　one　of　a　number　of

old　family　papers　which　she　had　brought　from　the　house　of　her　mother；

recently　deceased。



I　opened　the　paper；　which　was　an　old…looking　document；　and　found　that

it　was　a　copy；　perhaps　made　in　this　century；　of　the　will　of　that　same

Mary　S。　about　whom　we　had　been　talking　down…stairs。



If　there　is　such　a　thing　as　a　purely　accidental　coincidence　this　must

be　considered　an　instance　of　it。



All　one　can　say　about　it　is　that　it　seems　very　unlikely　that　such　a

coincidence　should　occur；　but　it　did。



I　have　not　tried　to　keep　my　own　personality　out　of　these　stories。

But　after　all；　how　little　difference　it　makes　whether　or　not　a　writer

appears　with　a　mask　on　which　everybody　can　take　off；whether　he

bolts　his　door　or　not；　when　everybody　can　look　in　at　his　windows；　and

all　his　entrances　are　at　the　mercy　of　the　critic's　skeleton　key　and

the　jimmy　of　any　ill…disposed　assailant！



The　company　have　been　silent　listeners　for　the　most　part；　but　the

reader　will　have　a　chance　to　become　better　acquainted　with　some　cf

them　by　and　by。









II



TO　THE　READER。



I　know　that　it　is　a　hazardous　experiment　to　address　myself　again　to　a

public　which　in　days　long　past　has　given　me　a　generous　welcome。　　But

my　readers　have　been；　and　are；　a　very　faithful　constituency。　　I　think

there　are　many　among　them　who　would　rather　listen　to　an　old　voice

they　are　used　to　than　to　a　new　one　of　better　quality；　even　if　the

〃childish　treble〃　should　betray　itself　now　and　then　in　the　tones　of

the　overtired　organ。　　But　there　must　be　others；I　am　afraid　many

others；who　will　exclaim：　〃He　has　had　his　day；　and　why　can't　he　be

content？　　We　don't　want　literary　revenants；　superfluous　veterans；

writers　who　have　worn　out　their　welcome　and　still　insist　on　being

attended　to。　　Give　us　something　fresh；　something　that　belongs　to　our

day　and　generation。　　Your　morning　draught　was　well　enough；　but　we

don't　care　for　your　evening　slip…slop。　　You　are　not　in　relation　with

us；　with　our　time；　our　ideas；　our　aims；　our　aspirations。〃



Alas；　alas！　my　friend；my　young　friend；　for　your　hair　is　not　yet

whitened；I　am　afraid　you　are　too　nearly　right。　　No　doubt；no

doubt。　　Teacups　are　not　coffee…cups。　　They　do　not　hold　so　much。

Their　pallid　infusion　is　but　a　feeble　stimulant　compared　with　the

black　decoction　served　at　the　morning　board。　　And　so；　perhaps；　if

wisdom　like　yours　were　compatible　with　years　like　mine；　I　should　drop

my　pen　and　make　no　further　attempts　upon　your　patience。



But　suppose　that　a　writer　who　has　reached　and　passed　the　natural

limit　of　serviceable　years　feels　that　he　has　some　things　which　be

would　like　to　say；　and　which　may　have　an　interest　for　a　limited　class

of　readers；is　he　not　right　in　trying　his　powers　and　calmly　taking

the　risk　of　failure？　　Does　it　not　seem　rather　lazy　and　cowardly；

because　he　cannot　〃beat　his　record；〃　or　even　come　up　to　the　level　of

what　he　has　done　in　his　prime；　to　shrink　from　exerting　his　talent；

such　as　it　is；　now　that　he　has　outlived　the　period　of　his　greatest

vigor？　　A　singer　who　is　no　longer　equal　to　the　trials　of　opera　on　the

stage　may　yet　please　at　a　chamber　concert　or　in　the　drawing…room。

There　is　one　gratification　an　old　author　can　afford　a　certain　class

of　critics：　that；　namely；　of　comparing　him　as　he　is　with　what　he　was。

It　is　a　pleasure　to　mediocrity　to　have　its　superiors　brought　within

range；　so　to　speak；　and　if　the　ablest　of　them　will　only　live　long

enough；　and　keep　on　writing；　there　is　no　pop…gun　that　cannot　reach

him。　　But　I　fear　that　this　is　an　unamiable　reflection；　and　I　am　at

this　time　in　a　very　amiable　mood。



I　confess　that　there　is　something　agreeable　to　me　in　renewing　my

relations　with　the　reading　public。　　Were　it　but　a　single　appearance；

it　would　give　me　a　pleasant　glimpse　of　the　time　when　I　was　known　as　a

frequent　literary　visitor。　　Many　of　my　readersif　I　can　lure　any

from　the　pages　of　younger　writers　will　prove　to　be　the　children；　or

the　grandchildren；　of　those　whose　acquaintance　I　made　something　more

than　a　whole　generation　ago。　　I　could　depend　on　a　kind　welcome　from

