^I^^ll^^f^l^f^l^ 
 
 immii^^im^mmmsai^ 
 
 IvIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 University of California. 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 GEORGE MOREY RICHARDSON. 
 
 Received, <iAugust, i8g8. 
 \ <^ccession No. y.JL.9..CI.^... ^^^^^ ^o, 
 
 ^it!?«llil!»ii^ii^i^'l»fiil!»'il!^i^if^ 
 
POETS ALL 
 
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 KINS. 
 
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 The 
 
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 Twilight of 
 
 FIELD. 
 
 Love. 
 
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POETS ALL 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN A. BRIDGES 
 
 author of 
 
 idylls of a lost village," '*a brummagem baron, 
 "wet days," etc. 
 
 OF THE 
 
 { CTNIVERSITY 
 
 *'Scribimus indocti doctique poemata." — HoR. 
 "Both the wise and the witless scribble." — Praed. 
 
 WARD AND DOWNEY 
 
 12 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN 
 1893 
 
 lAU rights reserved] 
 
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, 
 London & Bungay. 
 

 DIVERSITY 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. THE POET AT HOME 
 
 II. A KINDLY CRITIC ... 
 
 III. A COUNTRY SQUIRE 
 
 IV. MAGGIE ELLIS 
 V. THE COMING GUESTS 
 
 VI. THE DESCENT OF THE IMMORTALS 
 
 VII. THE NEW 'study' ... 
 
 VIII. THE PURSUIT OF ' COPY ' ... 
 
 IX. A CRITICAL DISCUSSION 
 
 X. THE RECTOR ON POETS AND POETRY 
 
 XI. AN INTERRUPTED COMPETITION 
 
 XII. AT THE HOME FARM 
 
 XIII. THE YOUNG SCHOOL-MASTER 
 
 XIV. THE rector's GLASS-HOUSE 
 
 XV. THE DAWN OF AMBITION ... 
 
 XVI. DEFERRED WOOINGS 
 
 XVII. MAGGIE MAKES A DISCOVERY 
 
 XVIII. WHAT BECAME OF THE ROSE 
 
 1 
 
 9 
 
 20 
 
 29 
 
 36 
 
 47 
 
 56 
 
 67 
 
 84 
 
 96 
 
 110 
 
 127 
 
 138 
 
 148 
 
 162 
 
 171 
 
 182 
 
 195 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 XIX. THE critic's THUMB 
 
 XX. A SYMPATHIZING PUBLISHER 
 
 XXI. A GLIMPSE OF FAME 
 
 XXII. THE KING IS DEAD 
 
 XXIII. THE CRITIC IS MAGNANIMOUS 
 
 XXIV. LONG LIVE THE KING 
 
 XXV. MAGGIE IS WITNESS TO A LOVE SCENE 
 
 XXVI. A SEASIDE WALK ... 
 
 XXVII. A LAUREATE SPOILED 
 
 201 
 213 
 
 226 
 238 
 254 
 261 
 270 
 278 
 289 
 
;bsit 
 
 POETS ALL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE POET AT HOME. 
 
 " Pouts All ! What an absurd name ! " exclaims 
 an intending reader, hastily throwing aside the book 
 and choosing instead another with, at first sight, a 
 more sensible and intelligible title — which does not 
 necessarily guarantee a more sensible or intelligible 
 interior. 
 
 And why not Poets All, I should like to ask ? 
 Surely if Horace, before the stylus was superseded by 
 the gold pen, and the waxen tablets by foolscap — ill- 
 omened w^ord ! — could assert (perhaps with a little 
 of his poetical licence) that every one, learned or 
 ignorant, was writing poetry, the remark must have 
 far more truth in our own time. It may indeed in 
 the present day be shown — with the usual exceptions, 
 
2 t*OETS ALL. 
 
 to include the above-mentioned intending reader — to 
 be almost literally true. 
 
 It is of course a well-known fact that almost every- 
 one, from Prime Minister to the lowest of those for 
 whom he caters, loves the elusive pursuit of rhymes. 
 True that rhymes are not always, or often, poetry. 
 But as some of the compositions that have been 
 discovered on the walls of convicts' cells have not 
 been entirely wanting in the divine afflatus, it is hard 
 to see whose claims can be called in question. 
 
 Poets are of so many sorts. Some few have, im- 
 planted in their breasts, a genuine poetical feeling, 
 which they have also the power of expressing. Others 
 have the feeling without the power — sometimes with- 
 out even the wish — to give utterance to it. Some, 
 and these by far the largest portion, resemble machines 
 in their capacity for assimilating any raw material 
 which seems likely to yield the necessary staple. 
 Bees wander far afield in search of honey, and some 
 bees are so clever as to extract it from the most 
 unpromising flowers. If these last, however, did not 
 contain honey the cleverest bee would have to return 
 empty to the hive. So likewise would the poets 
 who are dependent upon others for their raw material. 
 There must be poetry one would think in those from 
 whom the poetical-honey-gatherers accumulate their 
 
THE POET AT HOME. 3 
 
 vast stores. In these days of eager competition I 
 notice that few people, however stolid their appear- 
 ance, escape rifling. Who shall say that there does 
 not exist a poet (let us hope of the comic order) who 
 from the plump bagman — none such shall be per- 
 mitted to defile these aristocratic pages — seated at 
 table with flushed face and napkin tucked under 
 double chin, could extract not indeed a sonnet, which 
 would be hardly fitting, but a ballad ? Therefore, as 
 every one appears to yield more or less poetry 
 towards feeding the machines which are always at 
 work, what further proof is needed that we are 
 " Poets all '' ? . i 
 
 I may be a partial judge, since it is an immense 
 advantage to a novelist — though I am not aware that 
 the fact has been noticed — that all his dramatis 
 personm should be poets. Poets are, of course, known 
 to be ardent wooers of the Muse ; but they also love to 
 bask generally — or to describe themselves as basking ; 
 I hope for their sakes that the half of it is true — in 
 the smiles of beauty. Having decided that we are 
 " Poets all," there is sure to be plenty of love-making, 
 which, I am told, makes popular reading. It is no 
 doubt a rather disappointing fact that so many poets 
 are chiefly given to falling in love with themselves. 
 
4 tOETS ALL. 
 
 In days when the counterfeit presentments of 
 successful men of letters are to be seen in every photo- 
 grapher's window cheek by jowl with the ladies of 
 the music-hall and the professional beauties; when 
 the lineaments of painters, famous and the reverse, 
 are pictured by shoals in the magazines ; when even 
 their wives — if sufficiently good-looking — are hung in 
 rows on the line in the Royal Academy ; when their 
 studios and haunts are familiar to all of us as house- 
 hold words, no apology is necessary for introducing 
 my readers to a workshop fitted with machinery 
 adapted to the manufacture of poetry. 
 
 About eleven o'clock at night two men were seated 
 in a room in the top storey of a tall building in Pall 
 Mall, which^was let out in chambers. The apartment 
 was aesthetically furnished, but was everywhere so 
 littered with papers that the fashion of the almost 
 invisible upholstery had little to do with determining 
 its character. The chairs were hidden by heaps of 
 books of the genus encyclopaedia; on the untidy 
 round table was a vast inkstand, and an enormous 
 box that had once contained cigarettes ; while from 
 underneath peeped a waste-paper basket, also empty. 
 It was the middle of January, and a fire — of as much 
 brightness as is usually extracted from London coal 
 — was burning on the hearth. One of the two men, 
 
THE POET AT HOME. J 
 
 however, would have derived but little warmth from 
 even a more genial blaze, since his companion — if 
 he could be considered such — was seated with his 
 back to the table directly between him and the fire, 
 of which every flicker was thus arrested in transitu, 
 A long leg of almost impossible thinness, thrown 
 out on either -side, formed a fire-guard, which had at 
 all events the effect of preventing the other tenant 
 of the apartment from endangering his person or 
 becoming oppressively warm. 
 
 The man who monopolized the fire was long and 
 thin, as also was his hair, which strayed in greyish 
 curls over the collar of his black velvet coat. He 
 wore a very long thin light-brow^n moustache, the 
 several hairs of which a German specialist would 
 have numbered in less than a lifetime. This the 
 long fingers of the hand not required for his cigarette 
 were perpetually caressing with an affection of which 
 it appeared to be altogether undeserving. His some- 
 what dissipated and anything but jovial appearance — 
 one feels grateful to the great majority of dissipated 
 people for doing their best to look jovial — was more 
 probably caused by the habit he had contracted of 
 sitting up late, smoking endless cigarettes and 
 drinking cold coffee, than by indulgences generally 
 found more captivating. A cup of the latter beverage 
 
b POETS ALL. 
 
 was even now wasting its fragrance on the mantel- 
 piece in front of him. His countenance — if any one 
 could have seen it — wore an expression which would 
 have suggested complacent and imperturbable self- 
 satisfaction, had it not been slightly overshadowed 
 by boredom. Now and again, when he threw a 
 remark — as it were a bone to a dog — together with 
 a puff of smoke over his shoulder to the man who 
 was perforce sitting behind him, he presented a clear- 
 cut profile which, if it gave but little promise of 
 strength, was yet not without evidence of culture. 
 He had an aquiline nose and dreamy blue eyes, 
 which last had been trained — eyes and poodles can 
 be trained to anything — to wear a " far-away " look. 
 He had made it his business in life to look intel- 
 lectual, and this business he followed with the more 
 success in that he was probably himself unaware 
 how much was affectation, and how little reality. 
 The impostor who can first impose on himself will 
 frequently have but little trouble with the rest of the 
 world. The position he had taken up was suggestive 
 of the tone of his remarks, which, however, the man 
 behind him did not appear to object to. 
 
 Mr. Prothero Corthee was quite the newest, and 
 therefore the best poet to himself and to a few 
 admirers who expected to be paid in kind, and 
 
THE POET AT HOME. 7 
 
 of whom the most enthusiastic was now seated 
 behind him. He had an affectation of not caring 
 for anything that was said, even in praise of himself 
 — and it may be confidently asserted that to all 
 else his ears were hermetically sealed. Indeed, the 
 way in which he had now turned his back on his 
 guest (for Mr. Prothero Corthee was seated in his 
 own chambers) was a very clever piece of affectation 
 indeed. In fact, the new poet was distinctly clever, 
 and this quality was never more conspicuous — hicios 
 a non lucendo — than when he was accepting the 
 incense of his admirers. But it may be doubted 
 whether cleverness is, in the long run, of any more 
 advantage to a poet than to a statesman; and to 
 the latter it is certain, sooner or later, to prove 
 fatal. That the new poet was accustomed to be 
 anything but polite, and sometimes downright rude 
 to his chief admirer, was perhaps the nearest approach 
 he had ever made to genius. 
 
