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Ah； say not so！
Tell reddening rose…buds not to blow！
Wait not for spring to pass away；
Love's summer months begin with May！
Too young for love？
Ah； say not so！
Too young？ Too young？
Ah； no！ no！ no！
Too young for love？
Ah； say not so；
While daisies bloom and tulips glow！
June soon will come with lengthened day
To practise all love learned in May。
Too young for love？
Ah； say not so！
Too young？ Too young？
Ah； no！ no！ no！
IX
I often wish that our Number Seven could have known and corresponded
with the author of 〃The Budget of Paradoxes。〃 I think Mr。 De Morgan
would have found some of his vagaries and fancies not undeserving of
a place in his wonderful collection of eccentricities； absurdities；
ingenuities；mental freaks of all sorts。 But I think he would have
now and then recognized a sound idea； a just comparison； a suggestive
hint； a practical notion； which redeemed a page of extravagances and
crotchety whims。 I confess that I am often pleased with fancies of
his； and should be willing to adopt them as my own。 I think he has；
in the midst of his erratic and tangled conceptions； some perfectly
clear and consistent trains of thought。
So when Number Seven spoke of sending us a paper； I welcomed the
suggestion。 I asked him whether he had any objection to my looking
it over before he read it。 My proposal rather pleased him； I
thought； for； as was observed on a former occasion； he has in
connection with a belief in himself another side；a curious self…
distrust。 I have no question that he has an obscure sense of some
mental deficiency。 Thus you may expect from him first a dogma； and
presently a doubt。 If you fight his dogma； he will do battle for it
stoutly； if you let him alone； he will very probably explain its
extravagances； if it has any； and tame it into reasonable limits。
Sometimes he is in one mood； sometimes in another。
The first portion of what we listened to shows him at his best； in
the latter part I am afraid you will think he gets a little wild。
I proceed to lay before you the paper which Number Seven read to The
Teacups。 There was something very pleasing in the deference which
was shown him。 We all feel that there is a crack in the teacup； and
are disposed to handle it carefully。 I have left out a few things
which he said； feeling that they might give offence to some of the
company。 There were sentences so involved and obscure that I was
sure they would not be understood； if indeed he understood them
himself。 But there are other passages so entirely sane； and as it
seems to me so just； that if any reader attributes them to me I shall
not think myself wronged by the supposition。 You must remember that
Number Seven has had a fair education； that he has been a wide reader
in many directions； and that he belongs to a family of remarkable
intellectual gifts。 So it was not surprising that he said some
things which pleased the company； as in fact they did。 The reader
will not be startled to see a certain abruptness in the transition
from one subject to another；it is a characteristic of the squinting
brain wherever you find it。 Another curious mark rarely wanting in
the subjects of mental strabismus is an irregular and often sprawling
and deformed handwriting。 Many and many a time I have said； after
glancing at the back of a letter； 〃This comes from an insane asylum；
or from an eccentric who might well be a candidate for such an
institution。〃 Number Seven's manuscript； which showed marks of my
corrections here and there； furnished good examples of the
chirography of persons with ill…mated cerebral hemispheres。 But the
earlier portions of the manuscript are of perfectly normal
appearance。
Conticuere omnes； as Virgil says。 We were all silent as Number Seven
began the reading of his paper。
Number Seven reads。
I am the seventh son of a seventh son； as I suppose you all know。 It
is commonly believed that some extraordinary gifts belong to the
fortunate individuals born under these exceptional conditions。
However this may be； a peculiar virtue was supposed to dwell in me
from my earliest years。 My touch was believed to have the influence
formerly attributed to that of the kings and queens of England。 You
may remember that the great Dr。 Samuel Johnson； when a child； was
carried to be touched by her Majesty Queen Anne for the 〃king's
evil；〃 as scrofula used to be called。 Our honored friend The
Dictator will tell you that the brother of one of his Andover
schoolmates was taken to one of these gifted persons； who touched
him； and hung a small bright silver coin； either a 〃fourpence
ha'penny〃 or a 〃ninepence；〃 about his neck； which； strange to say；
after being worn a certain time； became tarnished； and finally
black；a proof of the poisonous matters which had become eliminated
from the system and gathered upon the coin。 I remember that at one
time I used to carry fourpence ha'pennies with holes bored through
them； which I furnished to children or to their mothers； under
pledges of secrecy；receiving a piece of silver of larger dimensions
in exchange。 I never felt quite sure about any extraordinary
endowment being a part of my inheritance in virtue of my special
conditions of birth。 A phrenologist； who examined my head when I was
a boy； said the two sides were unlike。 My hatter's measurement told
me the same thing； but in looking over more than a bushel of the
small cardboard hat…patterns which give the exact shape of the head；
I have found this is not uncommon。 The phrenologist made all sorts
of predictions of what I should be and do； which proved about as near
the truth as those recorded in Miss Edith Thomas's charming little
poem； 〃Augury；〃 which some of us were reading the other day。
I have never been through college； but I had a relative who was
famous as a teacher of rhetoric in one of our universities； and
especially for taking the nonsense out of sophomorical young fellows
who could not say anything without rigging it up in showy and
sounding phrases。 I think I learned from him to express myself in
good old…fashioned English； and without making as much fuss about it
as our Fourth of July orators and political haranguers were in the
habit of making。
I read a good many stories during my boyhood； one of which left a
lasting impression upon me； and which I have always commended to
young people。 It is too late； generally； to try to teach old people；
yet one may profit by it at any period of life before the sight has
become too dim to be of any use。 The story I refer to is in
〃Evenings at Home；〃 and is called 〃Eyes and No Eyes。〃 I ought to
have it by me； but it is constantly happening that the best old
things get overlaid by the newest trash； and though I have never seen
anything of the kind half so good； my table and shelves are cracking
with the weight of involuntary accessions to my library。
This is the story as I remember it： Two children walk out； and are
questioned when they come home。 One has found nothing to observe；
nothing to admire； nothing to describe； nothing to ask questions
about。 The other has found everywhere objects of curiosity and
interest。 I advise you； if you are a child anywhere under forty…
five； and do not yet wear glasses； to send at once for 〃Evenings at
Home〃 and read that story。 For myself； I am always grateful to the
writer of it for calling my attention to common things。 How many
people have been waked to a quicker consciousness of life by
Wordsworth's simple lines about the daffodils； and what he says of
the thoughts suggested to him by 〃the meanest flower that blows〃！
I was driving with a friend； the other day； through a somewhat dreary
stretch of country； where there seemed to be very little to attract
notice or deserve remark。 Still； the old spirit infused by 〃Eyes and
No Eyes〃 was upon me； and I looked for something to fasten my thought
upon； and treat as an artist treats a study for a picture。 The first
object to which my eyes were drawn was an old…fashioned well…sweep。
It did not take much imaginative sensibility to be stirred by the
sight of this most useful； most ancient； most picturesque； of
domestic conveniences。 I know something of the shadoof of Egypt；
the same arrangement by which the sacred waters of the Nile have been
lifted； from the days of the Pharaohs to those of the Khedives。 That
long forefinger pointing to heaven was a symbol which spoke to the
Puritan exile as it spoke of old to the enslaved Israelite。 Was
there ever any such water as that which we used to draw from the
deep； cold well； in 〃the old oaken bucket〃？ What memories gather
about the well in all ages！ What love…matches have been made at i