The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table | Page 7

the other. It does not
follow, of course, that I may not recognize another man's thoughts as broader and deeper
than my own; but that does not necessarily change my opinion, otherwise this would be at
the mercy of every superior mind that held a different one. How many of our most
cherished beliefs are like those drinking-glasses of the ancient pattern, that serve us well
so long as we keep them in our hand, but spill all if we attempt to set them down! I have
sometimes compared conversation to the Italian game of mora, in which one player lifts
his hand with so many fingers extended, and the other gives the number if he can. I show
my thought, another his; if they agree, well; if they differ, we find the largest common
factor, if we can, but at any rate avoid disputing about remainders and fractions, which is
to real talk what tuning an instrument is to playing on it.
- What if, instead of talking this morning, I should read you a copy of verses, with critical
remarks by the author? Any of the company can retire that like.
ALBUM VERSES.
When Eve had led her lord away, And Cain had killed his brother, The stars and flowers,
the poets say, Agreed with one another
To cheat the cunning tempter's art, And teach the race its duty, By keeping on its wicked
heart Their eyes of light and beauty.
A million sleepless lids, they say, Will be at least a warning; And so the flowers would
watch by day, The stars from eve to morning.
On hill and prairie, field and lawn, Their dewy eyes upturning, The flowers still watch
from reddening dawn Till western skies are burning.
Alas! each hour of daylight tells A tale of shame so crushing, That some turn white as
sea-bleached shells, And some are always blushing.
But when the patient stars look down On all their light discovers, The traitor's smile, the
murderer's frown, The lips of lying lovers,
They try to shut their saddening eyes, And in the vain endeavour We see them twinkling
in the skies, And so they wink forever.
What do YOU think of these verses my friends?--Is that piece an impromptu? said my
landlady's daughter. (Aet. 19 +. Tender-eyed blonde. Long ringlets. Cameo pin. Gold
pencil-case on a chain. Locket. Bracelet. Album. Autograph book. Accordeon. Reads
Byron, Tupper, and Sylvanus Cobb, junior, while her mother makes the puddings. Says
"Yes?" when you tell her anything.)--Oui et non, ma petite,--Yes and no, my child. Five
of the seven verses were written off-hand; the other two took a week,--that is, were
hanging round the desk in a ragged, forlorn, unrhymed condition as long as that. All poets
will tell you just such stories. C'est le DERNIER pas qui coute. Don't you know how hard
it is for some people to get out of a room after their visit is really over? They want to be
off, and you want to have them off, but they don't know how to manage it. One would
think they had been built in your parlour or study, and were waiting to be launched. I
have contrived a sort of ceremonial inclined plane for such visitors, which being
lubricated with certain smooth phrases, I back them down, metaphorically speaking,
stern-foremost, into their "native element," the great ocean of out-doors. Well, now, there
are poems as hard to get rid of as these rural visitors. They come in glibly, use up all the
serviceable rhymes, DAY, RAY, BEAUTY, DUTY, SKIES, EYES, OTHER,

BROTHER, MOUNTAIN, FOUNTAIN, and the like; and so they go on until you think it
is time for the wind-up, and the wind-up won't come on any terms. So they lie about until
you get sick of the sight of them, and end by thrusting some cold scrap of a final couplet
upon them, and turning them out of doors. I suspect a good many "impromptus" could
tell just such a story as the above.--Here turning to our landlady, I used an illustration
which pleased the company much at the time, and has since been highly commanded.
"Madam," I said, "you can pour three gills and three quarters of honey from that pint jug,
if it is full, in less than one minute; but, Madam, you could not empty that last quarter of
a gill, though you were turned into a marble Hebe, and held the vessel upside down for a
thousand years.
One gets tired to death of the old, old rhymes, such as you see in that copy of
verses,--which I don't mean to abuse, or to praise either. I always feel as if I were a
cobbler, putting new top- leathers to an old pair of boot-soles and bodies,