 The days are past when poets were born. They 
 are now made, and some of them very much made 
 indeed. The class of goods turned out by the general 
 run of modern poets — I am not speaking of the ex- 
 ceptions — requires a good deal of advertising. It 
 cannot be too often repeated that your medicine is 
 worth a guinea a box. But to suppose that a poet c^n 
 
8 POETS ALL. 
 
 be advertised openly at so much a line, and in the 
 same column perhaps as the wares of the immortal 
 
 and life-giving B , would be to be very ignorant 
 
 indeed. The Muse, if slightly vulgarized, is yet a 
 little above, if far less profitable, than chocolate or 
 soap. Her praises must be whispered delicately, yet 
 with the impassioned fervour of which nothing is so 
 capable as humbug. There are occasions when the 
 answer of the invoked Echo is inaudible. 
 
 Mr. McCawmee Jones, the other occupant of the 
 room, was a critic, and therefore one of those who 
 make the poets who are no longer born. The con- 
 temptuous treatment that he was receiving made 
 him feel confident — thouoh he should have known 
 better — that the praises he had been for some 
 months lavishing on his latest idol were the genuine 
 outcome of a critical and impartial mind. 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 A KINDLY CRITIC. 
 
 Mr. McCawmee Jones presented a different 
 exterior to that of his host. His figure, as he sat on 
 his chair like a sack, was that of a typical John Bull 
 run to seed. Instead of a cigarette he was puffing 
 vehemently at an enormous cigar that he had brought 
 with him, while on the table in front of him was a 
 tall glass of brandy-and-seltzer — extorted with some 
 trouble from the Poet. There was no appearance 
 about him of refinement or ultra-sensitiveness. On 
 the contrary, his exterior gave promise of the mental 
 qualities to w^hich a rhinoceros may be presumed 
 to aspire. He had a good-natured but rather stupid 
 face, and thick lips contracted into an almost per- 
 petual smile. His enormous bald head was fringed 
 with brown hair, which he wore very short indeed. 
 He was not only a critic by profession, but a writer 
 on every subject under the sun — and elsewhere. On 
 
10 POETS ALL. 
 
 pictures, knur and spell, architecture, football, sliding- 
 seats, and indeed on everything, his dictum was — 
 by those whom he honoured with his approval — 
 considered law. But it was as a critic of poetry that 
 he chiefly shone. Indeed he was allowed to he facile 
 princeps among poetical critics, and if this meant that 
 he criticized most writers of verses, he was no doubt 
 entitled to the description. There were ill-natured 
 people — and truth is ill-natured or nothing — who 
 said that previous to his full-fledged appearance as a 
 critic, and when addressed by his few friends as plain 
 " Jones," he had known but little of anything. 
 That he t^had no ear for verse or music did not 
 necessarily incapacitate him for criticizing either 
 in a day when it is a point of honour with so many 
 to engage in contests for which they are physically 
 and morally unfitted, and, the rounder they have 
 been fashioned by nature, to place themselves the 
 more determinedly in the squarer hole. 
 
 At the present moment Mr. McCawmee Jones was 
 a firm ally of Mr. Gorthee, though any hint of 
 this from an outsider would have given dire offence 
 to the latter. Mr. Jones, though he did not look 
 clever, and may not have been a very capable critic, 
 was no fool. He had succeeded in thoroughly 
 mastering an art for which life has often been found 
 
A KINDLY CRITIC. 11 
 
 too short. A good deal is gained, at the commence- 
 ment of a career, by deciding once for all on your 
 role. Mr. Jones had early perceived the immense 
 advantage possessed by a tradesman who sells 
 absolutely indispensable wares. People are so con- 
 stituted mentally and physically as to be unable to 
 exist without two things. These two are bread 
 and flattery. Mr. Jones had never felt any inclina- 
 tion to follow the calling of a baker (whose enormous 
 and unfair proflts were then in the dim and distant 
 future), or even of a miller, and it was therefore 
 almost of necessity that he had taken up his present 
 calling. Whatever he might have been as a baker, 
 as flatterer he had few equals, and with the profits 
 of his very necessary article of commerce he had 
 rested content, without striving to emulate the 
 gigantic emporiums of the universal provider. 
 
 Mr. Jones had started in life without education, 
 and was not educated now in the general acceptation 
 of the word. But there is " a rule of thumb" in this 
 as in other matters, and he had necessarily picked 
 up a good deal. He was without prejudices, 
 artistic or otherwise. Those whom he flattered 
 believed in him — and he flattered a good many. 
 By his persevering worship of others he had got him- 
 self to be regarded as quite a little deity. A vast 
 
12 POETS ALL. 
 
 number of people who wished to climb had voted 
 him into the box to distribute passes for Parnassus. 
 Of course there were many who thought him a 
 quack, and would not stoop to accept his patronage. 
 Of these independent men a considerable number — 
 from having no sacred critic — perished, or languished 
 unknown. Should one be successful in emerging 
 unaided from the ruck, the critic would lose no time 
 in taking possession of him and including himself 
 among his admirers. 
 
 From the obscurity in which Mr. Jones's early 
 history was involved it was impossible to proclaim 
 with certainty that his youth had been nourished on 
 oil. But to be able to dispense so much was surely 
 presumptive evidence of having swallowed a good 
 deal. It could not be truly said that he flattered 
 everybody ; he did not indeed know everybody. 
 Those whom he did not know he either iofnored 
 altogether or damned with that faintest of praise 
 which is the modern critic's substitute for the savage 
 assaults of the old school. 
 
 Literary personages are never tired of reminding 
 us that, except on rare occasions, old or even new 
 writers need fear nothing worse — as if there could be 
 anything worse — than to be ignored or treated with 
 a little mild scorn, and it must be acknowledged 
 
A KINDLY CKlTlC. 13 
 
 that modern critics show an amount of tolerance 
 which amply proves the majority to be amiable and 
 unwilling to wound. Some may be of opinion that 
 criticism has lost in strength what it may have 
 gained in good-nature. The man who hesitates to 
 crush an obnoxious insect will almost certainly be 
 kind-hearted, but he will scarcely be of the stuff of 
 which Bismarcks are made. 
 
 The touching advice to cast one's bread upon the 
 waters was perhaps never literally followed, and in 
 these days is generally neglected in its metaphorical 
 sense. Still it has never been utterly disregarded, 
 and in this matter-of-fact age there are people who, 
 while declining to entrust good, sound, wholesome 
 bread to the current, have discovered that butter 
 has a very fair chance of returning. Though no 
 amount of care can secure ventures of this nature 
 from risk, the experienced outfitter is less reckless 
 than might be imagined, and is not accustomed to 
 make use of the best possible materials. Indeed, an 
 inferior article makes quite as good a show, and 
 "butterine" is a good dear cheaper than a com- 
 modity *' warranted pure." Perhaps the casters of 
 the former too often overlook the improbability of a 
 better quality being returned to them. There are 
 places — eddies or backwaters — where this apparently 
 
14 :POETS ALL. 
 
 wasteful business is so much in vogue that the waters 
 appear quite unpleasantly greasy. One is reminded 
 how, when a boy, it was one's delight to sail a toy- 
 boat on a pond. On its arrival at the opposite side 
 there was always a playmate ready to start it on the 
 return journey. 
 
 It is charitable to suppose that the habit of in- 
 discriminately praising every one in whose company 
 you may find yourself, sprang originally from a 
 mistaken, if kindly, wish not to hurt or offend. But 
 it is to be feared that it now proceeds from a morbid 
 desire of being praised in return. There is, indeed, 
 no amount of humiliation that a toper will not put 
 up with rather than go without the dram which has 
 become a necessity. But counterfeit praise cannot 
 hope to evoke a genuine return. At the end of tke 
 exchange both parties are exactly where they were. 
 
 It is possible for a novice, even without being very 
 conceited, to mistake the " butterine " for something 
 quite different, and to imagine that laudari a 
 laudato is necessarily a certificate of worth. But 
 he will speedily be undeceived if from sincerity or 
 inexperience he neglects to make a quick return of 
 the praise with which he had been plastered. 
 
 Perhaps after all there was nothing so very 
 wonderful in the fact that Mr. Jones had been able 
 
A ItlNDLY CRITIC. 15 
 
 to acquire and retain a position of considerable 
 eminence. Perseverance more often succeeds than 
 genius, and the critic was persevering or nothing. 
 It is possible now-a-days to obtain in a few minutes 
 from encyclopsedias and books of reference more 
 information than would be gained in a life spent in 
 the acquirement of any special knowledge. There 
 might still be a few prejudiced people who, on a 
 question, for instance, of deep sea fisheries, would 
 prefer to utilize the experience of a practical sailor. 
 But then prejudiced people are happily so few. To 
 Mr. McCawmee Jones magazines — even quarterlies 
 — opened the doors obdurately closed to so many. 
 When he had to write an article or a review he did 
 not go back to his experience, for he had no experi- 
 ence to which he could return. He did not even go 
 out of doors. Instead he went to a book-shelf. 
 That he made very few mistakes was partly luck, 
 and partly cleverness and the habit of keeping his 
 ears open — enormous ears which would have de- 
 lighted Darwin. To say that he was now quite 
 ignorant would have been to libel him as more 
 incapable than an Irish labourer. At least he was 
 wise in one respect, and had declined to follow the 
 example of successful politicians and others who are 
 fond of ostentatiously kicking down the ladder by 
 
16 POETS ALL. 
 
 which they rose. He still stuck to his flattery — all 
 the more meritoriously on the present occasion, as 
 he was shut out from the fire. Fortunately for the 
 few, the great majority are ignorant that people 
 are generally taken at their own valuation, though 
 perhaps some of those who early grasped the value 
 of this great principle may have made too much use 
 of their advantage. Life is, indeed, like a bazaar, 
 where no one dreams of altering the tickets on goods 
 that the owners have priced too low. 
 
 Mr. Jones was speaking in his smooth, oily voice. 
 He had a habit of enunciating his words in a leisurely 
 manner, with a view, no doubt, to the producing of 
 as soothing an effect as possible. The Poet's interest 
 seemed to centre in the smoke-wreaths which his 
 eyes followed intently till they disappeared in the 
 dark corners of the room. 
 
