How blue it shines toward the light! Blue as lupin or larkspur, or cornflower—aye, and even so blue art thou, my scriven, to think how far the written page falls short of the bright ecstasy5 of thy dream! In the bottle, what magnificence of unpenned stuff lies cool and liquid: what fluency6 of essay, what fonts of song. As the bottle glints, blue as a squill or a hyacinth, blue as the meadows of Elysium or the eyes of girls loved by young poets, meseems the racing8 pen might almost gain upon the thoughts that are turning the bend in the road. A jolly throng9, those thoughts: I can see them talking and laughing together. But when pen reaches the road's turning, the thoughts are gone far ahead: their delicate figures are silhouettes10 against the sky.
It is a sacramental matter, this filling the ink-well. Is there a writer, however humble11, who has not poured into his writing pot, with the ink, some wistful hopes or prayers for what may emerge from that dark source? Is there not some particular reverence12 due the ink-well, some form of propitiation to humbug13 the powers of evil and constraint14 that devil the journalist? Satan hovers15 near the ink-pot. Luther solved the matter by throwing the well itself at the apparition16. That savors17 to me too much of homeopathy. If Satan ever puts his face over my desk, I shall hurl18 a volume of Harold Bell Wright at him.
But what becomes of the ink-pots of glory? The conduit from which Boswell drew, for Charles Dilly in The Poultry19, the great river of his Johnson? The well (was it of blue china?) whence flowed Dream Children: a Revery? (It was written on folio ledger20 sheets from the East India House—I saw the manuscript only yesterday in a room at Daylesford, Pennsylvania, where much of the richest ink of the last two centuries is lovingly laid away.) The pot of chuckling21 fluid where Harry22 Fielding dipped his pen to tell the history of a certain foundling; the ink-wells of the Café de la Source
Man filling inkwell
on the Boul' Mich'—do they by any chance remember which it was that R.L.S. used? One of the happiest tremors23 of my life was when I went to that café and called for a bock and writing material, just because R.L.S. had once written letters there. And the ink-well Poe used at that boarding-house in Greenwich Street, New York (April, 1844), when he wrote to his dear Muddy (his mother-in-law) to describe how he and Virginia had reached a haven24 of square meals. That hopeful letter, so perfect now in pathos—
For breakfast we had excellent-flavored coffee, hot and strong—not very clear and no great deal of cream—veal cutlets, elegant ham and eggs and nice bread and butter. I never sat down to a more plentiful25 or a nicer breakfast. I wish you could have seen the eggs—and the great dishes of meat. Sis [his wife] is delighted, and we are both in excellent spirits. She has coughed hardly any and had no night sweat. She is now busy mending my pants, which I tore against a nail. I went out last night and bought a skein of silk, a skein of thread, two buttons, a pair of slippers26, and a tin pan for the stove. The fire kept in all night. We have now got four dollars and a half left. To-morrow I am going to try and borrow three dollars, so that I may have a fortnight to go upon. I feel in excellent spirits, and haven't drank a drop—so that I hope soon to get out of trouble.
Yes, let us clear the typewriter off the table: an ink-well is a sacred thing.
Do you ever stop to think, when you see the grimy spattered desks of a public post-office, how many eager or puzzled human hearts have tried, in those dingy27 little ink-cups, to set themselves right with fortune? What blissful meetings have been appointed, what scribblings of pain and sorrow, out of those founts of common speech. And the ink-wells on hotel counters—does not the public dipping place of the Bellevue Hotel, Boston, win a new dignity in my memory when I know (as I learned lately) that Rupert Brooke registered there in the spring of 1914? I remember, too, a certain pleasant vibration28 when, signing my name one day in the Bellevue's book, I found Miss Agnes Repplier's autograph a little above on the same page.
