over the teacups-第45章

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is　as　proud　of　its　caudal　appendage；　especially　in　summer…time；　as　a

peacock　of　his　gorgeous　expanse　of　plumage。



Do　you　think　there　is　anything　so　very　odd　about　this　idea？　　Once　get

it　well　into　your　heads；　and　you　will　find　it　renders　the　landscape

wonderfully　interesting。　　There　are　as　many　kinds　of　tree…tails　as

there　are　of　tails　to　dogs　and　other　quadrupeds。　　Study　them　as　Daddy

Gilpin　studied　them　in　his　〃Forest　Scenery；〃　but　don't　forget　that

they　are　only　the　appendage　of　the　underground　vegetable　polypus；　the

true　organism　to　which　they　belong。



He　paused　at　this　point；　and　we　all　drew　long　breaths；　wondering　what

was　coming　next。　　There　was　no　denying　it；　the　〃cracked　Teacup〃　was

clinking　a　little　false；so　it　seemed　to　the　company。　　Yet；　after

all；　the　fancy　was　not　delirious；the　mind　could　follow　it　well

enough；　let　him　go　on。



What　do　you　say　to　this？　　You　have　heard　all　sorts　of　things　said　in

prose　and　verse　about　Niagara。　　Ask　our　young　Doctor　there　what　it

reminds　him　of。　　Is　n't　it　a　giant　putting　his　tongue　out？　　How　can

you　fail　to　see　the　resemblance？　　The　continent　is　a　great　giant；　and

the　northern　half　holds　the　head　and　shoulders。　　You　can　count　the

pulse　of　the　giant　wherever　the　tide　runs　up　a　creek；　but　if　you　want

to　look　at　the　giant's　tongue；　you　must　go　to　Niagara。　　If　there　were

such　a　thing　as　a　cosmic　physician；　I　believe　he　could　tell　the　state

of　the　country's　health；　and　the　prospects　of　the　mortality　for　the

coming　season；　by　careful　inspection　of　the　great　tongue；　which

Niagara　is　putting　out　for　him；　and　has　been　showing　to　mankind　ever

since　the　first　flint…shapers　chipped　their　arrow…heads。　　You　don't

think　the　idea　adds　to　the　sublimity　and　associations　of　the

cataract？　　I　am　sorry　for　that；　but　I　can't　help　the　suggestion。　　It

is　just　as　manifestly　a　tongue　put　out　for　inspection　as　if　it　had

Nature's　own　label　to　that　effect　hung　over　it。　　I　don't　know　whether

you　can　see　these　things　as　clearly　as　I　do。　　There　are　some　people

that　never　see　anything；　if　it　is　as　plain　as　a　hole　in　a　grindstone；

until　it　is　pointed　out　to　them；　and　some　that　can't　see　it　then；　and

won't　believe　there　is　any　hole　till　they've　poked　their　finger

through　it。　　I've　got　a　great　many　things　to　thank　God　for；　but

perhaps　most　of　all　that　I　can　find　something　to　admire；　to　wonder

at；　to　set　my　fancy　going；　and　to　wind　up　my　enthusiasm　pretty　much

everywhere。



Look　here！　　There　are　crowds　of　people　whirled　through　our　streets　on

these　new…fashioned　cars；　with　their　witch…broomsticks　overhead；if

they　don't　come　from　Salem；　they　ought　to；and　not　more　than　one　in

a　dozen　of　these　fish…eyed　bipeds　thinks　or　cares　a　nickel's　worth

about　the　miracle　which　is　wrought　for　their　convenience。　　They　know

that　without　hands　or　feet；　without　horses；　without　steam；　so　far　as

they　can　see；　they　are　transported　from　place　to　place；　and　that

there　is　nothing　to　account　for　it　except　the　witch…broomstick　and

the　iron　or　copper　cobweb　which　they　see　stretched　above　them。　　What

do　they　know　or　care　about　this　last　revelation　of　the　omnipresent

spirit　of　the　material　universe？　　We　ought　to　go　down　on　our　knees

when　one　of　these　mighty　caravans；　car　after　car；　spins　by　us；　under

the　mystic　impulse　which　seems　to　know　not　whether　its　train　is

loaded　or　empty。　　We　are　used　to　force　in　the　muscles　of　horses；　in

the　expansive　potency　of　steam；　but　here　we　have　force　stripped　stark

naked；nothing　but　a　filament　to　cover　its　nudity；and　yet　showing

its　might　in　efforts　that　would　task　the　working…beam　of　a　ponderous

steam…engine。　　I　am　thankful　that　in　an　age　of　cynicism　I　have　not

lost　my　reverence。　　Perhaps　you　would　wonder　to　see　how　some　very

common　sights　impress　me。　　I　always　take　off　my　hat　if　I　stop　to

speak　to　a　stone…cutter　at　his　work。　　〃Why？〃　do　you　ask　me？　　Because

I　know　that　his　is　the　only　labor　that　is　likely　to　endure。　　A　score