 '' By the bye *' — with a sudden turn to the con- 
 veriation, which had been strictly confined to the 
 supposed beauties of Mr. Corthee's last poem — ''there 
 was something said about my going down with you 
 to Beddington next week. If you have made up 
 your mind I should rather like the outing, unless, 
 of course, you had rather go without me. I hear 
 it is a jolly old place, and your cousin, the Squire, is 
 a real good sort, and I should like to meet him again." 
 
A KINDLY CRITIC. 17 
 
 It was almost impossible to refrain from answer- 
 ing. When in Mr. Jones's company Mr. Corthee 
 frequently kept absolute silence ; and indeed the 
 former was quite capable of carrying on a conversa- 
 tion unaided. 
 
 '' I thought of going down there next week/' he 
 said surlily. There was a suspicion in his manner 
 of " I am not sure I shall go now." 
 
 " I understand/' Mr. Jones continued, '' that your 
 cousin, Miss Ellis, is a jolly girl" — a murmur passed 
 the barrier of the Poet's teeth; was it possibly 
 " damned impudence?" — "I wonder if a fellow would 
 have any chance there ? " The deprecating tone 
 rather suggested some other fellow, but Mr. Corthee 
 seemed highly indignant. He rose languidly, and 
 stood with his back to the fire. 
 
 " My cousin would be sure to fall in love with 
 you," he said, in his most bitterly sarcastic tones. 
 
 Mr. Jones winced a little, but — true to his prin- 
 ciples — " Not if you are there/' he murmured softly. 
 The Poet carelessly accepted the homage. 
 
 '' Thank you," he said superciliously, '* I am not 
 in for that sort of thing." 
 
 '* I know/' returned Mr. Jones. " Wedded to Muse 
 — and all that. Glad you leave us poor devils a 
 chance of something." 
 
18 POETS ALL. 
 
 Was it possible that there was a slight tinge of 
 sarcasm in his tone? If so, it may be safely declared 
 that it passed unnoticed by the Poet, who was 
 passing his long fingers caressingly through his thin 
 hair, and who would never have dreamed of the 
 possibility of any one ridiculing him. 
 
 Mr. Jones rose, put on his overcoat, took his hat, 
 and made for the door ; with his hand on the handle 
 he paused. 
 
 " Then shall we go ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Oh, yes, we'll go," said the Poet peevishly, 
 looking at the door as if to add, " and I wish you'd 
 go now." 
 
 '' Start on Tuesday, then ? " 
 
 Mr. Jones waited a moment or two, but, as no 
 answer was vouchsafed, he opened the door and 
 walked out. 
 
 " What an ass that fellow is getting," he said, as 
 he descended the stairs. " I almost wonder I can put 
 up with him. He is about the worst I have had. 
 There isn't a redeeming feature about him. His 
 poems are humbug, and he is a humbug, and I am 
 the worst humbug of all. But how the deuce can I 
 help myself ? " 
 
 " Bah 1 " snorted the Poet, when he found himself 
 alone, " that fellow is taking too much on himself. 
 
A KINDLY CRITIC. 19 
 
 What a conceited ass he is getting to be. Ha ! 
 ha ! " and he laughed a discordant laugh — " a lady- 
 killer indeed ! IVe a good mind to have a try 
 myself, just to take the conceit out of him. Going 
 down there with that snob ! But one must have 
 somebody to keep off the yokels. Hang the country, 
 larks and things. Oh ! yes, I dare say. Snow too, 
 by Jove. Gets into your shoes, I expect. Would get 
 a pair of boots if I had time. I won't go. Yes, I 
 will. Hardly fair to the girl to leave her for that 
 fellow to roll his gooseberry eyes at. She must be 
 smart though to catch me." 
 
 So spake the Poet as he retired to rest, forgetting 
 that a haughty spirit goes before a fall. 
 
20 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 A COUNTRY SQUIRE. 
 
 Beddington, the residence of Robert Ellis, Esq., 
 shortly to be favoured by a visit from the two 
 literary magnates to whose symposium the reader 
 has been introduced, was a rather fine old place in 
 Daneshire, about seven miles from the county town 
 of Carbury. It had but little pretension to archi- 
 tectural beauty, and had a rather dwarfed appear- 
 ance from being surrounded by enormous trees, 
 which had calmly outlived many generations of fret- 
 ting and now forgotten humanity. The windows 
 in the front of the house were small, and some 
 of them had been bricked up in the days of the 
 window-tax, and never re-opened on its repeal. 
 The old-fashioned front door looked mean and small 
 to modern ideas, and the flight of stone steps, 
 guarded by a plain iron handrail, and placed at right 
 angles to the front of the house, had at a little 
 
A COUNTRY SQUIRE. 21 
 
 distance the appearance of a vast horse-block. In 
 the centre of the roof was a cupola, under which was 
 an old bell, which an ancestor of the present squire, 
 who had been a noted collector of coins, had had 
 cast from the gold and silver duplicates which he 
 was unwilling to present to rival museums. The 
 bell had an exquisite tone, though the present squire 
 may have been partial in preferring it to the peals 
 of the neighbouring churches. But he was one of 
 those men who are to be envied in that they always 
 consider their possessions the best in the world, and 
 find it easy to convince themselves that what they 
 cannot have is undesirable. In old times the bell 
 may have had some duties above the common, but 
 it had now" to be content with the functions of a mere 
 dinner-bell. You would not have guessed this from 
 its tone, which was rich and full as ever. Inanimate 
 things often set an example (in their phlegmatic 
 way) of content under a change of circumstances, 
 which would be well if we oftener followed. 
 
 Beddington was at present rather under a cloud ; 
 the evil days that had come upon agriculture having 
 so reduced w^hat had once been a fine income that 
 the owner was forced to abstain from any outlay 
 that did not promise to be remunerative. This got 
 in fact to mean that he abstained as far as possible 
 
22 POETS ALL. 
 
 from any outlay at all. Mr. Ellis had been brought 
 up at Eton and Oxford, but had long ago lost any 
 taste for literature with which he may have been 
 inoculated at either seat — so-called — of learning. 
 The old house had been stored by a literary descend- 
 ant of the numismatist, with books of which the 
 greater part were rubbish, though amongst them 
 were many of the old standard works which modern 
 writers find so useful and suggestive, and an edition 
 more or less valuable of almost every poet from 
 Chaucer who had made any name at all — including 
 a good many who had been unable to keep their 
 names when they had made them. This collection 
 it had been the accepted tradition for each succeed- 
 ing squire to augment with the works of any poet 
 who flourished in his reign. For some reason — 
 perhaps for no more inscrutable one than that an 
 ancestor of the present squire preferred cock-fighting 
 to literature — there had been a pause after Byron, 
 and the hiatus was now such a wide one that the 
 then acknowledged duty of completing the collection 
 had been deferred. The deferred task got daily — as 
 such tasks do — more and more arduous, till gradu- 
 ally all hope or intention of completing it had passed 
 by. A man who has decided to neglect an uncon- 
 genial duty soon gets to find excuses for the neglect, 
 
A COUKTRY SQUIRE. 23 
 
 and thence to convince those whom it may concern 
 that it was not a duty after all. Mr. Ellis, while 
 knowing little of the contents of his library, had got 
 into the habit of accounting for the abrupt cessation 
 of the collection — which, since it was his property, 
 could be nothing less than perfect — by saying that 
 there were no more poets to collect. As he knew 
 nothing at all of modern poetry, he had little diffi- 
 culty in persuading himself of their non-existence ; 
 and he may also have allowed himself to imagine 
 that ignorance of the moderns constituted him a fit 
 champion of the ancients — of whom he knew but 
 little more. When the generally acknowledged 
 merits of Jones, Brown, and Robinson were brought 
 — as occasionally happened — to his notice, the state- 
 ment that they were not in his library (with the 
 contents of which he was at least outwardly familiar) 
 appeared to him an all-sufiicient denial of their 
 claims. There would have been no greater believer 
 than the Squire — who was no talker — in the truth of 
 tout est dit, if he had ever happened to hear of the 
 saying. The eschewer of " conversation " has the 
 best of things now-a-days, inasmuch as the chance of 
 making an original remark is well-nigh hopeless, or 
 at all events the only things that have not been said 
 are the things that are not worth saying. 
 
24 POETS ALL. . 
 
 Having such negative literary tastes, and neces- 
 sarily holding such a poor opinion of modern literary 
 men, the Squire had naturally but few acquaintances 
 in literary circles. But in the previous year, during 
 a brief stay in London, he had met at a friend's 
 house a young man about forty years old — at forty 
 a modern poet is in his first youth — whom he had 
 been told was the coming man. He would have 
 attached but little value to a pre-eminence, which 
 he at first likened to that of a one-eyed man among 
 the blind, if the new poet had not also happened to 
 be his cousin, though several times removed. In 
 ordinary circumstances he would have found con- 
 siderable difficulty in accepting Mr. Prothero Corthee 
 as the representative of a race he had brought him- 
 self to consider extinct ; but he was one of those who, 
 without being in the least conceited, consider that 
 to be in the remotest degree connected with them 
 is for ordinary mortals, if not a patent of nobility, 
 yet a sufficient certificate of merit. Without caring 
 at all for his new-found relative, or troubling himself 
 in the least about his qualifications, he soon got 
 into the way of talking about " my cousin the poet." 
 To the latter it was a pleasing, because novel, dis- 
 tinction to be connected with a " lord of many acres,'' 
 whose appearance contrasted favourably with the 
 
A COUNTRY SQUIRE. 25 
 
 generality of his somewhat hlas^s associates. The 
 news of the decadence of agriculture had not yet 
 reached the ears of the London literary world, which 
 indeed it would not greatly have disturbed. The 
 Squire was on one or two occasions Mr. Corthee's 
 guest at the literary club which he frequented, and 
 where the visitors old-world prejudices, which he 
 never for a moment dreamt of concealing, proved 
 quite a breezy sensation. The " Immortals " — the 
 name generally used, not without pride, by members 
 of the club, that too by which it was so generally 
 known to the outside public as to render its more 
 proper and legal title of little importance, if not 
 superfluous — was the place to which hungry poets, or 
 those whom other people thought or pretended to 
 think poets, or the much larger number who thought 
 themselves poets or were o^en to being persuaded 
 of the fact, flocked — as others went to an eating- 
 house — for the necessary laudatory pabulum which 
 was denied them outside. Within its not very 
 bright or very spacious precincts — as opium-eaters in 
 their den — they were accustomed to compound for 
 the neglect of cold or even contemptuous worldlings 
 by the exchanging of mutual assurances of pro- 
 spective, or even actual immortality, and by agreeing 
 to be — with some necessary classifications — poets all. 
 
