over the teacups-第61章

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Why　doubt　for　a　moment？　　More　shame　if　I　do！

Why　question？　　Why　tremble？　　Are　angels　more　true？

She　would　come　to　the　lover　who　calls　her　his　own

Though　she　trod　in　the　track　of　a　whirling　cyclone！



I　crossed　the　old　bridge　ere　the　minute　had　passed。

I　looked：　lo！　my　Love　stood　before　me　at　last。

Her　eyes；　how　they　sparkled；　her　cheeks；　how　they　glowed；

As　we　met；　face　to　face；　at　the　turn　of　the　road！









XII



There　was　a　great　tinkling　of　teaspoons　the　other　evening；　when　I

took　my　seat　at　the　table；　where　ail　The　Teacups　were　gathered　before

my　entrance。　　The　whole　company　arose；　and　the　Mistress；　speaking　for

them；　expressed　the　usual　sentiment　appropriate　to　such　occasions。

〃Many　happy　returns〃　is　the　customary　formula。　　No　matter　if　the

object　of　this　kind　wish　is　a　centenarian；　it　is　quite　safe　to　assume

that　he　is　ready　and　very　willing　to　accept　as　many　more　years　as　the

disposing　powers　may　see　fit　to　allow　him。



The　meaning　of　it　all　was　that　this　was　my　birthday。　　My　friends；

near　and　distant；　had　seen　fit　to　remember　it；　and　to　let　me　know　in

various　pleasant　ways　that　they　had　not　forgotten　it。　　The　tables

were　adorned　with　flowers。　　Gifts　of　pretty　and　pleasing　objects　were

displayed　on　a　side　table。　　A　great　green　wreath；　which　must　have

cost　the　parent　oak　a　large　fraction　of　its　foliage；　was　an　object　of

special　admiration。　　Baskets　of　flowers　which　had　half　unpeopled

greenhouses；　large　bouquets　of　roses；　fragrant　bunches　of　pinks；　and

many　beautiful　blossoms　I　am　not　botanist　enough　to　name　had　been

coming　in　upon　me　all　day　long。　　Many　of　these　offerings　were　brought

by　the　givers　in　person；　many　came　with　notes　as　fragrant　with　good

wishes　as　the　flowers　they　accompanied　with　their　natural　perfumes。



How　old　was　I；　The　Dictator；　once　known　by　another　equally　audacious

title；I；　the　recipient　of　all　these　favors　and　honors？　　I　had

cleared　the　eight…barred　gate；　which　few　come　in　sight　of；　and　fewer；

far　fewer；　go　over；　a　year　before。　　I　was　a　trespasser　on　the　domain

belonging　to　another　generation。　　The　children　of　my　coevals　were

fast　getting　gray　and　bald；　and　their　children　beginning　to　look　upon

the　world　as　belonging　to　them；　and　not　to　their　sires　and

grandsires。　　After　that　leap　over　the　tall　barrier；　it　looks　like　a

kind　of　impropriety　to　keep　on　as　if　one　were　still　of　a　reasonable

age。　　Sometimes　it　seems　to　me　almost　of　the　nature　of　a　misdemeanor

to　be　wandering　about　in　the　preserve　which　the　fleshless　gamekeeper

guards　so　jealously。　　But；　on　the　other　hand；　I　remember　that　men　of

science　have　maintained　that　the　natural　life　of　man　is　nearer

fivescore　than　threescore　years　and　ten。　　I　always　think　of　a

familiar　experience　which　I　bring　from　the　French　cafes；　well　known

to　me　in　my　early　manhood。　　One　of　the　illustrated　papers　of　my

Parisian　days　tells　it　pleasantly　enough。



A　guest　of　the　establishment　is　sitting　at　his　little　table。　　He　has

just　had　his　coffee；　and　the　waiter　is　serving　him　with　his　petit

verre。　　Most　of　my　readers　know　very　well　what　a　petit　verre　is；　but

there　may　be　here　and　there　a　virtuous　abstainer　from　alcoholic

fluids；　living　among　the　bayberries　and　the　sweet　ferns；　who　is　not

aware　that　the　words；　as　commonly　used；　signify　a　small　glassa　very

small　glassof　spirit；　commonly　brandy；　taken　as　a　chasse…caf？；　or

coffee…chaser。　　This　drinking　of　brandy；　〃neat；〃　I　may　remark　by　the

way；　is　not　quite　so　bad　as　it　looks。　　Whiskey　or　rum　taken　unmixed

from　a　tumbler　is　a　knock…down　blow　to　temperance；　but　the　little

thimbleful　of　brandy；　or　Chartreuse；　or　Maraschino；　is　only；　as　it

were；　tweaking　the　nose　of　teetotalism。



Well；to　go　back　behind　our　brackets；the　guest　is　calling　to　the

waiter；　〃Garcon！　et　le　bain　de　pieds！　　〃Waiter！　and　the　foot…bath！

The　little　glass　stands　in　a　small　tin　saucer　or　shallow　dish；　and

the　custom　is　to　more　than　fill　the　glass；　so　that　some　extra　brandy

