over the teacups-第18章

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thirty　years　I　have　been　in　the　habit　of　receiving　a　volume　of　poems

or　a　poem；　printed　or　manuscriptI　will　not　say　daily；　though　I

sometimes　receive　more　than　one　in　a　day；　but　at　very　short

intervals。　　I　have　been　consulted　by　hundreds　of　writers　of　verse　as

to　the　merit　of　their　performances；　and　have　often　advised　the

writers　to　the　best　of　my　ability。　　Of　late　I　have　found　it

impossible　to　attempt　to　read　critically　all　the　literary

productions；　in　verse　and　in　prose；　which　have　heaped　themselves　on

every　exposed　surface　of　my　library；　like　snowdrifts　along　the

railroad　tracks；blocking　my　literary　pathway；　so　that　I　can　hardly

find　my　daily　papers。



What　is　the　meaning　of　this　rush　into　rhyming　of　such　a　multitude　of

people；　of　all　ages；　from　the　infant　phenomenon　to　the　oldest

inhabitant？



Many　of　my　young　correspondents　have　told　me　in　so　many　words；

〃I　want　to　be　famous。〃　　Now　it　is　true　that　of　all　the　short　cuts　to

fame；　in　time　of　peace；　there　is　none　shorter　than　the　road　paved

with　rhymes。　　Byron　woke　up　one　morning　and　found　himself　famous。

Still　more　notably　did　Rouget　de　l'Isle　fill　the　air　of　France；　nay；

the　whole　atmosphere　of　freedom　all　the　world　over；　with　his　name

wafted　on　the　wings　of　the　Marseillaise；　the　work　of　a　single　night。

But　if　by　fame　the　aspirant　means　having　his　name　brought　before　and

kept　before　the　public；　there　is　a　much　cheaper　way　of　acquiring　that

kind　of　notoriety。　　Have　your　portrait　taken　as　a　〃Wonderful　Cure　of

a　Desperate　Disease　given　up　by　all　the　Doctors。〃　　You　will　get　a

fair　likeness　of　yourself　and　a　partial　biographical　notice；　and　have

the　satisfaction；　if　not　of　promoting　the　welfare　of　the　community；

at　least　that　of　advancing　the　financial　interests　of　the　benefactor

whose　enterprise　has　given　you　your　coveted　notoriety。　　If　a　man

wants　to　be　famous；　he　had　much　better　try　the　advertising　doctor

than　the　terrible　editor；　whose　waste…basket　is　a　maw　which　is　as

insatiable　as　the　temporary　stomach　of　Jack　the　Giant…killer。



〃You　must　not　talk　so；〃　said　Number　Five。　　〃I　know　you　don't　mean　any

wrong　to　the　true　poets；　but　you　might　be　thought　to　hold　them　cheap；

whereas　you　value　the　gift　in　others；in　yourself　too；　I　rather

think。　　There　are　a　great　many　women；and　some　men；who　write　in

verse　from　a　natural　instinct　which　leads　them　to　that　form　of

expression。　　If　you　could　peep　into　the　portfolio　of　all　the

cultivated　women　among　your　acquaintances；　you　would　be　surprised；　I

believe；　to　see　how　many　of　them　trust　their　thoughts　and　feelings　to

verse　which　they　never　think　of　publishing；　and　much　of　which　never

meets　any　eyes　but　their　own。　　Don't　be　cruel　to　the　sensitive

natures　who　find　a　music　in　the　harmonies　of　rhythm　and　rhyme　which

soothes　their　own　souls；　if　it　reaches　no　farther。〃



I　was　glad　that　Number　Five　spoke　up　as　she　did。　　Her　generous

instinct　came　to　the　rescue　of　the　poor　poets　just　at　the　right

moment。　　Not　that　I　meant　to　deal　roughly　with　them；　but　the　〃poets〃

I　have　been　forced　into　relation　with　have　impressed　me　with　certain

convictions　which　are　not　flattering　to　the　fraternity；　and　if　my

judgments　are　not　accompanied　by　my　own　qualifications；　distinctions；

and　exceptions；　they　may　seem　harsh　to　many　readers。





Let　me　draw　a　picture　which　many　a　young　man　and　woman；　and　some　no

longer　young；　will　recognize　as　the　story　of　their　own　experiences。





He　is　sitting　alone　with　his　own　thoughts　and　memories。　　What　is

that　book　he　is　holding？　　Something　precious；　evidently；　for　it　is

bound　in　〃tree　calf；〃　and　there　is　gilding　enough　about　it　for　a

birthday　present。　　The　reader　seems　to　be　deeply　absorbed　in　its

contents；　and　at　times　greatly　excited　by　what　he　reads；　for　his　face

is　flushed；　his　eyes　glitter；　andthere　rolls　a　large　tear　down　his

cheek。　　Listen　to　him；　he　is　reading　aloud　in　impassioned　tones：



　　　　　And　have　I　coined　my　soul　in　words　for　naught？