my　contemporaries；my　coevals。　　But　where　are　those　contemporaries？

Ay　de　mi！　as　Carlyle　used　to　exclaim；Ah；　dear　me！　as　our　old　women

say；I　look　round　for　them；　and　see　only　their　vacant　places。　　The

old　vine　cannot　unwind　its　tendrils。　　The　branch　falls　with　the　decay

of　its　support；　and　must　cling　to　the　new　growths　around　it；　if　it

would　not　lie　helpless　in　the　dust。　　This　paper　is　a　new　tendril；

feeling　its　way；　as　it　best　may；　to　whatever　it　can　wind　around。　　The

thought　of　finding　here　and　there　an　old　friend；　and　making；　it　may

be；　once　in　a　while　a　new　one；　is　very　grateful　to　me。　　The　chief

drawback　to　the　pleasure　is　the　feeling　that　I　am　submitting　to　that

inevitable　exposure　which　is　the　penalty　of　authorship　in　every　form。

A　writer　must　make　up　his　mind　to　the　possible　rough　treatment　of　the

critics；　who　swarm　like　bacteria　whenever　there　is　any　literary

material　on　which　they　can　feed。　　I　have　had　as　little　to　complain　of

as　most　writers；　yet　I　think　it　is　always　with　reluctance　that　one

encounters　the　promiscuous　handling　which　the　products　of　the　mind

have　to　put　up　with；　as　much　as　the　fruit　and　provisions　in　the

market…stalls。　　I　had　rather　be　criticised；　however；　than　criticise；

that　is；　express　my　opinions　in　the　public　prints　of　other　writers'

work；　if　they　are　living；　and　can　suffer；　as　I　should　often　have　to

make　them。　　There　are　enough；　thank　Heaven；　without　me。　　We　are

literary　cannibals；　and　our　writers　live　on　each　other　and　each

other's　productions　to　a　fearful　extent。　　What　the　mulberry　leaf　is

to　the　silk…worm；　the　author's　book；　treatise；　essay；　poem；　is　to　the

critical　larva；　that　feed　upon　it。　　It　furnishes　them　with　food　and

clothing。　　The　process　may　not　be　agreeable　to　the　mulberry　leaf　or

to　the　printed　page；　but　without　it　the　leaf　would　not　have　become

the　silk　that　covers　the　empress's　shoulders；　and　but　for　the　critic

the　author's　book　might　never　have　reached　the　scholar's　table。

Scribblers　will　feed　on　each　other；　and　if　we　insist　on　being

scribblers　we　must　consent　to　be　fed　on。　　We　must　try　to　endure

philosophically　what　we　cannot　help；　and　ought　not；　I　suppose；　to

wish　to　help。



It　is　the　custom　at　our　table　to　vary　the　usual　talk；　by　the　reading

of　short　papers；　in　prose　or　verse；　by　one　or　more　of　The　Teacups；　as

we　are　in　the　habit　of　calling　those　who　make　up　our　company。　　Thirty

years　ago；　one　of　our　present　circle…　〃Teacup　Number　Two；〃　The

Professor；read　a　paper　on　Old　Age；　at　a　certain　Breakfast…table；

where　he　was　in　the　habit　of　appearing。　　That　paper　was　published　at

the　time；　and　has　since　seen　the　light　in　other　forms。　　He　did　not

know　so　much　about　old　age　then　as　he　does　now；　and　would　doubtless

write　somewhat　differently　if　he　took　the　subject　up　again。　　But　I

found　that　it　was　the　general　wish　that　another　of　our　company　should

let　us　hear　what　he　had　to　say　about　it。　　I　received　a　polite　note；

requesting　me　to　discourse　about　old　age；　inasmuch　as　I　was

particularly　well　qualified　by　my　experience　to　write　in　an

authoritative　way　concerning　it。　　The　fact　is　that　I；for　it　is

myself　who　am　speaking；have　recently　arrived　at　the　age　of

threescore　years　and　twenty；fourscore　years　we　may　otherwise　call

it。　　In　the　arrangement　of　our　table；　I　am　Teacup　Number　One；　and　I

may　as　well　say　that　I　am　often　spoken　of　as　The　Dictator。　　There　is

nothing　invidious　in　this；　as　I　am　the　oldest　of　the　company；　and　no

claim　is　less　likely　to　excite　jealousy　than　that　of　priority　of

birth。



I　received　congratulations　on　reaching　my　eightieth　birthday；　not

only　from　our　circle　of　Teacups；　but　from　friends；　near　and　distant；

in　large　numbers。　　I　tried　to　acknowledge　these　kindly　missives　with

the　aid　of　a　most　intelligent　secretary　；　but　I　fear　that　there　were

gifts　not　thanked　for；　and　tokens　of　good…will　not　recognized。　　Let

any　neglected　correspondent　be　assured　that　it　was　not　intentionally

that　he　or　she　was　slighted。　　I　was　grateful　for　every　such　mark　of

esteem；　even　for　the　telegram　from　an　unknown　friend　in　a　distant

land；　for　which　I　cheerfully　paid　the　considerable　charge　which