26 POETS ALL. 
 
 Confidence — a little too much sometimes — was rather 
 endued than hope left behind by those who entered 
 there. 
 
 The Squire was greatly interested if rather aston- 
 ished by the strange people amongst whom he found 
 himself, as if he were a new Gulliver. Instead of 
 the loud and hearty tones to which he was accus- 
 tomed (and which as often conveyed censure as the 
 reverse), there were perpetually — except when the 
 waiters were being scolded — to be heard the soft 
 sibilant sounds of praise. Indeed, the place seemed 
 to him a kind of church, where the religion was for 
 the congregation to worship one another and be 
 worshipped in turn. 
 
 The members who frequented the " Immortals'' 
 were curious-looking people of all sorts, sizes, and 
 colours : red, black — there was a full-blooded African 
 from Zanzibar — grey, clean-shaven, full-bearded,' even 
 occasionally dirty. All were alike in having a look 
 of cleverness and in frequently lapsing into an atti- 
 tude like that of a wild animal on the watch — this 
 last probably when listening intently for praise. To 
 the Squire, who had no idea or wish to pass beyond 
 the bounds of ordinance, and who indeed expected 
 to be buried and done with one day like the gener- 
 ality, it was a somewhat weird and startling experi- 
 
A COUNTRY SQUIRE. 27 
 
 ence to be brought into contact with a number of 
 people who were secure, in their own or their friends' 
 opinions, of immortality. He had heard, too, that 
 the old " Immortals '^ on Olympus used to quarrel 
 among themselves. Not so these modern ''Im- 
 mortals." All chance of any misunderstandings was 
 removed by the banishment, or possibly only the 
 gagging of Truth. Everybody was everything grand 
 and good to everybody, till they passed outside the 
 doors. It was something new to see members taking 
 their turn as if in a barber's chair, and then rising 
 to assist in lathering the recent operator. The 
 spectacle would have been made perfect to a cynic — 
 could any such have found entrance — by the fact 
 that no one seemed conscious of any degree of 
 absurdity. Nothing approaching to a smile, much 
 less to jovial laughter, was ever seen on the lips of 
 distributor or recipient of praise. The serious 
 acceptance of hyperbolic flattery was indeed only 
 intermitted for the equally serious return. 
 
 The Squire was . no doubt laughed at behind his 
 back — which is surely preferable to being laughed at 
 to one's face — and on returning to his hotel he 
 chuckled over the absurdities of his new friends. 
 Before leaving London he had cordially, as his way 
 was, invited the Poet and the most inseparable of 
 
28 POETS ALL. 
 
 his admirers to pay him a visit after Christmas, and 
 to this visit he was now looking forward — as we 
 are apt to contemplate self-imposed obligations 
 thoughtlessly undertaken — with no vast amount of 
 pleasure. 
 
29 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MAGGIE ELLIS. 
 
 The Squire's old-fashioned hospitality was sufficient 
 as a rule to preserve his guests from ennui. When 
 he did not suffice to repel boredom, there was yet 
 his only daughter, Maggie — he had been left a 
 widower some years ago — -in whose presence it was 
 simply impossible for any rightly-constituted person 
 to feel other than joyful; that is, as long as Miss 
 Maggie did not too openly show that she preferred 
 some one else's company. Once it was discovered 
 by an unfortunate visitor that such was the case, the 
 remainder of his stay, which he made as brief as 
 possible, was an unceasing struggle with the com- 
 bined forces of jealousy and weariness. 
 
 Not that Maggie was very bright, or even very 
 beautiful. She was simply one of those fine, healthy 
 English girls who spoil young men with any taste — 
 the taste in such matters of the modern young man 
 
30 POETS ALL. 
 
 is too often conspicuous by its absence — for the 
 clever beauties of this and other clinies. She had a 
 tall, graceful figure, which was perhaps seen to the 
 best advantage in the saddle, where indeed it was 
 seen very often. She had an abundance of brown 
 hair, and bright clear eyes, whose exact colour it was 
 not easy at a first glance to determine. Her nose 
 was a good sensible nose, neither too long nor too 
 short, neither Grecian nor Roman, but English — 
 which is far better. Her lips were red (as indeed 
 lips generally are except in novels, where they are 
 addicted to turning white), and not too full. When 
 they parted, as they did when she was moved to 
 pity or joy, you got a glimpse of two rows of the 
 whitest possible teeth. When she thought of any- 
 thing — which was sometimes the case, though she 
 lived in the country — she had a way of biting, or 
 seeming to bite, her under-lip. These charms, such 
 as they are — perhaps the last was scarcely a charm 
 — are common to many country girls. They would 
 not have amounted to much without her complexion. 
 Her face was slightly embrowned by sun and air. 
 She was not given to veils or sun-shades, and the 
 sun returned her confidence by kissing her tenderly, 
 never scorching or freckling her as he did so many 
 others. As she had no pretensions to exceptional 
 
MAGGIE ELLIS. ' 31 
 
 loveliness, so neither had she any claim to a great 
 amount of cleverness or wisdom. But she had her 
 full share of common-sense and tact, and these are 
 more useful than the former in the affairs of every day. 
 She was now twenty-one. Her mother had been 
 dead three years, and since that day the manage- 
 ment of her father's household had devolved upon 
 her. She was not so countrified but that she had 
 spent a portion of two seasons in London, where the 
 admiration she excited had not been sufficient 
 either in quantity or quality to spoil her. 
 
 With one exception, there was scarcely a thought 
 in Maggie's breast that she would have wished to 
 conceal, at all events from her father. The discovery 
 that his daughter wrote poetry would have greatly 
 astonished the Squire, and might even have had the 
 effect of causing him to admit that there might be 
 a poet — or a poetess, at all events — after Byron. 
 Doubtless he would have accounted for it by 
 remembering that the time and labour which his 
 predecessors had given to the collecting, in the most 
 costly bindings, of the national poetry must have 
 made their descendant akin to the poets, and there- 
 fore not unlikely to father one. But though the 
 Squire was unaware of the fact, Maggie had in very 
 early days shown a predilection for putting her ideas 
 
32 POETS ALL. 
 
 — or the want of them — into verse. To early 
 acquire the technicalities of any art is to have 
 smoothed the way to success. When Maggie was 
 about three years old she was overheard by her old 
 nurse — who had come upon her unseen — repeating 
 to herself some words which appeared to give her 
 infinite happiness. The old woman listened care- 
 fully, in the expectation, from the rapt expression of 
 the child's face, that she would hear something sweet 
 and rare as angels' whispers. She was disappointed 
 to find that the words were apparently mere doggerel, 
 though to the child they may have contained some 
 deep or pathetic meaning. It was clear, however, 
 that even at that early age Miss Margaret Ellis had 
 an ear for rhyme, for which some modern poets 
 would give the appendages they are unconscious of 
 wanting. And this was what the nurse overheard — 
 
 ^^ Curl-paper, curl-paper ; 
 Widdledy, widdledy, whirl-paper." 
 
 If in the case of these probably impromptu rhymes 
 there was but little sense behind the words, there 
 have no doubt been instances of poets long past any 
 but their second childhood who have divorced reason 
 from rhyme quite as absolutely. Even when Maggie 
 had improved on her first attempts by the addition 
 of sense and feeling, she kept her secret closely 
 
MAGGIE ELLIS. 33 
 
 hidden in her own bosom. This not from any fear 
 of running counter to her father s prejudice — which 
 she must have known she could easily d siipate — 
 but from a feeling that to talk about emotions which 
 seemed to her almost as sacred as prayer, would be 
 to vulgarize if not to destroy them. It was strange, 
 perhaps, that she should have had this feeling in 
 these days when scrihimus indocti doctique poemata, 
 and when scarcely any one dreams of affecting 
 exemption from a disease which, equally with 
 measles, appears to be the common lot of modern 
 humanity. A further reason for hiding her talent 
 was that she thought it a very small one, and had 
 not the conceit necessary for a competition with 
 larger capitalists. Though she was only a country 
 girl, and not particularly accomplished at that, she 
 had learnt — as children sometimes run beibre they 
 walk — the rare lesson of self-knowledge about as 
 well — which is not saying much — as it is generally 
 known. She was aware that she was good-looking, 
 nor did she need to be told — though people were 
 always telling her — that she rode well. For the 
 latter accomplishment perhaps some praise might 
 be due to her ; but her poems — which after all were 
 not many — were like the lark's song, which it may 
 be guessed he cannot help uttering. The spontaneous 
 
34 POETS ALL. 
 
 outcome of a charming combination of health, happi- 
 ness, and fine weather must be pleasing, but was not 
 of necessity meritorious. Human beings are ex- 
 ceptional in often wishing to conceal some fardel 
 which nature has ordained tliey shall carry; and 
 indeed it is well to remember that these, whether 
 good or bad — like a beautiful woman's face, or the 
 excrescence of a hunchback — are not ours by merit 
 or ill-deserving. Maggie's rhymes were not always 
 faultless, nor were her metres — for which she went 
 to her^ father's library — anything very wonderful. 
 There was much the same difference between her 
 artless productions and the performances of the 
 professional poet that there is between the self- 
 binding reaping-machine, with its elaborate and 
 noisy arrangements for shearing the stubble, and 
 the almost extinct reaper with his '' broad hook," 
 whose careful sheaves were tied one by one by the 
 wife — sun-kissed, like Hood's Ruth — who followed 
 in his wake. Her baby nestled under a carefully- 
 arranged shelter of sheaves hard by, and thither she 
 repaired once and again to admire — she was never 
 tired of admiring — the sleeping beauty. The "self- 
 binder " gets through an enormous amount of work, 
 and does it, I am told, cheaply ; so the woman can 
 stay at home — the best place for her, of course. The 
 
MAGGIE ELLIS. 35 
 
 man — he never imagined a day would come when 
 he would cease to be proud of his art — may hang up 
 his " broad hook/' and look moodily over the garden 
 gate at the big machine whirling off its unlimited 
 supply of sheaves. 
 
 Maggie's poems were on subjects with which she 
 was familiar, and which therefore she did not have 
 to " read up." They were evoked by a chance 
 remark, or by some scene in the landscape as she 
 rode with her father. She would never have dreamt 
 of writing on what she did not feel, or except when 
 words were, so to speak, forced out of her. She 
 scarcely imagined that there were people so clever, 
 or so silly, as to turn out poems as tailors do clothes, 
 ^•' to order," and with as much feeling — it must be 
 allowed, too, with as much precision — as a machine. 
 