　　　　　And　must　I；　with　the　dim；　forgotten　throng

　　　　　Of　silent　ghosts　that　left　no　earthly　trace

　　　　　To　show　they　once　had　breathed　this　vital　air；

　　　　　Die　out；　of　mortal　memories？



His　voice　is　choked　by　his　emotion。　　〃How　is　it　possible；〃　he　says　to

himself；　〃that　any　one　can　read　my　'Gaspings　for　Immortality'　without

being　impressed　by　their　freshness；　their　passion；　their　beauty；

their　originality？〃　　Tears　come　to　his　relief　freely；so　freely　that

be　has　to　push　the　precious　volume　out　of　the　range　of　their

blistering　shower。　　Six　years　ago　〃Gaspings　for　Immortality　〃　was

published；　advertised；　praised　by　the　professionals　whose　business　it

is　to　boost　their　publishers'　authors。　　A　week　and　more　it　was　seen

on　the　counters　of　the　booksellers　and　at　the　stalls　in　the　railroad

stations。　　Then　it　disappeared　from　public　view。　　A　few　copies　still

kept　their　place　on　the　shelves　of　friends；　presentation　copies；　of

course；　as　there　is　no　evidence　that　any　were　disposed　of　by　sale；

and　now；　one　might　as　well　ask　for　the　lost　books　of　Livy　as　inquire

at　a　bookstore　for　〃Gaspings　for　Immortality。〃



The　authors　of　these　poems　are　all　round　us；　men　and　women；　and　no

one　with　a　fair　amount　of　human　sympathy　in　his　disposition　would

treat　them　otherwise　than　tenderly。　　Perhaps　they　do　not　need　tender

treatment。　　How　do　you　know　that　posterity　may　not　resuscitate　these

seemingly　dead　poems；　and　give　their　author　the　immortality　for　which

he　longed　and　labored？　　It　is　not　every　poet　who　is　at　once

appreciated。　　Some　will　tell　you　that　the　best　poets　never　are。　　Who

can　say　that　you；　dear　unappreciated　brother　or　sister；　are　not　one

of　those　whom　it　is　left　for　after　times　to　discover　among　the　wrecks

of　the　past；　and　hold　up　to　the　admiration　of　the　world？



I　have　not　thought　it　necessary　to　put　in　all　the　interpellations；　as

the　French　call　them；　which　broke　the　course　of　this　somewhat

extended　series　of　remarks；　but　the　comments　of　some　of　The　Teacups

helped　me　to　shape　certain　additional　observations；　and　may　seem　to

the　reader　as　of　more　significance　than　what　I　had　been　saying。



Number　Seven　saw　nothing　but　the　folly　and　weakness　of　the　〃rhyming

cranks；〃　as　he　called　them。　　He　thought　the　fellow　that　I　had

described　as　blubbering　over　his　still…born　poems　would　have　been

better　occupied　in　earning　his　living　in　some　honest　way　or　other。

He　knew　one　chap　that　published　a　volume　of　verses；　and　let　his　wife

bring　up　the　wood　for　the　fire　by　which　he　was　writing。　　A　fellow

says；　〃I　am　a　poet！〃　and　he　thinks　himself　different　from　common

folks。　　He　ought　to　be　excused　from　military　service。　　He　might　be

killed；　and　the　world　would　lose　the　inestimable　products　of　his

genius。　　〃I　believe　some　of　'em　think；〃　said　Number　Seven；　〃that　they

ought　not　to　be　called　upon　to　pay　their　taxes　and　their　bills　for

household　expenses；　like　the　rest　of　us。〃



〃If　they　would　only　study　and　take　to　heart　Horace's　'Ars　Poetica；'〃

said　the　Professor；　〃it　would　be　a　great　benefit　to　them　and　to　the

world　at　large。　　I　would　not　advise　you　to　follow　him　too　literally；

of　course；　for；　as　you　will　see；　the　changes　that　have　taken　place

since　his　time　would　make　some　of　his　precepts　useless　and　some

dangerous；　but　the　spirit　of　them　is　always　instructive。　　This　is　the

way；　somewhat　modernized　and　accompanied　by　my　running　commentary；　in

which　he　counsels　a　young　poet：



〃'Don't　try　to　write　poetry；　my　boy；　when　you　are　not　in　the　mood　for

doing　it；when　it　goes　against　the　grain。　　You　are　a　fellow　of

sense；you　understand　all　that。



〃'If　you　have　written　anything　which　you　think　well　of；　show　it　to

Mr。______　；　the　well…known　critic；　to　〃the　governor；〃　as　you　call

him；　your　honored　father；　and　to　me；　your　friend。'



〃To　the　critic　is　well　enough；　if　you　like　to　be　overhauled　and　put

out　of　conceit　with　yourself；it　may　do　you　good；　but　I　wouldn't　go

to　'the　governor'　with　my　verses；　if　I　were　you。　　For　either　he　will

think　what　yo