the poet at the breakfast table-第21节

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discursive；　erratic；　subject　to　electric　attractions　and　repulsions；
volage；　it　may　be　impossible　for　you　to　compel　your　attention　except
by　taking　away　all　external　disturbances。　　I　think　the　poets　have　an
advantage　and　a　disadvantage　as　compared　with　the　steadier…going
people。　　Life　is　so　vivid　to　the　poet；　that　he　is　too　eager　to　seize
and　exhaust　its　multitudinous　impressions。　　Like　Sindbad　in　the
valley　of　precious　stones；　he　wants　to　fill　his　pockets　with
diamonds；　but；　lo！　there　is　a　great　ruby　like　a　setting　sun　in　its
glory；　and　a　sapphire　that；　like　Bryant's　blue　gentian；　seems　to　have
dropped　from　the　cerulean　walls　of　heaven；　and　a　nest　of　pearls　that
look　as　if　they　might　be　unhatched　angel's　eggs；　and　so　he　hardly
knows　what　to　seize；　and　tries　for　too　many；　and　comes　out　of　the
enchanted　valley　with　more　gems　than　he　can　carry；　and　those　that　he
lets　fall　by　the　wayside　we　call　his　poems。　　You　may　change　the　image
a　thousand　ways　to　show　you　how　hard　it　is　to　make　a　mathematician　or
a　logician　out　of　a　poet。　　He　carries　the　tropics　with　him　wherever
he　goes；　he　is　in　the　true　sense　felius　naturae；　and　Nature　tempts
him；　as　she　tempts　a　child　walking　through　a　garden　where　all　the
finest　fruits　are　hanging　over　him　and　dropping　round　him；　where

　　　　　The　luscious　clusters　of　the　vine
　　　　　Upon　（his）　mouth　do　crush　their　wine；
　　　　　The　nectarine　and　curious　peach；
　　　　　Into　（his）　hands　themselves　do　reach；

and　he　takes　a　bite　out　of　the　sunny　side　of　this　and　the　other；　and；
ever　stimulated　and　never　satisfied；　is　hurried　through　the　garden；
and；　before　he　knows　it；　finds　himself　at　an　iron　gate　which　opens
outward；　and　leaves　the　place　he　knows　and　loves

For　one　he　will　perhaps　soon　learn　to　love　and　know　better；said
the　Master。…But　I　can　help　you　out　with　another　comparison；　not
quite　so　poetical　as　yours。　　Why　did　not　you　think　of　a　railway…
station；　where　the　cars　stop　five　minutes　for　refreshments？　　Is　n't
that　a　picture　of　the　poet's　hungry　and　hurried　feast　at　the　banquet
of　life？　　The　traveller　flings　himself　on　the　bewildering　miscellany
of　delicacies　spread　before　him；　the　various　tempting　forms　of
ambrosia　and　seducing　draughts　of　nectar；　with　the　same　eager　hurry
and　restless　ardor　that　you　describe　in　the　poet。　　Dear　me！　　If　it
wasn't　for　All　aboard！　that　summons　of　the　deaf　conductor　which　tears
one　away　from　his　half…finished　sponge…cake　and　coffee；　how　I；　who　do
not　call　myself　a　poet；　but　only　a　questioner；　should　have　enjoyed　a
good　long　stopsay　a　couple　of　thousand　yearsat　this　way…station
on　the　great　railroad　leading　to　the　unknown　terminus！

You　say　you　are　not　a　poet；I　said；　after　a　little　pause；　in　which
I　suppose　both　of　us　were　thinking　where　the　great　railroad　would
land　us　after　carrying　us　into　the　dark　tunnel；　the　farther　end　of
which　no　man　has　seen　and　taken　a　return　train　to　bring　us　news　about
it；you　say　you　are　not　a　poet；　and　yet　it　seems　to　me　you　have　some
of　the　elements　which　go　to　make　one。

