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image it worships over again；the present age and our own country
are busily engaged in the task at this time。 We unmake Presidents
and make new ones。 This is an apprenticeship for a higher task。 Our
doctrinal teachers are unmaking the Deity of the Westminster
Catechism and trying to model a new one； with more of modern humanity
and less of ancient barbarism in his composition。 If Jonathan
Edwards had lived long enough； I have no doubt his creed would have
softened into a kindly； humanized belief。
Some twenty or thirty years ago； I said to Longfellow that certain
statistical tables I had seen went to show that poets were not a
long…lived race。 He doubted whether there was anything to prove they
were particularly short…lived。 Soon after this； he handed me a list
he had drawn up。 I cannot lay my hand upon it at this moment； but I
remember that Metastasio was the oldest of them all。 He died at the
age of eighty…four。 I have had some tables made out； which I have
every reason to believe are correct so far as they go。 From these；
it appears that twenty English poets lived to the average age of
fifty…six years and a little over。 The eight American poets on the
list averaged seventy…three and a half； nearly； and they are not all
dead yet。 The list including Greek； Latin； Italian； and German
poets； with American and English； gave an average of a little over
sixty…two years。 Our young poets need not be alarmed。 They can
remember that Bryant lived to be eighty…three years old； that
Longfellow reached seventy…five and Halleck seventy…seven； while
Whittier is living at the age of nearly eighty…two。 Tennyson is
still writing at eighty； and Browning reached the age of seventy…
seven。
Shall a man who in his younger days has written poetry； or what
passed for it； continue to attempt it in his later years？ Certainly；
if it amuses or interests him； no one would object to his writing in
verse as much as he likes。 Whether he should continue to write for
the public is another question。 Poetry is a good deal a matter of
heart…beats； and the circulation is more languid in the later period
of life。 The joints are less supple； the arteries are more or less
〃ossified。〃 Something like these changes has taken place in the
mind。 It has lost the flexibility； the plastic docility； which it
had in youth and early manhood； when the gristle had but just become
hardened into bone。 It is the nature of poetry to writhe itself
along through the tangled growths of the vocabulary； as a snake winds
through the grass； in sinuous； complex； and unexpected curves； which
crack every joint that is not supple as india…rubber。
I had a poem that I wanted to print just here。 But after what I have
this moment said； I hesitated； thinking that I might provoke the
obvious remark that I exemplified the unfitness of which I had been
speaking。 I remembered the advice I had given to a poetical aspirant
not long since； which I think deserves a paragraph to itself。
My friend； I said； I hope you will not write in verse。 When you
write in prose you say what you mean。 When you write in rhyme you
say what you must。
Should I send this poem to the publishers； or not？
〃Some said； 'John； print it；' others said； 'Not so。'〃
I did not ask 〃some〃 or 〃others。〃 Perhaps I should have thought it
best to keep my poem to myself and the few friends for whom it was
written。 All at once； my daimonthat other Me over whom I button my
waistcoat when I button it over my own personput it into my head to
look up the story of Madame Saqui。 She was a famous danseuse； who
danced Napoleon in and out； and several other dynasties besides。 Her
last appearance was at the age of seventy…six； which is rather late
in life for the tight rope； one of her specialties。 Jules Janin
mummified her when she died in 1866； at the age of eighty。 He spiced
her up in his eulogy as if she had been the queen of a modern
Pharaoh。 His foamy and flowery rhetoric put me into such a state of
good…nature that I said； I will print my poem； and let the critical
Gil Blas handle it as he did the archbishop's sermon； or would have
done； if he had been a writer for the 〃Salamanca Weekly。〃
It must be premised that a very beautiful loving cup was presented to
me on my recent birthday； by eleven ladies of my acquaintance。 This
was the most costly and notable of all the many tributes I received；
and for which in different forms I expressed my gratitude。
TO THE ELEVEN LADIES
WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP ON THE
TWENTY…NINTH OF AUGUST； M DCCC LXXXIX。
〃Who gave this cup？〃 The secret thou wouldst steal
Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal：
No mortal's eye shall read it till he first
Cool the red throat of thirst。
If on the golden floor one draught remain；
Trust me； thy careful search will be in vain；
Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know
The names enrolled below。
Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well
Those modest names the graven letters spell
Hide from the sight； but； wait； and thou shalt see
Who the good angels be
Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift
That friendly hands to loving lips shall lift：
Turn the fair goblet when its floor is dry；
Their names shall meet thine eye。
Count thou their number on the beads of Heaven；
Alas！ the clustered Pleiads are but seven；
Nay； the nine sister Muses are too few；
The Graces must add two。
〃For whom this gift？〃 For one who all too long
Clings to his bough among the groves of song；
Autumn's last leaf； that spreads its faded wing
To greet a second spring。
Dear friends； kind friends； whate'er the cup may hold；
Bathing its burnished depths； will change to gold
Its last bright drop let thirsty Maenads drain；
Its fragrance will remain。
Better love's perfume in the empty bowl
Than wine's nepenthe for the aching soul
Sweeter than song that ever poet sung；
It makes an old heart young！
III
After the reading of the paper which was reported in the preceding
number of this record； the company fell into talk upon the subject
with which it dealt。
The Mistress。 〃I could have wished you had said more about the
religious attitude of old age as such。 Surely the thoughts of aged
persons must be very much taken up with the question of what is to
become of them。 I should like to have The Dictator explain himself a
little more fully on this point。〃
My dear madam； I said； it is a delicate matter to talk about。 You
remember Mr。 Calhoun's response to the advances of an over…zealous
young clergyman who wished to examine him as to his outfit for the
long journey。 I think the relations between man and his Maker grow
more intimate； more confidential； if I may say so； with advancing
years。 The old man is less disposed to argue about special matters
of belief； and more ready to sympathize with spiritually minded
persons without anxious questioning as to the fold to which they
belong。 That kindly judgment which he exercises with regard to
others he will； naturally enough； apply to himself。 The caressing
tone in which the Emperor Hadrian addresses his soul is very much
like that of an old person talking with a grandchild or some other
pet：
〃Animula； vagula； blandula；
Hospes comesque corporis。〃
〃Dear little； flitting； pleasing sprite；
The body's comrade and its guest。〃
How like the language of Catullus to Lesbia's sparrow！
More and more the old man finds his pleasures in memory； as the
present becomes unreal and dreamlike； and the vista of his earthly
future narrows and closes in upon him。 At last； if he live long
enough； life comes to be little more than a gentle and peaceful
delirium of pleasing recollections。 To say； as Dante says； that
there is no greater grief than to remember past happiness in the hour
of misery is not giving the whole truth。 In the midst of the misery；
as many would call it； of extreme old age； there is often a divine
consolation in recalling the happy moments and days and years of
times long past。 So beautiful are the visions of bygone delight that
one could hardly wish them to become real； lest they should lose
their ineffable charm。 I can almost conceive of a dozing and dreamy
centenarian saying to one he loves； 〃Go； darling； go！ Spread your
wings and leave me。 So shall you enter that world of memory where
all is lovely。 I shall not hear the sound of your footsteps any
more； but you will float before me； an aerial presence。 I shall not
hear any word from your lips； but I shall have a deeper sense of your
nearness to me than speech can give。 I shall feel； in my still
solitude； as the Ancient Mariner felt when the seraph band gathered
before him：
〃'No voice did they impart
No voice； but oh！ the silence sank
Like music on my heart。'〃