the poet at the breakfast table-第24章
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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。 But yon need not think I am going to
tell you every time his popgun goes off； making a Selah of him
whenever I want to change the subject。 Occasionally he was ill…timed
in his artillery practice and ignominiously rebuked； sometimes he was
harmlessly playful and nobody minded him； but every now and then he
came in so apropos that I am morally certain he gets a hint from
somebody who watches the course of the conversation； and means
through him to have a hand in it and stop any of us when we are
getting prosy。 But in consequence of That Boy's indiscretion； we
were without a check upon our expansiveness； and ran on in the way
you have observed and may be disposed to find fault with。
One other thing the Master said before we left the table； after our
long talk of that day。
I have been tempted sometimes；said he； to envy the immediate
triumphs of the singer。 He enjoys all that praise can do for him and
at the very moment of exerting his talent。 And the singing women！
Once in a while； in the course of my life； I have found myself in the
midst of a tulip…bed of full…dressed； handsome women in all their
glory； and when some one among them has shaken her gauzy wings； and
sat down before the piano； and then； only giving the keys a soft
touch now and then to support her voice； has warbled some sweet； sad
melody intertwined with the longings or regrets of some tender…
hearted poet； it has seemed to me that so to hush the rustling of the
silks and silence the babble of the buds； as they call the chicks of
a new season； and light up the flame of romance in cold hearts； in
desolate ones； in old burnt…out ones；like mine； I was going to say；
but I won't； for it isn't so； and you may laugh to hear me say it
isn't so； if you like；was perhaps better than to be remembered a
few hundred years by a few perfect stanzas； when your gravestone is
standing aslant； and your name is covered over with a lichen as big
as a militia colonel's cockade； and nobody knows or cares enough
about you to scrape it off and set the tipsy old slate…stone upright
again。
I said nothing in reply to this； for I was thinking of a sweet
singer to whose voice I had listened in its first freshness； and
which is now only an echo in my memory。 If any reader of the
periodical in which these conversations are recorded can remember so
far back as the first year of its publication； he will find among the
papers contributed by a friend not yet wholly forgotten a few verses；
lively enough in their way； headed 〃The Boys。〃 The sweet singer was
one of this company of college classmates； the constancy of whose
friendship deserves a better tribute than the annual offerings；
kindly meant； as they are； which for many years have not been wanting
at their social gatherings。 The small company counts many noted
personages on its list； as is well known to those who are interested
in such local matters； but it is not known that every fifth man of
the whole number now living is more or less of a poet；using that
word with a generous breadth of significance。 But it should seem
t
