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in this way。
I find the great charm of writing consists in its surprises。 When
one is in the receptive attitude of mind； the thoughts which are
sprung upon him； the images which flash through hisconsciousness；
are a delight and an excitement。 I am impatient of every hindrance
in setting down my thoughts；of a pen that will not write； of ink
that will not flow； of paper that will not receive the ink。 And here
let me pay the tribute which I owe to one of the humblest but most
serviceable of my assistants； especially in poetical composition。
Nothing seems more prosaic than the stylographic pen。 It deprives
the handwriting of its beauty； and to some extent of its individual
character。 The brutal communism of the letters it forms covers the
page it fills with the most uniformly uninteresting characters。 But；
abuse it as much as you choose； there is nothing like it for the
poet； for the imaginative writer。 Many a fine flow of thought has
been checked； perhaps arrested； by the ill behavior of a goose…quill。
Many an idea has escaped while the author was dipping his pen in the
inkstand。 But with the stylographic pen； in the hands of one who
knows how to care for it and how to use it； unbroken rhythms and
harmonious cadences are the natural products of the unimpeded flow of
the fluid which is the vehicle of the author's thoughts and fancies。
So much for my debt of gratitude to the humble stylographic pen。 It
does not furnish the proper medium for the correspondence of
intimates； who wish to see as much of their friends' personality as
their handwriting can hold；still less for the impassioned
interchange of sentiments between lovers； but in writing for the
press its use is open to no objection。 Its movement over the paper
is like the flight of a swallow； while the quill pen and the steel
pen and the gold pen are all taking short； laborious journeys； and
stopping to drink every few minutes。
A chief pleasure which the author of novels and stories experiences
is that of becoming acquainted with the characters be draws。 It is
perfectly true that his characters must； in the nature of things；
have more or less of himself in their composition。 If I should seek
an exemplification of this in the person of any of my Teacups； I
should find it most readily in the one whom I have called Number
Seven； the one with the squinting brain。 I think that not only I；
the writer； but many of my readers； recognize in our own mental
constitution an occasional obliquity of perception； not always
detected at the time； but plain enough when looked back upon。 What
extravagant fancies you and I have seriously entertained at one time
or another！ What superstitious notions have got into our heads and
taken possession of its empty chambers；or； in the language of
science； seized on the groups of nerve…cells in some of the idle
cerebral convolutions！
The writer； I say； becomes acquainted with his characters as be goes
on。 They are at first mere embryos； outlines of distinct
personalities。 By and by； if they have any organic cohesion； they
begin to assert themselves。 They can say and do such and such
things； such and such other things they cannot and must not say or
do。 The story…writer's and play…writer's danger is that they will
get their characters mixed； and make A say what B ought to have said。
The stronger his imaginative faculty； the less liable will the writer
be to this fault； but not even Shakespeare's power of throwing
himself into his characters prevents many of his different personages
from talking philosophy in the same strain and in a style common to
them all。
You will often observe that authors fall in love with the imaginary
persons they describe； and that they bestow affectionate epithets
upon them which it may happen the reader does not consider in any way
called for。 This is a pleasure to which they have a right。 Every
author of a story is surrounded by a little family of ideal children；
as dear to him； it may be； as are flesh…and…blood children to their
parents。 You may forget all about the circle of Teacups to which I
have introduced you；on the supposition that you have followed me
with some degree of interest； but do you suppose that Number Five
does not continue as a presence with me； and that my pretty Delilah
has left me forever because she is going to be married？
No； my dear friend； our circle will break apart； and its different
members will soon be to you as if they had never been。 But do you
think that I can forget them？ Do you suppose that I shall cease to
follow the love （or the loves； which do you think is the true word；
the singular or the plural？） of Number Five and the young Tutor who
is so constantly found in her company？ Do you suppose that I do not
continue my relations with the 〃Cracked Teacup；〃the poor old fellow
with whom I have so much in common； whose counterpart； perhaps； you
may find in your own complex personality？
I take from the top shelf of the hospital department of my library…
the section devoted to literary cripples； imbeciles； failures；
foolish rhymesters； and silly eccentricsone of the least
conspicuous and most hopelessly feeble of the weak…minded population
of that intellectual almshouse。 I open it and look through its
pages。 It is a story。 I have looked into it once before；on its
first reception as a gift from the author。 I try to recall some of
the names I see there： they mean nothing to me； but I venture to say
the author cherishes them all； and cries over them as he did when he
was writing their history。 I put the book back among its dusty
companions； and； sitting down in my reflective rocking…chair； think
how others must forget； and how I shall remember； the company that
gathered about this table。
Shall I ever meet any one of them again； in these pages or in any
other？ Will the cracked Teacup hold together； or will he go to
pieces； and find himself in that retreat where the owner of the
terrible clock which drove him crazy is walking under the shelter of
the high walls？ Has the young Doctor's crown yet received the seal
which is Nature's warrant of wisdom and proof of professional
competency？ And Number Five and her young friend the Tutor；have
they kept on in their dangerous intimacy？ Did they get through the
tutto tremante passage； reading from the same old large edition of
Dante which the Tutor recommended as the best； and in reading from
which their heads were necessarily brought perilously near to each
other？
It would be very pleasant if I could； consistently with the present
state of affairs； bring these two young people together。 I say two
young people； for the one who counts most years seems to me to be
really the younger of the pair。 That Number Five foresaw from the
first that any tenderer feeling than that of friendship would intrude
itself between them I do not believe。 As for the Tutor； he soon
found where he was drifting。 It was his first experience in matters
concerning the heart； and absorbed his whole nature as a thing of
course。 Did he tell her he loved her？ Perhaps he did； fifty times；
perhaps he never had the courage to say so outright。 But sometimes
they looked each other straight in the eyes； and strange messages
seemed to pass from one consciousness to the other。 Will the Tutor
ask Number Five to be his wife； and if he does； will she yield to the
dictates of nature； and lower the flag of that fortress so long
thought impregnable？ Will be go on writing such poems to her as 〃The
Rose and the Fern 〃 or 〃I Like You and I Love You；〃 and be content
with the pursuit of that which he never can attain？ That is all very
well； on the 〃Grecian Urn〃 of Keats；beautiful； but not love such as
mortals demand。 Still； that may be all； for aught that we have yet
seen。
〃Fair youth； beneath the trees； thou canst not leave
Thy song； nor ever can those trees be bare；
Bold lover； never； never； canst thou kiss；
Though winning near the goal；yet do not grieve；
She cannot fade； though thou hast not thy bliss；
Forever wilt thou love； and she be fair！
。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。
〃More happy love！ more happy； happy love！
Forever warm； and still to be enjoyed；
Forever panting and forever young！〃
And so； good…bye； young people； whom we part with here。 Shadows you
have been and are to my readers； very real you have been and are to
me；as real as the memories of many friends whom I shall see no
more。
As I am not in the habit of indulging in late suppers； the reader
need not think that I shall spread another board and invite him to
listen to the conversations which take place around it。 If； from
time to time； he finds a slight refection awaiting him on the
sideboard； I hope he may welcome it as pleasantly as he has accepted
what I have offered him from the board now just being cleared。