rung　over　into　this　tin　saucer　or　cup…plate；　to　the　manifest　gain　of

the　consumer。



Life　is　a　petit　verre　of　a　very　peculiar　kind　of　spirit。　　At　seventy

years　it　used　to　be　said　that　the　little　glass　was　full。　　We　should

be　more　apt　to　put　it　at　eighty　in　our　day；　while　Gladstone　and

Tennyson　and　our　own　Whittier　are　breathing；　moving；　thinking；

writing；　speaking；　in　the　green　preserve　belonging　to　their　children

and　grandchildren；　and　Bancroft　is　keeping　watch　of　the　gamekeeper　in

the　distance。　　But；　returning　resolutely　to　the　petit　verre；　I　am

willing　to　concede　that　all　after　fourscore　is　the　bain　de　pieds；

the　slopping　over；　so　to　speak；　of　the　full　measure　of　life。　　I

remember　that　one　who　was　very　near　and　dear　to　me；　and　who　lived　to

a　great　age；　so　that　the　ten…barred　gate　of　the　century　did　not　look

very　far　off；　would　sometimes　apologize　in　a　very　sweet；　natural　way

for　lingering　so　long　to　be　a　care　and　perhaps　a　burden　to　her

children；　themselves　getting　well　into　years。　　It　is　not　hard　to

understand　the　feeling；　never　less　called　for　than　it　was　in　the　case

of　that　beloved　nonagenarian。　　I　have　known　few　persons；　young　or

old；　more　sincerely　and　justly　regretted　than　the　gentle　lady　whose

memory　comes　up　before　me　as　I　write。



Oh；　if　we　could　all　go　out　of　flower　as　gracefully；　as　pleasingly；　as

we　come　into　blossom！　　I　always　think　of　the　morning…glory　as　the

loveliest　example　of　a　graceful　yielding　to　the　inevitable。　　It　is

beautiful　before　its　twisted　corolla　opens；　it　is　comely　as　it　folds

its　petals　inward；　when　its　brief　hours　of　perfection　are　over。

Women　find　it　easier　than　men　to　grow　old　in　a　becoming　way。　　A　very

old　lady　who　has　kept　something；　it　may　be　a　great　deal；　of　her

youthful　feelings；　who　is　daintily　cared　for；　who　is　grateful　for　the

attentions　bestowed　upon　her；　and　enters　into　the　spirit　of　the　young

lives　that　surround　her；　is　as　precious　to　those　who　love　her　as　a

gem　in　an　antique　setting；　the　fashion　of　which　has　long　gone　by；　but

which　leaves　the　jewel　the　color　and　brightness　which　are　its

inalienable　qualities。　　With　old　men　it　is　too　often　different。　　They

do　not　belong　so　much　indoors　as　women　do。　　They　have　no　pretty

little　manual　occupations。　　The　old　lady　knits　or　stitches　so　long　as

her　eyes　and　fingers　will　let　her。　　The　old　man　smokes　his　pipe；　but

does　not　know　what　to　do　with　his　fingers；　unless　he　plays　upon　some

instrument；　or　has　a　mechanical　turn　which　finds　business　for　them。



But　the　old　writer；　I　said　to　The　Teacups；　as　I　say　to　you；　my

readers；　labors　under　one　special　difficulty；　which　I　am　thinking　of

and　exemplifying　at　this　moment。　　He　is　constantly　tending　to　reflect

upon　and　discourse　about　his　own　particular　stage　of　life。　　He　feels

that　he　must　apologize　for　his　intrusion　upon　the　time　and　thoughts

of　a　generation　which　he　naturally　supposes　must　be　tired　of　him；　if

they　ever　had　any　considerable　regard　for　him。　　Now；　if　the　world　of

readers　hates　anything　it　sees　in　print；　it　is　apology。　　If　what　one

has　to　say　is　worth　saying；　he　need　not　beg　pardon　fur　saying　it。　　If

it　is　not　worth　saying　I　will　not　finish　the　sentence。　　But　it　is　so

hard　to　resist　the　temptation；　notwithstanding　that　the　terrible　line

beginning　〃Superfluous　lags　the　veteran〃　is　always　repeating　itself

in　his　dull　ear！



What　kind　of　audience　or　reading　parish　is　a　man　who　secured　his

constituency　in　middle　life；　or　before　that　period；　to　expect　when　he

has　reached　the　age　of　threescore　and　twenty？　　His　coevals　have

dropped　away　by　scores　and　tens；　and　he　sees　only　a　few　units

scattered　about　here　and　there；　like　the　few　beads　above　the　water

after　a　ship　has　gone　to　pieces。　　Does　he　write　and　publish　for　those

of　his　own　time　of　life？　　He　need　not　print　a　large　edition。　　Does　he

hope　to　secure　a　hearing　from　those　who　have　come　into　the　reading

world　since　his　coevals？　　They　have　found　fresher　fields　and　greener

pastures。　　Their　interests　are　in　the　out…door