huge hemisphere. Young America is like a three-year-old colt with his
saddle and bridle just taken off. The first thing he wants to do is to
roll. He is a droll object, sprawling in the grass with his four hoofs
in the air; but he likes it, and it won't harm us. So let him roll,--let
him roll.
Of all The Teacups around our table, Number Five is the one who is the
object of the greatest interest. Everybody wants to be her friend, and
she has room enough in her hospitable nature to find a place for every
one who is worthy of the privilege. The difficulty is that it is so hard
to be her friend without becoming her lover. I have said before that she
turns the subjects of her Circe-like enchantment, not into swine, but
into lambs. The Professor and I move round among her lambs, the docile
and amiable flock that come and go at her bidding, that follow her
footsteps, and are content to live in the sunshine of her smile and
within reach of the music of her voice. I like to get her away from
their amiable bleatings; I love to talk with her about life, of which
she has seen a great deal, for she knows what it is to be an idol in
society and the centre of her social circle. It might be a question
whether women or men most admire and love her. With her own sex she is
always helpful, sympathizing, tender, charitable, sharing their griefs
as well as taking part in their pleasures. With men it has seemed to
make little difference whether they were young or old: all have found
her the same sweet, generous, unaffected companion; fresh enough in
feeling for the youngest, deep enough in the wisdom of the heart for
the oldest. She does not pretend to be youthful, nor does she trouble
herself that she has seen the roses of more Junes than many of--the
younger women who gather round her. She has not had to say,
Comme je regrette
Mon bras si dodu,
for her arm has never lost its roundness, and her face is one of those
that cannot be cheated of their charm even if they live long enough to
look upon the grown up grandchildren of their coevals.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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