I　don't　think　you　mean　to　flatter　me；the　Master　answered；and；
what　is　more；　for　I　am　not　afraid　to　be　honest　with　you；　I　don't
think　you　do　flatter　me。　　I　have　taken　the　inventory　of　my　faculties
as　calmly　as　if　I　were　an　appraiser。　　I　have　some　of　the　qualities；
perhaps　I　may　say　many　of　the　qualities；　that　make　a　man　a　poet；　and
yet　I　am　not　one。　　And　in　the　course　of　a　pretty　wide　experience　of
menand　women（the　Master　sighed；　I　thought；　but　perhaps　I　was
mistaken）I　have　met　a　good　many　poets　who　were　not　rhymesters　and　a
good　many　rhymesters　who　were　not　poets。　　So　I　am　only　one　of　the
Voiceless；　that　I　remember　one　of　you　singers　had　some　verses　about。
I　think　there　is　a　little　music　in　me；　but　it　has　not　found　a　voice；
and　it　never　will。　　If　I　should　confess　the　truth；　there　is　no　mere
earthly　immortality　that　I　envy　so　much　as　the　poet's。　　If　your　name
is　to　live　at　all；　it　is　so　much　more　to　have　it　live　in　people's
hearts　than　only　in　their　brains！　　I　don't　know　that　one's　eyes　fill
with　tears　when　he　thinks　of　the　famous　inventor　of　logarithms；　but
song　of　Burns's　or　a　hymn　of　Charles　Wesley's　goes　straight　to　your
heart；　and　you　can't　help　loving　both　of　them；　the　sinner　as　well　as
the　saint。　　The　works　of　other　men　live；　but　their　personality　dies
out　of　their　labors；　the　poet；　who　reproduces　himself　in　his
creation；　as　no　other　artist　does　or　can；　goes　down　to　posterity　with
all　his　personality　blended　with　whatever　is　imperishable　in　his
song。　　We　see　nothing　of　the　bees　that　built　the　honeycomb　and　stored
it　with　its　sweets；　but　we　can　trace　the　veining　in　the　wings　of
insects　that　flitted　through　the　forests　which　are　now　coal…beds；
kept　unchanging　in　the　amber　that　holds　them；　and　so　the　passion　of
Sappho；　the　tenderness　of　Simonides；　the　purity　of　holy　George
Herbert；　the　lofty　contemplativeness　of　James　Shirley；　are　before　us
to…day　as　if　they　were　living；　in　a　few　tears　of　amber　verse。　　It
seems；　when　one　reads；

　　　　　〃Sweet　day！　so　cool；　so　calm；　so　bright；〃

or；

　　　　　〃The　glories　of　our　birth　and　state；〃

as　if　it　were　not　a　very　difficult　matter　to　gain　immortality；such
an　immortality　at　least　as　a　perishable　language　can　give。　　A　single
lyric　is　enough；　if　one　can　only　find　in　his　soul　and　finish　in　his
intellect　one　of　those　jewels　fit　to　sparkle　〃on　the　stretched
forefinger　of　all　time。〃　A　coin；　a　ring；　a　string　of　verses。　　These
last；　and　hardly　anything　else　does。　　Every　century　is　an　overloaded
ship　that　must　sink　at　last　with　most　of　its　cargo。　　The　small
portion　of　its　crew　that　get　on　board　the　new　vessel　which　takes　them
off　don't　pretend　to　save　a　great　many　of　the　bulky　articles。　　But
they　must　not　and　will　not　leave　behind　the　hereditary　jewels　of　the
race；　and　if　you　have　found　and　cut　a　diamond；　were　it　only　a　spark
with　a　single　polished　facet；　it　will　stand　a　better　chance　of　being
saved　from　the　wreck　than　anything；　no　matter　what；　that　wants　much
room　for　stowage。