 Of love she had never written a line, and indeed 
 she knew little about it. Had she known more she 
 would have kept the knowledge to herself. Doubt- 
 less, had she flattered herself that she was a poetess, 
 she would have taken credit for insight into this as 
 into other matters. 
 
^6 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE COMING GUESTS. 
 
 Maggie and her father Uved a great deal alone. 
 The distance at which the Hall was situated from 
 a railway-station prevented fashionable, or pseudo- 
 fashionable, people from journeying into what they 
 were pleased to call *' the wilds." The few, how- 
 ever, who ventured were received with a hearty 
 welcome now-a-days seldom met with, and were 
 tempted, when the opportunity offered, to venture 
 again. In the shooting season a few neighbours 
 would be asked to shoot, but the shooting was not 
 very good. It was beginning to be recognized — 
 rather late in the day — that the preservation of 
 farmers is after all of more importance than that 
 of fur or feather. 
 
 At other times the Squire was accustomed to 
 spend a good portion of each morning with his 
 
THE COMING GUESTS. 37 
 
 bailiff^ studying ways and means. He bad years 
 ago given up bis bunting, as be tbougbt tbat be 
 could no longer afford it, or at all events that, as 
 bis tenants could no longer afford it, it was his duty 
 to follow suit. His doing so was no doubt a mistake. 
 A man in the Squire's position cannot afford to retire 
 from communication with bis neighbours, and this 
 was nowhere better kept up than in the bunting- 
 field. It is true that some of these neighbours had 
 given the same reason for their withdrawal. Even 
 the tradesmen from Carbury, a few of the wealthiest 
 of whom bad in days past hunted occasionally, now 
 ceased to do so, either because they thought it bad 
 taste to indulge in a sport from which the owners of 
 the land were debarred, or because — dependent, as 
 most of them were, on agriculture — they too felt the 
 pressure of the bad times. 
 
 In fact, the chief patrons now of the Clayland 
 Hunt — and they were not very paying ones — were 
 strangers who patronized the district because it was 
 less crowded and cheaper than the Shires. They 
 also found that it was possible to give themselves 
 airs among these yokels — as they called them — on 
 which they would not have ventured elsewhere. 
 The Squire felt by no means inclined — though he 
 was neither very proud nor very sensitive — to ride 
 
38 POETS ALL. 
 
 over his own fields in company with or perhaps in 
 the rear of strangers who were certain to be better 
 mounted, and would very likely go better than the 
 owner of the soil. Yet, after all, if he had been 
 as keen as he once was, he would scarcely have 
 allowed the fear of being outridden on his own land 
 to deprive him of what had been his favourite sport. 
 He may have been conscious that he was growing 
 old, and if so, it would be soothing to find an excuse 
 for his abstinence less humiliatino^ than a failure of 
 nerve. He still spent a good deal of his time on 
 horseback. For hours every day, regardless of 
 weather, he would be riding over the estate on his 
 sturdy cob, and few landowners knew their farms 
 and their tenantry better than he did. Some of his 
 tenants indeed considered that he knew too much, 
 and "would have exchanged him not unwillingly for 
 one whose ways might have been less pleasant and 
 whose word less to be depended on, bat whom it 
 might have been possible occasionally to hoodwink. 
 Sometimes Maggie accompanied her father in his 
 morning rides : more generally she was occupied 
 with household affairs. After lunch the Squire and 
 his daughter were inseparable. Very friendly rela- 
 tions were still kept up with a few old families 
 similarly circumstanced, while the nouveaux riches 
 
THE COMING GUESTS. 39 
 
 who had recently become squires by purchase — and 
 wished they had not — were as far as possible ignored- 
 It may have struck the Squire that Maggie would 
 one day be leaving him, but he did not consider it 
 his duty to hasten her departure; while the possi- 
 bility that the temptation to quit might come from 
 one of the new county families certainly never 
 entered his head. Maggie was, to all appearance, 
 fancy free. There were no curates 'in the neighbour- 
 hood who could be considered at all eligible ; the old 
 parson who had held the living for twenty years, and 
 was likely to hold it for about as many more, had no 
 son, and it had never struck him that his duty to his 
 old friend demanded of him the engagement at great 
 inconvenience to himself of a useless but " suitable " 
 young man. 
 
 The Rev. Allen Butler, formerly Fellow of New 
 College, Oxford, had greatly astonished all his friends 
 and admirers by accepting the living of Beddington 
 when it had been decided that Oxford was the 
 sphere in which he was calculated to shine. He 
 and the Squire had been undergraduates together, 
 and his old friend was probably the only person who 
 was aware of his reasons for rusticating. These reasons 
 some had connected with religious scruples, while 
 others had suspected that it was a disappointment in 
 
40 POETS ALL 
 
 love which had turned the whole current of his life. 
 Whatever the cause, his career, with all its possi- 
 bilities, came to an abrupt ending. He had stopped 
 — like the Squire's library — at a certain point, and 
 the gap between him and modern thought was now 
 too wide to be bridged over. His interest in litera- 
 ture ceased, when he left Oxford, to be progressive, 
 and he was blind to any progress with which he had 
 not kept pace. As the Squire's library was the only 
 one to which he had access, he soon ceased to notice 
 its defi-'iencies. At first he no doubt grumbled a 
 little at its antiquity, but the Squire's '* Nonsense, 
 man ; it's not worth getting, I tell you," when he 
 wanted a book which was even comparatively modern, 
 had the effect, if not of satisfying, of silencing him. 
 Gradually he became the recognized champion of 
 a view which the Squire had only accepted to save 
 himself from *' bother." He was so far right that 
 the longest life is too short for the study of half the 
 books well worth study which were written gener- 
 ations before we were born. To fly from these 
 to the modern is to neglect what is certainly good 
 for what may very possibly be skin-deep and 
 superficial. 
 
 There came a day when the parson, while affecting 
 more ignorance than he had of modern literature, 
 
THE COMING GUESTS. 41 
 
 head got to be a little more conceited than he had a 
 right to be on account of knowledge, which after all 
 was not very thorough. It was certainly natural 
 and perhaps even wise to believe that the arena 
 from which he had retired had no longer any prizes 
 to attract, and it may have made him less unhappy 
 in his obscurity to feel sure that those left behind to 
 carry on the contest had degenerated. I must con- 
 fess that the Rector's sole claim to be admitted a 
 member of the firm of " Poets all" was that in bis 
 college days he had shone as a writer of Latin verse. 
 But it is absurd to be too scrupulous in a question 
 affecting one's own particular hobby-horse. Some 
 years after coming down to Bedding ton he had 
 married a middle-aged spinster connected with a 
 county family, who, on the death of Maggie's mother, 
 and assisted by the Squire's purse, had willingly 
 entered upon the vacant position of Lady Bountiful. 
 For the rest he felt towards the Squire as a brother, 
 and towards Maggie more as a second father even 
 than an uncle. He was a noble-looking man, with a 
 head which would have looked well, as was once the 
 general anticipation, under a mitre. He had left 
 Oxford before Donnishness had become quite a 
 second nature — a Don too late transplanted to the 
 country is a fearful thing — and the scrupulousness 
 
42 POETS ALL. 
 
 with which he performed duties to which he might 
 easily have imagined himself superior, had, assisted 
 by his air and appearance, made him friends of the 
 whole parish. Notwithstanding Mr. Butler's disin- 
 clination to provide the curate, whom so many in 
 the country have learnt to consider a cheap and 
 almost indispensable luxury, neither the Squire — 
 whom the advent of a youthful ecclesiastic would 
 perhaps not have greatly cheered — nor his daughter 
 w^ere conscious of feeling in the least dull. They 
 may have been so, but as they never knew it, 
 ignorance, as in many previous cases, was bliss. 
 Both were apparently contented with a simple round 
 of duties — the poor were always with them — alter- 
 nating with what most people would scarcely have 
 considered pleasures. Happiness should accompany 
 the power of making others happy, and one need not 
 wander far in the country to find those who are worse 
 off than one's self Unfortunately the fact that the 
 search is so easy causes it to be too frequently 
 neglected. 
 
 On the evening of the day preceding that on 
 which the visitors were to arrive the Squire and 
 Maggie were engaged in the drawing-room after 
 dinner in talking them over. To Maggie the ex- 
 pected guests were unknown, and on that account 
 
THE COMING GUESTS. 43 
 
 she had invested them with the qualities in which 
 some of her intimates were deficient. Maggie was 
 too human not to feel some pleasurable excitement 
 about those whom she had decided would be very 
 dissimilar and perhaps — she allowed it was possible — 
 very superior to the old. While always the reverse 
 of discontented, she was not unconscious of an un- 
 satisfied craving for friendship — or was it for love ? — 
 other than she had known. She had sometimes 
 wished that, like a bird, she could soar above her 
 surroundings. But to soar she must have wings. 
 Given wings, a teacher would be required to show 
 her how to use them. Her mother, had she lived, 
 might have been her instructress — here Maggie was 
 probably in error — but her father thouglit that his 
 level was high enough for all mortal desires. She 
 was not unaware of the power exercised by women 
 under circumstances in which she was unlikely to be 
 placed. Maggie had had her little triumphs, which 
 she had neither sought very eagerly nor greatly 
 valued when won, and she was desirous — what girl 
 would not be ? — of trying new pastures. She would 
 like — but what did she know about it ? — to conquer 
 on some field where victory was a little less a matter 
 of course, and a little more glorious than she had 
 
44 POETS ALL. 
 
 found it. To a maiden every new male friend is a 
 possible knight-errant and deliverer from what she 
 may scarcely have acknowledged a prison. 
 
 " To-morrow," said the Squire, with humorous 
 ruth, '^ we shall be no longer alone. We shall have 
 to mind our p's and q's. I've been letting myself 
 grow rusty." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! you haven't, I'm sure." 
 
