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The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table-Part40_Oliver Wendell Holmes(1809-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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with a single bound" into the society of those whom it is not

flattery to call your betters. When "The Pactolian" has paid you



for a copy of verses, - (I can furnish you a list of alliterative

signatures, beginning with Annie Aureole and ending with Zoe



Zenith,) - when "The Rag-bag" has stolen your piece, after

carefully scratching your name out, - when "The Nut-cracker" has



thought you worth shelling, and strung the kernel of your cleverest

poem, - then, and not till then, you may consider the presumption



against you, from the fact of your rhyming tendency, as called in

question, and let our friends hear from you, if you think it worth



while. You may possibly think me too candid, and even accuse me of

incivility; but let me assure you that I am not half so plain-



spoken as Nature, nor half so rude as Time. If you prefer the long

jolting of public opinion to the gentle touch of friendship, try it



like a man. Only remember this, - that, if a bushel of potatoes is

shaken in a market-cart without springs to it, the small potatoes



always get to the bottom. Believe me, etc., etc.

I always think of verse-writers, when I am in this vein; for these



are by far the most exacting, eager, self-weighing, restless,

querulous, unreasonableliterary persons one is like to meet with.



Is a young man in the habit of writing verses? Then the

presumption is that he is an inferior person. For, look you, there



are at least nine chances in ten that he writes POOR verses. Now

the habit of chewing on rhymes without sense and soul to match them



is, like that of using any other narcotic, at once a proof of

feebleness and a debilitating agent. A young man can get rid of



the presumption against him afforded by his writing verses only by

convincing us that they are verses worth writing.



All this sounds hard and rough, but, observe, it is not addressed

to any individual, and of course does not refer to any reader of



these pages. I would always treat any given young person passing

through the meteoric showers which rain down on the brief period of



adolescence with great tenderness. God forgive us if we ever speak

harshly to young creatures on the strength of these ugly truths,



and so sooner or later, smite some tender-souled poet or poetess on

the lips who might have sung the world into sweet trances, had we



not silenced the matin-song in its first low breathings! Just as

my heart yearns over the unloved, just so it sorrows for the



ungifted who are doomed to the pangs of an undeceived self-

estimate. I have always tried to be gentle with the most hopeless



cases. My experience, however, has not been encouraging.

- X. Y., aet. 18, a cheaply-got-up youth, with narrow jaws, and



broad, bony, cold, red hands, having been laughed at by the girls

in his village, and "got the mitten" (pronounced mittIn) two or



three times, falls to souling and controlling, and youthing and

truthing, in the newspapers. Sends me some strings of verses,



candidates for the Orthopedic Infirmary, all of them, in which I

learn for the millionth time one of the following facts: either



that something about a chime is sublime, or that something about

time is sublime, or that something about a chime is concerned with



time, or that something about a rhyme is sublime or concerned with

time or with a chime. Wishes my opinion of the same, with advice



as to his future course.

What shall I do about it? Tell him the whole truth, and send him a



ticket of admission to the Institution for Idiots and Feeble-minded

Youth? One doesn't like to be cruel, - and yet one hates to lie.



Therefore one softens down the ugly central fact of donkeyism, -

recommends study of good models, - that writing verse should be an



incidental occupation only, not interfering with the hoe, the

needle, the lapstone, or the ledger, - and, above all that there



should be no hurry in printing what is written. Not the least use

in all this. The poetaster who has tasted type is done for. He is



like the man who has once been a candidate for the Presidency. He

feeds on the madder of his delusion all his days, and his very



bones grow red with the glow of his foolish fancy. One of these

young brains is like a bunch of India crackers; once touch fire to



it and it is best to keep hands off until it has done popping, - if

it ever stops. I have two letters on file; one is a pattern of



adulation, the other of impertinence. My reply to the first,

containing the best advice I could give, conveyed in courteous



language, had brought out the second. There was some sport in

this, but Dulness is not commonly a game fish, and only sulks after



he is struck. You may set it down as a truth which admits of few

exceptions, that those who ask your OPINION really want your



PRAISE, and will be contented with nothing less.




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