over the teacups-第12部分
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There sits a ghost in every chair！
One breathing form no more； alas！
Amid our slender group we see；
With him we still remained 〃The Class；〃
without his presence what are we？
The hand we ever loved to clasp；
That tireless hand which knew no rest；
Loosed from affection's clinging grasp；
Lies nerveless on the peaceful breast。
The beaming eye； the cheering voice；
That lent to life a generous glow；
whose every meaning said 〃Rejoice；〃
we see； we hear； no more below。
The air seems darkened by his loss；
Earth's shadowed features look less fair；
And heavier weighs the daily cross
His willing shoulders helped as bear。
Why mourn that we； the favored few
Whom grasping Time so long has spared
Life's sweet illusions to pursue；
The common lot of age have shared？
In every pulse of Friendship's heart
There breeds unfelt a throb of pain；
One hour must rend its links apart；
Though years on years have forged the chain。
So ends 〃The Boys；〃a lifelong play。
We too must hear the Prompter's call
To fairer scenes and brighter day
Farewell！ I let the curtain fall。
IV
If the reader thinks that all these talking Teacups came together by
mere accident； as people meet at a boarding…house； I may as well tell
him at once that he is mistaken。 If he thinks I am going to explain
how it is that he finds them thus brought together； whether they form
a secret association； whether they are the editors of this or that
periodical； whether they are connected with some institution； and so
on；I must disappoint him。 It is enough that he finds them in each
other's company； a very mixed assembly； of different sexes； ages； and
pursuits； and if there is a certain mystery surrounds their meetings；
he must not be surprised。 Does he suppose we want to be known and
talked about in public as 〃Teacups〃？ No； so far as we give to the
community some records of the talks at our table our thoughts become
public property； but the sacred personality of every Teacup must be
properly respected。 If any wonder at the presence of one of our
number； whose eccentricities might seem to render him an undesirable
associate of the company； he should remember that some people may
have relatives whom they feel bound to keep their eye on； besides the
cracked Teacup brings out the ring of the sound ones as nothing else
does。 Remember also that soundest teacup does not always hold the
best tea； or the cracked teacup the worst。
This is a hint to the reader； who is not expected to be too curious
about the individual Teacups constituting our unorganized
association。
The Dictator Discourses。
I have been reading Balzac's Peau de Chagrin。 You have all read the
story； I hope； for it is the first of his wonderful romances which
fixed the eyes of the reading world upon him； and is a most
fascinating if somewhat fantastic tale。 A young man becomes the
possessor of a certain magic skin； the peculiarity of which is that；
while it gratifies every wish formed by its possessor； it shrinks in
all its dimensions each time that a wish is gratified。 The young man
makes every effort to ascertain the cause of its shrinking； invokes
the aid of the physicist； the chemist； the student of natural
history； but all in vain。 He draws a red line around it。 That same
day he indulges a longing for a certain object。 The next morning
there is a little interval between the red line and the skin； close
to which it was traced。 So always； so inevitably。 As he lives on；
satisfying one desire； one passion； after another； the process of
shrinking continues。 A mortal disease sets in； which keeps pace with
the shrinking skin； and his life and his talisman come to an end
together。
One would say that such a piece of integument was hardly a desirable
possession。 And yet； how many of us have at this very moment a peau
de chagrin of our own； diminishing with every costly wish indulged；
and incapable； like the magical one of the story； of being arrested
in its progress
Need I say that I refer to those coupon bonds； issued in the days of
eight and ten per cent interest； and gradually narrowing as they drop
their semiannual slips of paper； which represent wishes to be
realized； as the roses let fall their leaves in July； as the icicles
melt away in the thaw of January？
How beautiful was the coupon bond； arrayed in its golden raiment of
promises to pay at certain stated intervals； for a goodly number of
coming years！ What annual the horticulturist can show will bear
comparison with this product of auricultural industry； which has
flowered in midsummer and midwinter for twenty successive seasons？
And now the last of its blossoms is to be plucked； and the bare stem；
stripped of its ever maturing and always welcome appendages； is