 " I shall be pleased for you to see some one more 
 modern, my dear. This Poet, oar cousin, is a wonder, 
 I've been told, though I am quite unable to credit it. 
 You must learn him. It is too late for me to learn 
 new poets, if there are any, which I don't believe. 
 Even if there were, as some silly person has been writ- 
 ing, fifty-two (or even fifty- three) new poets, I would 
 have nothing to do with them. The old ones are as 
 much as I can manage. It is odd that some of these 
 new planets have not swum into our ken. But then 
 there might be a new planet every night without my 
 being much the wiser. I wouldn't get out of my 
 bed for the biggest they are likely to find. You are 
 different, of course. Your cousin's friend the Critic 
 is also, by all accounts, a wonderful man, but not 
 much to look at ; of the two I like him the bettef . 
 You will probably prefer the Poet — as he calls him- 
 
THE COMING GUESTS. 45 
 
 self. I wonder if they are fond of country life. If 
 not, we can show them little else. Nor is it likely 
 that anything else would please them, as everything 
 but the country is better in town. Any poet but a 
 sham one should revel in country life, not that he 
 should always live there, but it is the country from 
 which he should get his ideas. The ideas drawn 
 from a street, curbed and guttered, would not be 
 very grand — unless, of course, tliere happened to be a 
 bonnet shop over the way. We will go to the meet 
 at Apley Wood the day after to-morrow. A good 
 shaking up will do them both good — poor devils ! — 
 and they cannot come to much harm. We can just 
 manage to mount them both. I will ride my cob, 
 and you will take your pony. On the next day we 
 will shoot. There is a stray pheasant or two left. 
 Of course our friends cannot get much shooting in 
 London, where the people are a good deal too thick 
 on the ground, and they are probably not first-rate 
 shots. Perhaps it will be safer to omit that part of 
 the programme. I have already, as you know, 
 three No. 5 shot in the left side of my head. Both 
 these people are certain to be very polite to you. 
 These town folk are for ever bowing and scraping. 
 They will flatter you — or they would if it were 
 
46 POETS ALL. 
 
 possible. They are not likely to have seen many 
 
 girls like my Maggie. Mind that little head doesn't 
 
 get turned.*' 
 
 '' Oh, papa ! don't, please, talk such nonsense." 
 " It is not nonsense, my dear. However, I don't 
 
 want to talk it." 
 
 And the Squire took his candle and departed. 
 
47 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE DESCENT. OF THE IMMORTALS. 
 
 Various reasons had combiaed in inducing Poet 
 
 '& 
 
 and Critic to accept the invitation to Beddington. 
 Both were moved by the almost certainty of homage 
 a little more genuine than that to which they were 
 accustomed. Both, too, may have been more than 
 a little weary of the inevitable, and too often un- 
 profitable, return which might on this occasion be 
 omitted. The Poet had also a praiseworthy desire 
 to see the country. So might a merchant wish to 
 visit the territory the sale of whose produce had 
 enriched him. He had been a denizen of the great 
 city for many years, and his brief holidays had either 
 been spent abroad or in places where the country 
 had been made as far as possible to resemble town. 
 He had not, however, escaped the necessity — common 
 to all poets, good, bad, or indifferent — of attempting 
 
48 POETS ALL. 
 
 the portrayal of rural joys, and he had discovered, to 
 his subsequent annoyance, that nothing is easier 
 than to make idiotic mistakes in describing what 
 you have not seen. He was uneasily conscious of 
 having come a "cropper" or two, and was anxious 
 to avoid another fall which might be as serious and 
 have as lasting effect as Lucifer's. To his intense 
 disgust, and that of about three-score more of hard- 
 working and ambitious " minor " poets, whose avoca- 
 tions and sympathies confined them to town, the 
 country, after having long been — from the sonneteer's 
 and ballad -writer's point of view — under a cloud, 
 was fast coming into fashion again. One reason for 
 this may have been that it had lost its former vulgar 
 air of well-fed prosperity, which was even then rather 
 deceptive, and was developing instead a pathetic 
 appearance of unkempt and half-starved poverty 
 which appealed to the sympathies of the money- 
 making crowd, and demanded to be ''treated" 
 poetically. It had been hard — if not impossible — 
 to work oneself up into raptures about a lot of jovial 
 farmers with faces shining from the over-plenty of a 
 '' farmer's ordinary." 
 
 High-falutin' descriptions of the country drawn 
 from old-fashioned writers (who had never known 
 more about their subject than poor Shenstone when 
 
THE BESCEIST OF THE IMMORTALS. 49 
 
 he wrote bis " pastorals "), or evolved from one's own 
 ideas had been considerably overdone, and could 
 never have delighted any one who was not equally 
 ignorant. The world vyas getting smaller and better 
 known every day, and the town was making longer 
 incursions into the country. The ignorance which 
 used to write of country-folk as if they were stage 
 shepherds and shepherdesses was no longer excusable 
 or — which mattered a good deal more — saleable. 
 
 It is very sad that we moderns should have lost 
 the gift of knowing everything by intuition, but the 
 fact has to be faced, and unfortunately the gift was 
 never more needed than now. The Poet recognized 
 unwillingly that it was his duty to posterity to lose 
 no time in studying larks — and things — if he in- 
 tended to continue writing about them. He had 
 also been piqued by the Critic's rude mention of the 
 "jolly girl." Not only was he conscious of a jealous 
 feeling which would not permit of his friend '' walk- 
 ing over/' but it struck him all at once that an 
 experience of girls, whether ''jolly" or not, was as 
 necessary to a poet who aimed at being perfect as a 
 knowledge of country life. Of the word "jolly" he 
 had little comprehension, and he knew nothing of 
 girls. Of women-— very artificial ones mostly, and 
 the more artificial they were the better he liked 
 
50 POETS ALL. 
 
 them — he had not been without some rather trying 
 experiences; but he could not remember ever to 
 have come across a genuine unaffected girl, such as 
 he supposed that his unknown cousin must be. 
 What opportunities, indeed, had the poor creature 
 ever had for being anything else ? Let it not be 
 supposed for one moment that our Poet's modesty had 
 restrained him from writing about the class of idyllic 
 woman whom yet he had never seen. Indeed, he 
 had written about them a good deal ; and as the 
 background of these fancy portraits was invariably 
 filled in with descriptions of the country which he 
 did not know, prejudiced folk who knew nice country 
 girls laughed them to scorn. Perhaps their ridicule 
 mattered little, since the opinions of the very few 
 country 23eople who read any new poetry scarcely 
 ever penetrated into the laudatory circle of the 
 Poet's admirers, and had no effect when they 
 arrived. Poets and painters, and novelists too, may 
 be right in sticking to their monstrosities, which may 
 be easier of production than more simple and, to the 
 generality, more pleasing representations. Of all 
 virtues which poets should possess, the knowledge 
 of a true woman is the least easy to assume. The 
 Poet decided to go down into the country and 
 make a study of a country girl. Perhaps he hardly 
 
THK DESCENT OF THK IMMORTALS. 51 
 
 realized that his calling might have entailed a more 
 disagreeable duty. 
 
 The Critic's reasons were not far to seek. He 
 really wanted a change. His unctuous tones had 
 become a weariness to him, and he hoped that in 
 the country it might be permitted him to unbend so 
 far as perhaps to swear at some one or something. 
 He felt like a country mayor suffocating in official 
 dress, and lonc^ino^ to don once more the shootinor- 
 jacket from which he has been lately debarred. He 
 was sick of the perpetual flattery which was de- 
 manded of him, and something within was always 
 whispering that he might be capable of better 
 things, or at least of something less sickening. 
 When a man besfins to acknowledo^e himself a sham, 
 there is a hope that he is beginning to be real. He 
 was going to Beddington as to a place where he 
 would be able to speak his mind — if he still had one ; 
 to be clean for a time even should he have to return 
 to his wallowing, and that he would have to return 
 he sadly feared. He knew too well the difficulty 
 of permanently ousting what had become a second 
 nature. He might expel it temporarily by a visit 
 to the country, as with a pitchfork, but it had 
 acquired — like everything in England — vested in- 
 terests. Xndeed, his second reason showed clearly 
 
52 POETS ALL. 
 
 that he did not desire a permanent change. He had 
 lately been invited to contribute, to a magazine of 
 some standing, a series of articles on country sports. 
 To enable him to do so it was absolutely necessary 
 that lie should see such of these as were carried on 
 in the winter season, and that of the others he 
 should obtain some particulars at second-hand. No 
 doubt something in the country air would come to 
 his aid. He felt too modest to write of recondite 
 affairs of which even the names were unfamiliar. 
 
 The two friends had arranged to start from London 
 so as to arrive at Beddington a little before dinner- 
 time. The afternoon was chilly, and, notwithstand- 
 ing his wraps, the Poet soon began to wish himself 
 back at his club. He showed the most intense, if 
 unreasoning, disgust at finding that quite a number 
 of very ordinary-looking people had also chosen this 
 day for travelling. A poet, he thought, should be 
 a being apart. Where could all these red-faced 
 people — who might have been hop-pickers for aught 
 he knew or cared — with their little baskets of lish 
 be going to ? If it had depended on him he felt 
 that their journey and destination would be, to say 
 the least, disagreeable. But he could not interest 
 himself in the pushings and gaspings of such a 
 vulgar horde. As he stood on the platform in 
 
THE DESCENT OF THE IMMORTALS. 53 
 
 scornful contemplatioD, a fat bagman nearly swept 
 him off his legs with a large sharp-edged tin box, 
 and a brusque, " Where on hearth are you coming 
 to ? '* *' Sir," the bruised Poet commenced — but the 
 enemy was already fifty yards away. There should 
 be a law, he imperiously decided, to regulate traffic 
 and keep nine-tenths of the vulgar fellows — who 
 could not really have any good reason for travelling 
 — at home. It is to be feared that the Poet resembled 
 Lady Godiva in objecting to be looked at, while he 
 yet laid himself out by costume and bearing to 
 attract observation. I have often asked myself in 
 vain why fantastic habiliments should be deemed 
 necessary auxiliaries to a poetical reputation : why 
 the "Muse" can only be courted as long as the 
 barber, poor man, is avoided. That the last is a 
 person to be, as far as may be, shunned I readily 
 allow, but why by poets more than by other people ? 
 A whisper comes to me that quacks are notorious 
 for striving to catch the eyes of their dupes-to-be 
 with outlandish apparel, and that only sham poets 
 would stoop to such paltry affectations. But then 
 this would be very hard on Mr. Prothero Corthee. 
 Let a true poet wear what he likes, or nothing at 
 all ; we can but be grateful for his appearance. 
 Unlike his companion, the farther the Critic got 
 
