the poet at the breakfast table-第29节

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indulging　a　fancy　of　mine　about　the　Man　who　is　to　sit　at　the　foot　of
the　monument　for　one；　or　it　may　be　two　or　three　thousand　years。　　As
long　as　the　monument　stands　and　there　is　a　city　near　it；　there　will
always　be　a　man　to　take　the　names　of　visitors　and　extract　some　small
tribute　from　their　pockets；　I　suppose。　　I　sometimes　get　thinking　of
the　long；　unbroken　succession　of　these　men；　until　they　come　to　look
like　one　Man；　continuous　in　being；　unchanging　as　the　stone　he
watches；　looking　upon　the　successive　generations　of　human　beings　as
they　come　and　go；　and　outliving　all　the　dynasties　of　the　world　in　all
probability。　　It　has　come　to　such　a　pass　that　I　never　speak　to　the
Man　of　the　Monument　without　wanting　to　take　my　hat　off　and　feeling　as
if　I　were　looking　down　a　vista　of　twenty　or　thirty　centuries。

The　〃Man　of　Letters；〃　so　called；　said；　in　a　rather　contemptuous　way；
I　thought；　that　he　had　n't　got　so　far　as　that。　　He　was　n't　quite　up
to　moral　reflections　on　toll…men　and　ticket…takers。　　Sentiment　was
n't　his　tap。

He　looked　round　triumphantly　for　a　response：　but　the　Capitalist　was　a
little　hard　of　hearing　just　then；　the　Register　of　Deeds　was　browsing
on　his　food　in　the　calm　bovine　abstraction　of　a　quadruped；　and　paid
no　attention；　the　Salesman　had　bolted　his　breakfast；　and　whisked
himself　away　with　that　peculiar　alacrity　which　belongs　to　the　retail
dealer's　assistant；　and　the　Member　of　the　Haouse；　who　had　sometimes
seemed　to　be　impressed　with　his　〃tahlented　mahn's〃　air　of　superiority
to　the　rest　of　us；　looked　as　if　he　thought　the　speaker　was　not
exactly　parliamentary。　　So　he　failed　to　make　his　point；　and　reddened
a　little；　and　was　not　in　the　best　humor；　I　thought；　when　he　left　the
table。　　I　hope　he　will　not　let　off　any　of　his　irritation　on　our　poor
little　Scheherezade；　but　the　truth　is；　the　first　person　a　man　of　this
sort　（if　he　is　what　I　think　him）　meets；　when　he　is　out　of　humor；　has
to　be　made　a　victim　of；　and　I　only　hope　our　Young　Girl　will　not　have
to　play　Jephthah's　daughter。

And　that　leads　me　to　say；　I　cannot　help　thinking　that　the　kind　of
criticism　to　which　this　Young　Girl　has　been　subjected　from　some
person　or　other；　who　is　willing　to　be　smart　at　her　expense；　is
hurtful　and　not　wholesome。　　The　question　is　a　delicate　one。　　So　many
foolish　persons　are　rushing　into　print；　that　it　requires　a　kind　of
literary　police　to　hold　them　back　and　keep　them　in　order。　　Where
there　are　mice　there　must　be　cats；　and　where　there　are　rats　we　may
think　it　worth　our　while　to　keep　a　terrier；　who　will　give　them　a
shake　and　let　them　drop；　with　all　the　mischief　taken　out　of　them。
But　the　process　is　a　rude　and　cruel　one　at　best；　and　it　too　often
breeds　a　love　of　destructiveness　for　its　own　sake　in　those　who　get
their　living　by　it。　　A　poor　poem　or　essay　does　not　do　much　harm　after
all；　nobody　reads　it　who　is　like　to　be　seriously　hurt　by　it。　　But　a
sharp　criticism　with　a　drop　of　witty　venom　in　it　stings　a　young
author　almost　to　death；　and　makes　an　old　one　uncomfortable　to　no
purpose。　　If　it　were　my　business　to　sit　in　judgment　on　my　neighbors；
I　would　try　to　be　courteous；　at　least；　to　those　who　had　done　any　good
service；　but；　above　all；　I　would　handle　tenderly　those　young　authors
who　are　coming　before　the　public　in　the　flutter　of　their　first　or
early　appearance；　and　are　in　the　trembling　delirium　of　stage…fright
already。　　Before　you　write　that　brilliant　notice　of　some　alliterative
Angelina's　book　of　verses；　I　wish　you　would　try　this　experiment。

Take　half　a　sheet　of　paper　and　copy　upon　it　any　of　Angelina's
stanzas；the　ones　you　were　going　to　make　fun　of；　if　you　will。　　Now
go　to　your　window；　if　it　is　a　still　day；　open　it；　and　let　the　half…
sheet　of　paper　drop　on　the　outside。　　How　gently　it　falls　through　the
soft　air；　always　tending　downwards；　but　sliding　softly；　from　side　to
side；　wavering；　hesitating；　balancing；　until　it　settles　as
noiselessly　as　a　snow…flake　upon　the　all…receiving　bosom　of　the
earth！　　Just　such　would　have　been　the　fate　of　poor　Angelina's
fluttering　effort；　if　you　had　left　it　to　itself。　　It　would　have
slanted　downward　into　oblivion　so　sweetly　and　softly　that　she　would
have　never　known　when　it　reached　that　harmless　consummation。