reduced to the narrowest conditions of reproductive existence。 Such
is the fate of the financial peau de chagrin。 Pity the poor
fractional capitalist； who has just managed to live on the eight per
cent of his coupon bonds。 The shears of Atropos were not more fatal
to human life than the long scissors which cut the last coupon to the
lean proprietor； whose slice of dry toast it served to flatter with
oleomargarine。 Do you wonder that my thoughts took the poetical
form； in the contemplation of these changes and their melancholy
consequences？ If the entire poem； of several hundred lines； was
〃declined with thanks〃 by an unfeeling editor； that is no reason why
you should not hear a verse or two of it。
THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET。
How beauteous is the bond
In the manifold array
Of its promises to pay；
While the eight per cent it gives
And the rate at which one lives
Correspond！
But at last the bough is bare
Where the coupons one by one
Through their ripening days have run；
And the bond； a beggar now；
Seeks investment anyhow；
Anywhere！
The Mistress commonly contents herself with the general supervision
of the company； only now and then taking an active part in the
conversation。 She started a question the other evening which set
some of us thinking。
〃Why is it；〃 she said； 〃that there is so common and so intense a
desire for poetical reputation？ It seems to me that； if I were a
man； I had rather have done something worth telling of than make
verses about what other people had done。〃
〃You agree with Alexander the Great；〃 said the Professor。 〃You would
prefer the fame of Achilles to that of Homer； who told the story of
his wrath and its direful consequences。 I am afraid that I should
hardly agree with you。 Achilles was little better than a Choctaw
brave。 I won't quote Horace's line which characterizes him so
admirably； for I will take it for granted that you all know it。 He
was a gentleman；so is a first…class Indian；a very noble gentleman
in point of courage； lofty bearing； courtesy； but an unsoaped； ill…
clad； turbulent； high…tempered young fellow； looked up to by his
crowd very much as the champion of the heavy weights is looked up to
by his gang of blackguards。 Alexander himself was not much better；
a foolish； fiery young madcap。 How often is he mentioned except as a
warning？ His best record is that he served to point a moral as
'Macedonian's madman。' He made a figure； it is true； in Dryden's
great Ode； but what kind of a figure？ He got drunk；in very bad
company； too；and then turned fire…bug。 He had one redeeming
point；he did value his Homer； and slept with the Iliad under his
pillow。 A poet like Homer seems to me worth a dozen such fellows as
Achilles and Alexander。〃
〃Homer is all very well far those that can read him；〃 said Number
Seven； 〃but the fellows that tag verses together nowadays are mostly
fools。 That's my opinion。 I wrote some verses once myself； but I
had been sick and was very weak； hadn't strength enough to write in
prose； I suppose。〃
This aggressive remark caused a little stir at our tea…table。 For
you must know； if I have not told you already； there are suspicions
that we have more than one 〃poet〃 at our table。 I have already
confessed that I do myself indulge in verse now and then； and have
given my readers a specimen of my work in that line。 But there is so
much difference of character in the verses which are produced at our
table； without any signature； that I feel quite sure there are at
least two or three other contributors besides myself。 There is a
tall； old…fashioned silver urn； a sugar…bowl of the period of the
Empire； in which the poems sent to be read are placed by unseen
hands。 When the proper moment arrives； I lift the cover of the urn
and take out any manuscript it may contain。 If conversation is going
on and the company are in a talking mood； I replace the manuscript or
manuscripts； clap on the cover； and wait until there is a moment's
quiet before taking it off again。 I might guess the writers
sometimes by the handwriting； but there is more trouble taken to
disguise the chirography than I choose to take to identify it as that
of any particular member of our company。
The turn the conversation took； especially the slashing onslaught of
Number Seven on the writers of verse； set me thinking and talking
about the matter。 Number Five turned on the stream of my discourse
by a question。
〃You receive a good many volumes of verse； do you not？〃 she said；
with a look which implied that she knew I did。
I certainly do； I answered。 My table aches with them。 My shelves
groan with them。 Think of what a fuss Pope made about his trials；
when he complained that
〃All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out〃！
What were the numbers of the