54 POETS ALL. 
 
 from town the better be began to feel. He would 
 actually have opened the window had not the Poet 
 shivered at the idea. They had provided themselves 
 with a selection of papers, chiefly literary, which 
 would have served the Squire for a year's reading, 
 and wherein were some laudatory notices on the 
 most recent effusions of Mr. Cor thee. On alighting 
 at the station, the Squire's comfortable old-fashioned 
 carriage awaited them. The young country footman 
 opened his mouth wide with astonishment at the 
 sight of the two guests. On the Poet's head was a 
 broad-brimmed, white billy-cock, which he had pulled 
 over his eyes, and from under which his thin greyish 
 locks floated out behind. He wore a Tennysonian- 
 looking mantle, whose enormous capes enfolded him 
 after the fashion of an antiquated jarvey. The 
 feeble station-lamps had yet little difficulty in 
 illuminating the fat legs of the Critic, the lower 
 portion of which had been encased, for their visit to 
 the country, in bright red knickerbockers with black 
 stripes. The Poet, without troubling himself about 
 such sublunary affairs as luggage, proceeded at once 
 to the carriage, in which he lay back with closed 
 eyes wdiile Mr. Jones superintended the removal of 
 the joint effects. The soothing tones in which the 
 latter pointed out the various properties were a 
 
THE DESCENT OF THE IMMORTALS. 55 
 
 revelation to the footman, whose first words on 
 climbing to his seat beside the coachman were, 
 " My, Bill, ain't the cove an oily one ! " 
 
 The road, without passing through the town, dived 
 at once into the country. The night was star-lit, 
 but only mist and the steam that rose from the 
 horses could be seen in the light of the lamps on 
 either side. The lodge was reached at last, and the 
 carriage swept rapidly up the long winding drive. 
 The Hall door was open, and a bright light shone 
 out from the interior into the darkness. The two 
 travellers disembarked and mounted the steps, at 
 the top of which they were received by their host. 
 After being disencumbered of wraps, the Squire 
 ushered them into the drawing-room, where his 
 daughter awaited them not without eagerness. 
 
56 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE NEW "STUDY." 
 
 I SCARCELY dare to hint at a doubt of the truth 
 of any of those universally-accepted proverbs which 
 so many consider, like old wine, improve with age, 
 and which generations ago, when the wisdom of 
 many was put into compendious form by the wit of 
 one, may have had presumptive evidence in their 
 favour. But if, as has , been wisely said, even 
 " Religions wear out in some thousand years without 
 a slight refreshment from the spheres," it is hard 
 to see why immortality should be predicated for 
 proverbs. No doubt some proverbs — however de- 
 lusive and untruthful — incite meritoriously to good 
 works, and these I should wish to retain, since the 
 believer, when disappointed of his expected reward, 
 may reap other if less tangible advantages. 
 
 Perhaps one of the most delusive of proverbs is 
 that whicli tells you that, " It is better to be born 
 
THE NEW 'study.' 57 
 
 lucky than rich." So few people know what to do 
 with their luck when they get it, and Luck — like a 
 scorned beauty — is so exceedingly touchy, that I 
 think if I had the choice, and could make a new 
 start, I should prefer being brought into the world a 
 baby millionaire to being born lucky. To the man 
 who had once been rich — however unlucky — some 
 remains of his gold almost always adhere, and, even 
 to the pauper who appears to have lost all, the 
 prestige of ruin is a little mine. Indeed, it is almost 
 impossible for the most reckless spendthrift to 
 divest himself of every rag and appear financially 
 naked before the world. 
 
 But Luck ! She stoops over you, let us say, and 
 kisses you while you are sleeping, and may be gone 
 before you knew you had a visitor; or perhaps, if 
 you wake, you don't know what to do with her. As 
 I said, she is so touchy. My experience is that once 
 she is gone it is a hard matter to whistle her back. 
 I confess I don't care to argue about those cases in 
 which — like Fortunatus's purse — there is always 
 another slice of luck forthcoming for the man who 
 has thrown away his first. If any such cases could 
 be imagined, it is certain that nothing could be more 
 demoralizing. 
 
 Now the Poet had undertaken the journey — 
 
58 POETS ALT.. 
 
 Doctor-Syn tax-like — in search of a " study," and, if 
 he had only known it, he was now to be presented 
 with an invaluable one. How was he going to 
 
 o o 
 
 utilize his stroke of luck ? If but some friend had 
 been at his elbow to prompt him as to his behaviour ! 
 Maggie was actually willing to take him at his own 
 valuation. If it was generally known how many 
 people are ready to take us at the price at which 
 we ticket ourselves, it is to be feared there would 
 be an awful crop — it is big enough already in all 
 conscience — of impostors. 
 
 The room in which the travellers found themselves 
 was old-fashioned, though by the bright fire-light it 
 looked cosv and cheerful enough. Its o^reat length 
 was lighted in the daytime by three small and. 
 narrow windows, the large window which the 
 architect had designed for the end of the room 
 having been bricked up in the days of the window- 
 tax, and never re-opened. There are people who 
 imagine that this much-abused tax took its rise less 
 from the needs of the Exchequer (now flourishing 
 from the imposition of a duty on " thirsty " casks) 
 than from a wise objection felt by our ancestors — 
 or more probably ancestresses — to parading them- 
 selves, under all circumstances, in cross-lights. Now- 
 a-days, when the race is (if the old counterfeit 
 
THE NEW 'study." 59 
 
 presentments may be trusted), to put it mildly, no 
 lovelier than formerly, the usual arrangement of the 
 architect-builder is to throw light on your careworn 
 modern-business-man s countenance from every side. 
 Not a corner does this self-sufficient tradesman leave 
 you into which to retire with a reasonable hope of 
 rendering your ill-temper or ugliness, or both, a little 
 less conspicuous. His plan might be all very well 
 in a church where the cross-lights which find you 
 out are, if humiliating, no doubt improving, and 
 where even the unconscious display of vulgarity or 
 ill -breeding may have a salutary effect on the 
 beholders. The dwellers in private houses erected 
 in or which had their windows blocked up in the 
 days of the window-tax have — as also in some few 
 other matters — the best of it. It may be partly 
 owins: to this lono'-abandoned restriction that the 
 tempers and manners of the descendants of the old 
 families are apparently so superior to those of the 
 nottveaux riches, who have been placed by the 
 erectors of their new dwellings, as it were, in glass 
 houses, through the windows of which every un- 
 amiable contortion and every wrinkle is evident to 
 the mc^t careless observer. 
 
 If the furniture of the dra\ving-room was — as 
 must be orranted — old-fashioned, there was no doubt 
 
60 POETS ALL. 
 
 as to its being a woman's room. Everywhere, on 
 every table, in every corner, there was evidence of 
 female occupation. It seemed strange, when you 
 had time to think about it, that the occasional 
 presence of one woman could dominate so large a 
 space. There were plenty of books lying about, but 
 these were evidently not out of the Squire's library, 
 who indeed effaced himself as far as possible when 
 he entered the drawing-room. The room was 
 rendered almost a sacred place to him from the fact 
 that the wdfe he had long lost, and whom he still 
 lamented, had lived a great part of her life in it. 
 He would not willingly have allowed a table or chair 
 to be removed, and his daughter was at least as well 
 satisfied as her father with what had so lon^f 
 sufficed her mother. 
 
 Maoforie came forward with a charminor blush and 
 greeted the new arrivals. For the moment she took 
 no notice of any one but the Poet. She had never 
 knowingly touched the hand of a poet before, and no 
 doubt expected to feel a sort of electric thrill. In 
 this she was disappointed, as the hand that the Poet 
 protruded, on a level with his chin, was of a fish-like 
 temperature, and imparted nothing but a chjll. As 
 she tremblingly encountered the glance which he 
 turned on her — with a view to the immediate com- 
 
THE NEW 'study/ 61 
 
 mencement of his '' study " — she blushed again. 
 " This wonderful being," she was thinking : " he is 
 looking into my soul." Had the glance been as 
 introspective as it was in reality inoperative, there 
 would , yet have been little cause for the blushes 
 which could scarcely make her look more charming. 
 Had she had a glass in her bosom no thought 
 would have been discovered a sight of which would 
 not have made an ordinary — or even an extraordinary 
 — mortal purer and better. After a word or two, 
 the uttering of which she was surprised, if a little 
 relieved, to find would not have over- taxed the 
 intelligence of the most commonplace being, the 
 Poet sauntered away from her, and proceeded to 
 seat himself in the most comfortable chair which 
 commanded a view of her face. 
 
 Maggie wondered, but had now to greet Mr. Jones, 
 whom she inwardly hoped would more nearly 
 resemble the beings she was accustomed to. At a 
 first glance she easily discovered that there was 
 nothing very terrible in his appearance. .He com- 
 menced with his usual dropping fire of meaningless 
 nothings. Maggie's perplexed but half-amused look 
 startled him into remembering that he was in a strange 
 country not yet opened up to trade. One day no 
 doubt flattery would be a very necessary commodity 
 
62 POETS ALL. 
 
 hei'ey as elsewhere. He hastily concluded his sweet 
 phrases, and waited for the reply which experience 
 had taught him might be expected even from those of 
 less than ordinary vanity. But Maggie said nothing. 
 Gradually the air of surprise with vvdiich she had 
 listened to him gave way to a look of amusement. 
 Her eye roved quickly from the top of his large bald 
 head down to the red stripes on his knickerbockers. 
 Nature had clearly not intended him for a flatterer. 
 Mr. Jones was not insensible to the change ; but, 
 instead of feeling^ ac^meved, it was as if a weight 
 had suddenly dropped from his shoulders. There was 
 something enjoyable in the new- sensation of being 
 laughed at to one's face. His rather red features got 
 still redder. Gradually the lips which had adapted 
 themselves, as their manner was, to the administra- 
 tion of soft-sawder formed themselves into quite a 
 genuine smile. Then he broke into a little natural 
 laugh. Suddenly he began talking quite unaffectedly. 
 The return to a natural manner was as interesting 
 as the learning of a new art. Maggie was relieved, 
 when her astonishment at the transformation had 
 a little diminished, to find that her guests were not 
 both prodigies. The Critic even bore some resemblance 
 to the beings she was accustomed to. She gla];iced 
 towards the PoQt as if to ask pardon for prefenipg. 
 
THE NP]W 'study.' 63 
 
 the cominonplace, and then turned again to Mr. 
 Jones. It was strange how sensible the latter could 
 be when he retked, as it were, from business, or 
 gave up the affectations which he was accustomed 
 to regard as his stock-in-trade. 
 