of　centuries　has　not　effaced　the　marks　of　the　Greek's　or　the　Roman's

chisel　on　his　block　of　marble。　　And　now；　before　this　new

manifestation　of　that　form　of　cosmic　vitality　which　we　call

electricity；　I　feel　like　taking　the　posture　of　the　peasants　listening

to　the　Angelus。　　How　near　the　mystic　effluence　of　mechanical　energy

brings　us　to　the　divine　source　of　all　power　and　motion！　　In　the　old

mythology；　the　right　hand　of　Jove　held　and　sent　forth　the　lightning。

So；　in　the　record　of　the　Hebrew　prophets；　did　the　right　hand　of

Jehovah　cast　forth　and　direct　it。　　Was　Nahum　thinking　of　our　far…off

time　when　he　wrote；　〃The　chariots　shall　rage　in　the　streets；　they

shall　justle　one　against　another　in　the　broad　ways：　they　shall　seem

like　torches；　they　shall　run　like　the　lightnings〃？



Number　Seven　had　finished　reading　his　paper。　　Two　bright　spots　in　his

cheeks　showed　that　he　had　felt　a　good　deal　in　writing　it；　and　the


flush　returned　as　he　listened　to　his　own　thoughts。　　Poor　old　fellow！

The　〃cracked　Teacup〃　of　our　younger　wits；not　yet　come　to　their　full

human　sensibilities；the　〃crank〃　of　vulgar　tongues；　the　eccentric；

the　seventh　son　of　a　seventh　son；　too　often　made　the　butt　of

thoughtless　pleasantry；　was；　after　all；　a　fellow…creature；　with　flesh

and　blood　like　the　rest　of　us。　　The　wild　freaks　of　his　fancy　did　not

hurt　us；　nor　did　they　prevent　him　from　seeing　many　things　justly；　and

perhaps　sometimes　more　vividly　and　acutely　than　if　he　were　as　sound

as　the　dullest　of　us。



The　teaspoons　tinkled　loudly　all　round　the　table；　as　he　finished

reading。　　The　Mistress　caught　her　breath。　　I　was　afraid　she　was　going

to　sob；　but　she　took　it　out　in　vigorous　stirring　of　her　tea。　　Will

you　believe　that　I　saw　Number　Five；　with　a　sweet；　approving　smile　on

her　face　all　the　time；　brush　her　cheek　with　her　hand…kerchief？　　There

must　have　been　a　tear　stealing　from　beneath　its　eyelid。　　I　hope

Number　Seven　saw　it。　　He　is　one　of　the　two　men　at　our　table　who　most

need　the　tender　looks　and　tones　of　a　woman。　　The　Professor　and　I　are

hors　de　combat；　the　Counsellor　is　busy　with　his　cases　and　his

ambitions；　the　Doctor　is　probably　in　love　with　a　microscope；　and

flirting　with　pathological　specimens；　but　Number　Seven　and　the　Tutor

are；　I　fear；　both　suffering　from　that　worst　of　all　famines；　heart…

hunger。



Do　you　remember　that　Number　Seven　said　he　never　wrote　a　line　of

〃poetry〃　in　his　life；　except　once　when　he　was　suffering　from

temporary　weakness　of　body　and　mind？　　That　is　because　he　is　a　poet。

If　he　had　not　been　one；　he　would　very　certainly　have　taken　to

tinkling　rhymes。　　What　should　you　think　of　the　probable　musical

genius　of　a　young　man　who　was　particularly　fond　of　jingling　a　set　of

sleigh…bells？　　Should　you　expect　him　to　turn　out　a　Mozart　or　a

Beethoven？　　Now；　I　think　I　recognize　the　poetical　instinct　in　Number

Seven；　however　imperfect　may　be　its　expression；　and　however　he　may　be

run　away　with　at　times　by　fantastic　notions　that　come　into　his　head。

If　fate　had　allotted　him　a　helpful　companion　in　the　shape　of　a　loving

and　intelligent　wife；　he　might　have　been　half　cured　of　his

eccentricities；　and　we　should　not　have　had　to　say；　in　speaking　of

him；　〃Poor　fellow！〃　　But　since　this　cannot　be；　I　am　pleased　that　he

should　have　been　so　kindly　treated　on　the　occasion　of　the　reading　of

his　paper。　　If　he　saw　Number　Five's　tear；　he　will　certainly　fall　in

love　with　her。　　No　matter　if　he　does　Number　Five　is　a　kind　of　Circe

who　does　not　turn　the　victims　of　her　enchantment　into　swine；　but　into

lambs。　　I　want　to　see　Number　Seven　one　of　her　little　flock。　　I　say

〃little。〃　　I　suspect　it　is　larger　than　most　of　us　know。　　Anyhow；　she

can　spare　him　sympathy　and　kindness　and　encouragement　enough　to　keep

him　contented　with　himself　and　with　her；　and　never　miss　the　pulses　of

her　loving　life　she　lends　him。　　It　seems　to　be　the　errand　of　some

women　to　give　many　people　as　much　happiness　as　they　have　any　right　to

in　this　world。　　If　they　concentrated　their　affection　on　one；　they

would　give　him　more　than　a