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talking that matter over we got conversing on other subjects； among
the rest a family relationship existing between us；not a very near
one； but one which I think I had seen mentioned in genealogical
accounts。 Mary S。 （the last name being the same as that of my
visitant）； it appeared； was the great…great…grandmother of Mrs。 H。
and myself。 After cordially recognizing our forgotten relationship；
now for the first time called to mind； we parted； my guest leaving me
for his own home。 We had been sitting in my library on the lower
floor。 On going up…stairs where Mrs。 H。 was sitting alone； just as I
entered the room she pushed a paper across the table towards me；
saying that perhaps it might interest me。 It was one of a number of
old family papers which she had brought from the house of her mother；
recently deceased。
I opened the paper； which was an old…looking document； and found that
it was a copy； perhaps made in this century； of the will of that same
Mary S。 about whom we had been talking down…stairs。
If there is such a thing as a purely accidental coincidence this must
be considered an instance of it。
All one can say about it is that it seems very unlikely that such a
coincidence should occur； but it did。
I have not tried to keep my own personality out of these stories。
But after all； how little difference it makes whether or not a writer
appears with a mask on which everybody can take off；whether he
bolts his door or not； when everybody can look in at his windows； and
all his entrances are at the mercy of the critic's skeleton key and
the jimmy of any ill…disposed assailant！
The company have been silent listeners for the most part； but the
reader will have a chance to become better acquainted with some cf
them by and by。
II
TO THE READER。
I know that it is a hazardous experiment to address myself again to a
public which in days long past has given me a generous welcome。 But
my readers have been； and are； a very faithful constituency。 I think
there are many among them who would rather listen to an old voice
they are used to than to a new one of better quality； even if the
〃childish treble〃 should betray itself now and then in the tones of
the overtired organ。 But there must be others；I am afraid many
others；who will exclaim： 〃He has had his day； and why can't he be
content？ We don't want literary revenants； superfluous veterans；
writers who have worn out their welcome and still insist on being
attended to。 Give us something fresh； something that belongs to our
day and generation。 Your morning draught was well enough； but we
don't care for your evening slip…slop。 You are not in relation with
us； with our time； our ideas； our aims； our aspirations。〃
Alas； alas！ my friend；my young friend； for your hair is not yet
whitened；I am afraid you are too nearly right。 No doubt；no
doubt。 Teacups are not coffee…cups。 They do not hold so much。
Their pallid infusion is but a feeble stimulant compared with the
black decoction served at the morning board。 And so； perhaps； if
wisdom like yours were compatible with years like mine； I should drop
my pen and make no further attempts upon your patience。
But suppose that a writer who has reached and passed the natural
limit of serviceable years feels that he has some things which be
would like to say； and which may have an interest for a limited class
of readers；is he not right in trying his powers and calmly taking
the risk of failure？ Does it not seem rather lazy and cowardly；
because he cannot 〃beat his record；〃 or even come up to the level of
what he has done in his prime； to shrink from exerting his talent；
such as it is； now that he has outlived the period of his greatest
vigor？ A singer who is no longer equal to the trials of opera on the
stage may yet please at a chamber concert or in the drawing…room。
There is one gratification an old author can afford a certain class
of critics： that； namely； of comparing him as he is with what he was。
It is a pleasure to mediocrity to have its superiors brought within
range； so to speak； and if the ablest of them will only live long
enough； and keep on writing； there is no pop…gun that cannot reach
him。 But I fear that this is an unamiable reflection； and I am at
this time in a very amiable mood。
I confess that there is something agreeable to me in renewing my
relations with the reading public。 Were it but a single appearance；
it would give me a pleasant glimpse of the time when I was known as a
frequent literary visitor。 Many of my readersif I can lure any
from the pages of younger writers will prove to be the children； or
the grandchildren； of those whose acquaintance I made something more
than a whole generation ago。 I could depend on a kind welcome from
my contemporaries；my coevals。 But where are those contemporaries？
Ay de mi！ as Carlyle used to exclaim；Ah； dear me！ as our old women
say；I look round for them； and see only their vacant places。 The
old vine cannot unwind its tendrils。 The branch falls with the decay
of its support； and must cling to the new growths around it； if it
would not lie helpless in the dust。 This paper is a new tendril；
feeling its way； as it best may； to whatever it can wind around。 The
thought of finding here and there an old friend； and making； it may
be； once in a while a new one； is very grateful to me。 The chief
drawback to the pleasure is the feeling that I am submitting to that
inevitable exposure which is the penalty of authorship in every form。
A writer must make up his mind to the possible rough treatment of the
critics； who swarm like bacteria whenever there is any literary
material on which they can feed。 I have had as little to complain of
as most writers； yet I think it is always with reluctance that one
encounters the promiscuous handling which the products of the mind
have to put up with； as much as the fruit and provisions in the
market…stalls。 I had rather be criticised； however； than criticise；
that is； express my opinions in the public prints of other writers'
work； if they are living； and can suffer； as I should often have to
make them。 There are enough； thank Heaven； without me。 We are
literary cannibals； and our writers live on each other and each
other's productions to a fearful extent。 What the mulberry leaf is
to the silk…worm； the author's book； treatise； essay； poem； is to the
critical larva； that feed upon it。 It furnishes them with food and
clothing。 The process may not be agreeable to the mulberry leaf or
to the printed page； but without it the leaf would not have become
the silk that covers the empress's shoulders； and but for the critic
the author's book might never have reached the scholar's table。
Scribblers will feed on each other； and if we insist on being
scribblers we must consent to be fed on。 We must try to endure
philosophically what we cannot help； and ought not； I suppose； to
wish to help。
It is the custom at our table to vary the usual talk； by the reading
of short papers； in prose or verse； by one or more of The Teacups； as
we are in the habit of calling those who make up our company。 Thirty
years ago； one of our present circle… 〃Teacup Number Two；〃 The
Professor；read a paper on Old Age； at a certain Breakfast…table；
where he was in the habit of appearing。 That paper was published at
the time； and has since seen the light in other forms。 He did not
know so much about old age then as he does now； and would doubtless
write somewhat differently if he took the subject up again。 But I
found that it was the general wish that another of our company should
let us hear what he had to say about it。 I received a polite note；
requesting me to discourse about old age； inasmuch as I was
particularly well qualified by my experience to write in an
authoritative way concerning it。 The fact is that I；for it is
myself who am speaking；have recently arrived at the age of
threescore years and twenty；fourscore years we may otherwise call
it。 In the arrangement of our table； I am Teacup Number One； and I
may as well say that I am often spoken of as The Dictator。 There is
nothing invidious in this； as I am the oldest of the company； and no
claim is less likely to excite jealousy than that of priority of
birth。
I received congratulations on reaching my eightieth birthday； not
only from our circle of Teacups； but from friends； near and distant；
in large numbers。 I tried to acknowledge these kindly missives with
the aid of a most intelligent secretary ； but I fear that there were
gifts not thanked for； and tokens of good…will not recognized。 Let
any neglected correspondent be assured that it was not intentionally
that he or she was slighted。 I was grateful for every such mark of
esteem； even for the telegram from an unknown friend in a distant
land； for which I cheerfully paid the considerable charge which