Our　epizoic　literature　is　becoming　so　extensive　that　nobody　is　safe
from　its　ad　infinitum　progeny。　　A　man　writes　a　book　of　criticisms。　　A
Quarterly　Review　criticises　the　critic。　　A　Monthly　Magazine　takes　up
the　critic's　critic。　　A　Weekly　Journal　criticises　the　critic　of　the
critic's　critic；　and　a　daily　paper　favors　us　with　some　critical
remarks　on　the　performance　of　the　writer　in　the　Weekly；　who　has
criticised　the　critical　notice　in　the　Monthly　of　the　critical　essay
in　the　Quarterly　on　the　critical　work　we　started　with。　　And　thus　we
see　that　as　each　flea　〃has　smaller　fleas　that　on　him　prey；〃　even　the
critic　himself　cannot　escape　the　common　lot　of　being　bitten。　　Whether
all　this　is　a　blessing　or　a　curse；　like　that　one　which　made　Pharaoh
and　all　his　household　run　to　their　toilet…tables；　is　a　question　about
which　opinions　might　differ。　　The　physiologists　of　the　time　of　Moses
if　there　were　vivisectors　other　than　priests　in　those　dayswould
probably　have　considered　that　other　plague；　of　the　frogs；　as　a
fortunate　opportunity　for　science；　as　this　poor　little　beast　has　been
the　souffre…douleur　of　experimenters　and　schoolboys　from　time
immemorial。

But　there　is　a　form　of　criticism　to　which　none　will　object。　　It　is
impossible　to　come　before　a　public　so　alive　with　sensibilities　as
this　we　live　in；　with　the　smallest　evidence　of　a　sympathetic
disposition；　without　making　friends　in　a　very　unexpected　way。
Everywhere　there　are　minds　tossing　on　the　unquiet　waves　of　doubt。　　If
you　confess　to　the　same　perplexities　and　uncertainties　that　torture
them；　they　are　grateful　for　your　companionship。　　If　you　have　groped
your　way　out　of　the　wilderness　in　which　you　were　once　wandering　with
them；　they　will　follow　your　footsteps；　it　may　be；　and　bless　you　as
their　deliverer。　　So；　all　at　once；　a　writer　finds　he　has　a　parish　of
devout　listeners；　scattered；　it　is　true；　beyond　the　reach　of　any
summons　but　that　of　a　trumpet　like　the　archangel's；　to　whom　his
slight　discourse　may　be　of　more　value　than　the　exhortations　they　hear
from　the　pulpit；　if　these　last　do　not　happen　to　suit　their　special
needs。　　Young　men　with　more　ambition　and　intelligence　than　force　of
character；　who　have　missed　their　first　steps　in　life　and　are
stumbling　irresolute　amidst　vague　aims　and　changing　purposes；　hold
out　their　hands；　imploring　to　be　led　into；　or　at　least　pointed
towards；　some　path　where　they　can　find　a　firm　foothold。　　Young　women
born　into　a　chilling　atmosphere　of　circumstance　which　keeps　all　the
buds　of　their　nature　unopened　and　always　striving　to　get　to　a　ray　of
sunshine；　if　one　finds　its　way　to　their　neighborhood；　tell　their
stories；　sometimes　simply　and　touchingly；　sometimes　in　a　more　or　less
affected　and　rhetorical　way；　but　still　stories　of　defeated　and
disappointed　instincts　which　ought　to　make　any　moderately　impressible
person　feel　very　tenderly　toward　them。

In　speaking　privately　to　these　young　persons；　many　of　whom　have
literary　aspirations；　one　should　be　very　considerate　of　their　human
feelings。　　But　addressing　them　collectively　a　few　plain　truths　will
not　give　any　one　of　them　much　pain。　　Indeed；　almost　every　individual
among　them　will　feel　sure　that　he　or　she　is　an　exception　to　those
generalities　which　apply　so　well　to　the　rest。

If　I　were　a　literary　Pope　sending　out　an　Encyclical；　I　would　tell
these　inexperienced　persons　that　nothing　is　so　frequent　as　to　mistake
an　ordinary　human　gift　for　a　special　and　extraordinary　endowment。
The　mechanism　of　breathing　and　that　of　swallowing　are　very　wonderful；
and　if　one　had　seen　and　studied　them　in　his　own　person　only；　he　might
well　think　himself　a　prodigy。　　Everybody　knows　these　and　other　bodily
faculties　are　common　gifts；　but　nobody　except　editors　and　school…
teachers　and　here　and　there　a　literary　than　knows　how　common　is　the
capacity　of　rhyming　and　prattling　in　readable　prose；　especially　among
young　women　of　a　certain　degree　of　education。　　In　my　character　of
Pontiff；　I　should　tell　these　young　persons　that　most　of　them　labored
under　a　delusion。　　It　is　very　hard　to　believe　it；　one　feels　so　full
of　intelligence　and　so　decidedly　superior　to　one's　dull　relations　and
schoolmates；　one　writes　so　easily　and　the　lines　sound　so　prettily　to
one's　self；　there　are　such　felicities　of　expression；　just　like　those
we　hear　quoted　from　the　great　poets；　and　besides　one　has　been　told　by
so　many　friends　that　all　one　had　to　do　was　to　print　and　be　famous！
Delusion；　my　poor　dear；　delusion　at　least　nineteen　times　out　of
twenty；　yes；　ninety…nine　times　in　a　hundred。

But　as　private　father　confessor；　I　always　allow　as　much　as　I　can　for
the　one　chance　in　the　hundred。　　I　try　not　to　take　away　all　hope；
unless　the　case　is　clearly　desperate；　and　then　to　direct　the
activities　into　some　other　channel。

Using　kind　language；　I　can　talk　pretty　freely。　　I　have　counselled
more　than　one　aspirant　after　literary　fame　to　go　back　to　his　tailor's
board　or　his　lapstone。　　I　have　advised　the　dilettanti；　whose　foolish
friends　prai