The　pyramids　last；　it　is　true；　but　most　of　them　have　forgotten　their
builders'　names。　　But　the　ring　of　Thothmes　III。；　who　reigned　some
fourteen　hundred　years　before　our　era；　before　Homer　sang；　before　the
Argonauts　sailed；　before　Troy　was　built；　is　in　the　possession　of　Lord
Ashburnham；　and　proclaims　the　name　of　the　monarch　who　wore　it　more
than　three　thousand　years　ago。　　The　gold　coins　with　the　head　of
Alexander　the　Great　are　some　of　them　so　fresh　one　might　think　they
were　newer　than　much　of　the　silver　currency　we　were　lately　handling。
As　we　have　been　quoting　from　the　poets　this　morning；　I　will　follow
the　precedent；　and　give　some　lines　from　an　epistle　of　Pope　to　Addison
after　the　latter　had　written；　but　not　yet　published；　his　Dialogue　on
Medals。　　Some　of　these　lines　have　been　lingering　in　my　memory　for　a
great　many　years；　but　I　looked　at　the　original　the　other　day　and　was
so　pleased　with　them　that　I　got　them　by　heart。　　I　think　you　will　say
they　are　singularly　pointed　and　elegant。

　　　　〃Ambition　sighed；　she　found　it　vain　to　trust
　　　　　The　faithless　column　and　the　crumbling　bust；
　　　　　Huge　moles；　whose　shadows　stretched　from　shore　to　shore；
　　　　　Their　ruins　perished；　and　their　place　no　more！
　　　　　Convinced；　she　now　contracts　her　vast　design；
　　　　　And　all　her　triumphs　shrink　into　a　coin。
　　　　　A　narrow　orb　each　crowded　conquest　keeps；
　　　　　Beneath　her　palm　here　sad　Judaea　weeps；
　　　　　Now　scantier　limits　the　proud　arch　confine；
　　　　　And　scarce　are　seen　the　prostrate　Nile　or　Rhine；
　　　　　A　small　Euphrates　through　the　piece　is　rolled；
　　　　　And　little　eagles　wave　their　wings　in　gold。〃

It　is　the　same　thing　in　literature。　　Write　half　a　dozen　folios　full
of　other　people's　ideas　（as　all　folios　are　pretty　sure　to　be）；　and
you　serve　as　ballast　to　the　lower　shelves　of　a　library；　about　as　like
to　be　disturbed　as　the　kentledge　in　the　hold　of　a　ship。　　Write　a
story；　or　a　dozen　stories；　and　your　book　will　be　in　demand　like　an
oyster　while　it　is　freshly　opened；　and　after　tha　　The　highways　of
literature　are　spread　over　with　the　shells　of　dead　novels；　each　of
which　has　been　swallowed　at　a　mouthful　by　the　public；　and　is　done
with。　　But　write　a　volume　of　poems。　　No　matter　if　they　are　all　bad
but　one；　if　that　one　is　very　good。　　It　will　carry　your　name　down　to
posterity　like　the　ring　of　Thothmes；　like　the　coin　of　Alexander。　　I
don't　suppose　one　would　care　a　great　deal　about　it　a　hundred　or　a
thousand　years　after　he　is　dead；　but　I　don't　feel　quite　sure。　　It
seems　as　if；　even　in　heaven；　King　David　might　remember　〃The　Lord　is
my　Shepherd〃　with　a　certain　twinge　of　earthly　pleasure。　　But　we　don't
know；　we　don't　know。


What　in　the　world　can　have　become　of　That　Boy　and　his　popgun　while
all　this　somewhat　extended　sermonizing　was　going　on？　　I　don't　wonder
you　ask；　beloved　Reader；　and　I　suppose　I　must　tell　you　how　we　got　on
so　long　without　interruption。　　Well；　the　plain　truth　is；　the
youngster　was　contemplating　his　gastric　centre；　like　the　monks　of
Mount　Athos；　but　in　a　less　happy　state　of　mind　than　those　tranquil
recluses；　in　consequence　of　indulgence　in　the　heterogeneous
assortment　of　luxuries　procured　with　the　five…cent　piece　given　him　by
the　kind…hearted　old　Master。　　Bu