Among our younger friends, Vachel Lindsay comes to mind as one who has done honor to the ink-well. His Apology for the Bottle Volcanic29 is in his best flow of secret smiling (save an unfortunate dilution30 of Riley):
Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire,
O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way—
And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom,
And yet when I am extra good ... [here I omit the transfusion35 of Riley]
Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line.
I suppose it is the mark of a trifling37 mind, yet I like to hear of the little particulars that surrounded those whose pens struck sparks. It is Boswell that leads us into that habit of thought. I like to know what the author wore, how he sat, what the furniture of his desk and chamber38, who cooked his meals for him, and with what appetite he approached them. "The mind soars by an effort to the grand and lofty" (so dipped Hazlitt in some favored ink-bottle)—"it is at home in the groveling, the disagreeable, and the little."
I like to think, as I look along book shelves, that every one of these favorites was born out of an ink-well. I imagine the hopes and visions that thronged39 the author's mind as he filled his pot and sliced the quill7. What various fruits have flowed from those ink-wells of the past: for some, comfort and honor, quiet homes and plenteousness; for others, bitterness and disappointment. I have seen a copy of Poe's poems, published in 1845 by Putnam, inscribed40 by the author. The volume had been bought for $2,500. Think what that would have meant to Poe himself.
Some such thoughts as these twinkled in my head as I held up the Pierian bottle against the light, admired the deep blue of it, and filled my ink-well. And then I took up my pen, which wrote:
A GRACE BEFORE WRITING
On Filling an Ink-well
This is a sacrament, I think!
Holding the bottle toward the light,
As blue as lupin gleams the ink:
May Truth be with me as I write!
Reunion with some vanished friend,—
And with this ink I have just poured
May none but honest words be penned!
点击收听单词发音
1 jugs | |
(有柄及小口的)水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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2 ginger | |
n.姜,精力,淡赤黄色;adj.淡赤黄色的;vt.使活泼,使有生气 | |
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3 flask | |
n.瓶,火药筒,砂箱 | |
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4 meditate | |
v.想,考虑,(尤指宗教上的)沉思,冥想 | |
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5 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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6 fluency | |
n.流畅,雄辩,善辩 | |
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7 quill | |
n.羽毛管;v.给(织物或衣服)作皱褶 | |
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8 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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9 throng | |
n.人群,群众;v.拥挤,群集 | |
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10 silhouettes | |
轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 ); (人的)体形; (事物的)形状; 剪影 | |
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11 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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12 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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13 humbug | |
n.花招,谎话,欺骗 | |
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14 constraint | |
n.(on)约束,限制;限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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15 hovers | |
鸟( hover的第三人称单数 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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16 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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17 savors | |
v.意味,带有…的性质( savor的第三人称单数 );给…加调味品;使有风味;品尝 | |
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18 hurl | |
vt.猛投,力掷,声叫骂 | |
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19 poultry | |
n.家禽,禽肉 | |
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20 ledger | |
n.总帐,分类帐;帐簿 | |
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21 chuckling | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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22 harry | |
vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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23 tremors | |
震颤( tremor的名词复数 ); 战栗; 震颤声; 大地的轻微震动 | |
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24 haven | |
n.安全的地方,避难所,庇护所 | |
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25 plentiful | |
adj.富裕的,丰富的 | |
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26 slippers | |
n. 拖鞋 | |
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27 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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28 vibration | |
n.颤动,振动;摆动 | |
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29 volcanic | |
adj.火山的;象火山的;由火山引起的 | |
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30 dilution | |
n.稀释,淡化 | |
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31 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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32 demons | |
n.恶人( demon的名词复数 );恶魔;精力过人的人;邪念 | |
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33 pranced | |
v.(马)腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34 blots | |
污渍( blot的名词复数 ); 墨水渍; 错事; 污点 | |
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35 transfusion | |
n.输血,输液 | |
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36 vapor | |
n.蒸汽,雾气 | |
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37 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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38 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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39 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40 inscribed | |
v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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41 cistern | |
n.贮水池 | |
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