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of life？ The traveller flings himself on the bewildering miscellany
of delicacies spread before him； the various tempting forms of
ambrosia and seducing draughts of nectar； with the same eager hurry
and restless ardor that you describe in the poet。 Dear me！ If it
wasn't for All aboard！ that summons of the deaf conductor which tears
one away from his half…finished sponge…cake and coffee； how I； who do
not call myself a poet； but only a questioner； should have enjoyed a
good long stopsay a couple of thousand yearsat this way…station
on the great railroad leading to the unknown terminus！
You say you are not a poet；I said； after a little pause； in which
I suppose both of us were thinking where the great railroad would
land us after carrying us into the dark tunnel； the farther end of
which no man has seen and taken a return train to bring us news about
it；you say you are not a poet； and yet it seems to me you have some
of the elements which go to make one。
I don't think you mean to flatter me；the Master answered；and；
what is more； for I am not afraid to be honest with you； I don't
think you do flatter me。 I have taken the inventory of my faculties
as calmly as if I were an appraiser。 I have some of the qualities；
perhaps I may say many of the qualities； that make a man a poet； and
yet I am not one。 And in the course of a pretty wide experience of
menand women（the Master sighed； I thought； but perhaps I was
mistaken）I have met a good many poets who were not rhymesters and a
good many rhymesters who were not poets。 So I am only one of the
Voiceless； that I remember one of you singers had some verses about。
I think there is a little music in me； but it has not found a voice；
and it never will。 If I should confess the truth； there is no mere
earthly immortality that I envy so much as the poet's。 If your name
is to live at all； it is so much more to have it live in people's
hearts than only in their brains！ I don't know that one's eyes fill
with tears when he thinks of the famous inventor of logarithms； but
song of Burns's or a hymn of Charles Wesley's goes straight to your
heart； and you can't help loving both of them； the sinner as well as
the saint。 The works of other men live； but their personality dies
out of their labors； the poet； who reproduces himself in his
creation； as no other artist does or can； goes down to posterity with
all his personality blended with whatever is imperishable in his
song。 We see nothing of the bees that built the honeycomb and stored
it with its sweets； but we can trace the veining in the wings of
insects that flitted through the forests which are now coal…beds；
kept unchanging in the amber that holds them； and so the passion of
Sappho； the tenderness of Simonides； the purity of holy George
Herbert； the lofty contemplativeness of James Shirley； are before us
to…day as if they were living； in a few tears of amber verse。 It
seems； when one reads；
〃Sweet day！ so cool； so calm； so bright；〃
or；
〃The glories of our birth and state；〃
as if it were not a very difficult matter to gain immortality；such
an immortality at least as a perishable language can give。 A single
lyric is enough； if one can only find in his soul and finish in his
intellect one of those jewels fit to sparkle 〃on the stretched
forefinger of all time。〃 A coin； a ring； a string of verses。 These
last； and hardly anything else does。 Every century is an overloaded
ship that must sink at last with most of its cargo。 The small
portion of its crew that get on board the new vessel which takes them
off don't pretend to save a great many of the bulky articles。 But
they must not and will not leave behind the hereditary jewels of the
race； and if you have found and cut a diamond； were it only a spark
with a single polished facet； it will stand a better chance of being
saved from the wreck than anything； no matter what； that wants much
room for stowage。
The pyramids last； it is true； but most of them have forgotten their
builders' names。 But the ring of Thothmes III。； who reigned some
fourteen hundred years before our era； before Homer sang； before the
Argonauts sailed； before Troy was built； is in the possession of Lord
Ashburnham； and proclaims the name of the monarch who wore it more
than three thousand years ago。 The gold coins with the head of
Alexander the Great are some of them so fresh one might think they
were newer than much of the silver currency we were lately handling。
As we have been quoting from the poets this morning； I will follow
the precedent； and give some lines from an epistle of Pope to Addison
after the latter had written； but not yet published； his Dialogue on
Medals。 Some of these lines have been lingering in my memory for a
great many years； but I looked at the original the other day and was
so pleased with them that I got them by heart。 I think you will say
they are singularly pointed and elegant。
〃Ambition sighed； she found it vain to trust
The faithless column and the crumbling bust；
Huge moles； whose shadows stretched from shore to shore；
Their ruins perished； and their place no more！
Convinced； she now contracts her vast design；
And all her triumphs shrink into a coin。
A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps；
Beneath her palm here sad Judaea weeps；
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine；
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine；
A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled；
And little eagles wave their wings in gold。〃
It is the same thing in literature。 Write half a dozen folios full
of other people's ideas （as all folios are pretty sure to be）； and
you serve as ballast to the lower shelves of a library； about as like
to be disturbed as the kentledge in the hold of a ship。 Write a
story； or a dozen stories； and your book will be in demand like an
oyster while it is freshly opened； and after tha The highways of
literature are spread over with the shells of dead novels； each of
which has been swallowed at a mouthful by the public； and is done
with。 But write a volume of poems。 No matter if they are all bad
but one； if that one is very good。 It will carry your name down to
posterity like the ring of Thothmes； like the coin of Alexander。 I
don't suppose one would care a great deal about it a hundred or a
thousand years after he is dead； but I don't feel quite sure。 It
seems as if； even in heaven； King David might remember 〃The Lord is
my Shepherd〃 with a certain twinge of earthly pleasure。 But we don't
know； we don't know。
What in the world can have become of That Boy and his popgun while
all this somewhat extended sermonizing was going on？ I don't wonder
you ask； beloved Reader； and I suppose I must tell you how we got on
so long without interruption。 Well； the plain truth is； the
youngster was contemplating his gastric centre； like the monks of
Mount Athos； but in a less happy state of mind than those tranquil
recluses； in consequence of indulgence in the heterogeneous
assortment of luxuries procured with the five…cent piece given him by
the kind…hearted old Master。 But yon need not t