 The Squire and Maggie encountered for a few 
 moments before dinner. Said the Squire, " Dear 
 me! What could we have been thinking of ? We 
 have never bought Cousin Corthee's book. What 
 shall we do ? Even if he isn't a poet — and I don't 
 believe he is — he is a relation, you know. Goodness ! 
 child, we shall have to talk poetry. Can you help ? 
 Broken Heart-strings, wasn't that the name of his 
 last ? Broken fiddlesticks' ends I These new people 
 don't care a straw about the old writers — their 
 fathers, so to speak. The present generation is 
 sadly irreverent, or I could soon settle them. They 
 sneer at Byron, and all of them; Shakespeare too, 
 for aught I know ; and everybody I have got in my 
 
 library. Tell you what, Maggie ; we'll have a com- 
 
 * 
 
 petition : Ancient and Modern. Not hymns exactly. 
 Let's see. To-morrow we hunt ; have the parson up in 
 the evening. They'll find the parson a hard nut 
 to crack. 'Twill keep me awake after hunting " 
 — a rash asseveration. " We'll see what these 
 moderns are made of. Hush I here they are." 
 
64 POETS ALL. 
 
 On the summons to dinner the Poet came forward 
 as Maggie's escort. They led the way into the 
 dining-room, followed by the Squire and Mr. Jones. 
 The Squire, who felt himself in capital form, began 
 with a praiseworthy attempt to enliven matters, 
 but the game that he started in hopes of providing 
 sport for his guests went away without being shot 
 at. Hunting, shooting, even the question of " rates," 
 which the Squire had fancied of universal interest, 
 failed to arouse any discussion. What on earth, he 
 thought, had these people come down to the country 
 for ? Mr. Jones took refuge in his unctuous smile of 
 unwearying solicitude, and the Poet trifled with an 
 excellent dinner in a way which his host felt almost 
 as an insult. The latter began to feel indignant and 
 then disgusted. Maggie fell to wondering whether 
 three great minds — she had scarcely a doubt, as yet, 
 of their greatness — were very desirable. Mr. Jones, 
 who made several unsuccessful attempts at being- 
 natural again, flustered her by the absurd way in 
 which he laid his remarks, as it were, at her feet. 
 Fortunately the Poet's seeming neglect, to which 
 she was as little accustomed, tended to keep her 
 cool. She was beginning to be aware that her high 
 expectations of enjoyment were in danger of being 
 disappointed — unless, indeed, she might by and by 
 
( r^n^TTT^^r ' 
 
 THE NEW 'STUDY. 65 
 
 have the courage to laugh. But as yet it was un- 
 certain whether there would even be anything to 
 laugh at. 
 
 When Maggie left the table the Squire hoped 
 for an improvement. He passed the decanters with 
 a gaiety he was far from feeling, and started once 
 more on politics. But the Poet, who had lit a cigarette, 
 gave a perceptible shudder. 
 
 '' We care nothing for these things," the Critic 
 hastened to remark ; the suggestion being that 
 they were beneath the notice of intellectual people . 
 The Squire, who had some sense of humour, began 
 to be more amused than angry. Possibly he 
 acknowledged that there was a glimmer of sense in 
 keeping out of politics. 
 
 " If they won t have politics," he said to himself, 
 '* they must wait a bit for poetry. I don't feel up 
 to it all alone. To-morrow they shall have it hot 
 from the parson." 
 
 An adjournment was presently made to the 
 billiard-room. But the visitors — after the Poet had 
 succeeded in cutting the cloth — began to yawn, and 
 the Squire encouraged their wish for an early 
 retiring. " Remember," he said before parting, " that 
 we hunt to-morrow.'' 
 
 *' Delightful," said the Critic — who would have 
 
66 POETS ALL. 
 
 been just as enthusiastic if his host had reminded him 
 that he was to be hanged — as if he were in the habit 
 of catching a fox or two every morning. He was, 
 in truth, rather frightened, but supposed it would 
 be all right, as he had managed to get through with 
 other things of which he had started in equal 
 ignorance. The Poet said nothing. Possibly he 
 had not heard. He did not look like one to whom 
 the joys of the chase were likely to prove enthralling. 
 " I hope it will be all right," thought the Squire, 
 '* but it is a little risky. I don't like to see fellows 
 funk, but there are, no doubt, occasions when dis- 
 cretion is the better part of valour. I fancy this 
 may be one of them." 
 
67 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE PURSUIT OF ''COPY." 
 
 The next morning opened brightly. There had 
 been a slight frost in the night, but not sufficient to 
 stop hunting, and when the two Londoners came down 
 to breakfast the sun was shining in at the windows. 
 The Squire, in his top-boots and black coat — he had 
 discarded "pink" — was engaged in opening his 
 letters. Maggie, behind the urn, was looking more 
 charming than ever in her well-fitting habit. Each 
 of the late-comers as he addressed her let his eyes 
 rest for a moment longer than was absolutely neces- 
 sary on her face. Consciousness of the reason for 
 such prolonged criticism may have caused her to 
 overlook its rudeness. As it was, a slight blush 
 reddened still more the rosy cheek. The Squire 
 looked up from his letters with a cheery ''Good- 
 morning," but this salutation he soon supplemented 
 with a note of astonishment. 
 
68 POETS ALL. 
 
 " Hulloa ! " he exclaimed. '' Aren't you going to 
 hunt to-day ? '' 
 
 Mr. Jones looked up from his plate. 
 
 '* Why, certainly," he answered, with his mouth 
 full ; " I understood so." 
 
 The Squire started on a journey to the sideboard 
 ostensibly in search of cold meats, but in reality to 
 inspect the Poet's nether garments. 
 
 " Not in those clothes, I should think," he said, 
 casting a rather disgusted glance at the latter where 
 he sat silent and self-absorbed. '' Those thin 
 trousers of yours, Corthee, won't do at all. Simply, 
 man, you'd be half dead by the time you got back," 
 and the Squire laughed. " We'll see what we can do 
 for you after breakfast." 
 
 The Poet looked, as he doubtless felt, annoyed at 
 such slighting mention — and in Maggie's presence 
 too — of what he had considered' characteristic and 
 appropriate attire. But he had the sense to see the 
 truth of it. Maggie fortunately appeared to be 
 paying no attention. 
 
 " I do not mean to hunt to-day, thank you," he 
 said brusquely, and as if the refraining was an 
 exception. '' I should like to see the hunt, though, 
 if the dogs' meet is not too far off. Not that I am 
 going to train for a sporting novelist." 
 
THE PURSUIT OF 'COPY.' 69 
 
 " You might train for something worse," said the 
 Squire, with a laugh. *' Oh yes, we'll have you 
 driven to the ' dogs' meet,' " he added, with a feeliag 
 of relief that he would not have to show himself at 
 the covert side with such an unsportsmanlike-looking 
 fellow. ''Now," he went on, turning towards Mr. Jones, 
 '' what can v/e do with you ? Excuse my saying so, 
 but those striped affairs won't do at all. I can rig 
 you out, I dare say ; we are about of a height. What 
 would you like to have ? There's my old pink will 
 just suit you. I never wear it now. And you must 
 try for once to get into a pair of my breeches and 
 tops. Then you'll look quite spicy," he ran on 
 good-naturedly, "and astonish our friends at the 
 club when you relate your experiences." 
 
 Mr. Jones smiled nervously. He thought it very 
 likely that his appearance in the costume mentioned 
 would astonish more than the people at the club — 
 who after all would not see him. 
 
 " What say you, then ? " said the Squire. '' If 
 you've finished breakfast, my man will see to you at 
 once. We've no time to lose." 
 
 Mr. Jones had finished breakfast — rather abruptly 
 indeed, for he felt a sudden loss of appetite — and 
 would have liked a little more time in which to 
 make up his mind. True, he had come down to see 
 
70 POETS ALL. 
 
 the country, and the best way to see the country was 
 to do — or try to do — as the natives did, provided 
 always that the attempt did not involve a broken 
 neck. Experience — in this world at least — accom- 
 panied with a broken neck would not be particularly 
 valuable, and it would be preferable to go on, as he 
 had managed to do for some time, without either. 
 He could write his sporting articles out of an encyclo- 
 paedia. Suddenly the thought struck him that the 
 Poet was going to drive— or be driven — humbly, in a 
 pony-carriage. He might never have a better oppor- 
 tunity of eclipsing him. He would take his own 
 line, as fox-hunters called it. Some knowledge of 
 equitation might even arrive to him with the 
 Squire's breeches. Miss Ellis — Maggie should see 
 that he could risk his precious limbs in order to be 
 near her. Besides, after all, a day's hunting did not 
 mean ''sudden death" — which name, he had heard, 
 Oxford men bestowed on buttered crumpets. The 
 immortal words of the great Jorrocks came into 
 his head with a reassuring effect : *' The image of 
 war without its guilt, and only five-and-twenty per 
 cent, of its dangers." Surely he was not going to be 
 scared by the five-and-twenty per cent. If only the 
 horse would not jump about ! But he supposed they 
 always jumped about. If only he might sit behind 
 
THE PURSUIT OF ' COPy/ 71 
 
 the saddle ! But the Squire was waiting for his 
 answer. " Here goes/' thought Mr. Jones/' ' Faint 
 heart never won fair lady.' By Jove, she is fair. If 
 risking my neck would win her, she is as good as won 
 already." Then aloud, " If the horse is very quiet, I 
 shall be delighted to accept your offer of a rig-out." 
 
 The Squire looked pleased. He foresaw no danger 
 to his guest, whom he hastened to assure that the 
 quadruped to which he was to be entrusted was a 
 very sober animal indeed. He lost no time in 
 putting Mr. Jones into "his man's " hands, and in 
 a quarter of an hour the Critic reappeared in full 
 hunting costume. Whether the science of equitation 
 had come to him with the Squire's clothes it was 
 impossible for him to say, but he felt far less nervous 
 than when he had left the room, and would probably 
 have assented to the doctrine that there are occasions 
 when the tailor makes the man. 
 
 Secretly he had been congratulating himself that 
 though he had never before been on horseback, he 
 was not quite such a novice as he might have been. 
 There are occasions when a man who has risen can 
 look back with gratitude to his experiences. Mr. 
 Jones— though nobody in his little world appeared 
 to be aware of the fact, or would have thought any 
 the worse of him for what was not even his mis- 
 
72 POiETS ALL. 
 
 fortune — was the scion of a very humble family 
 indeed, and his immediate progenitor had kept a 
 small public-house in the suburbs of London. In 
 front of the door was then situated a little common 
 with a pond and a few gorse bushes, and on the 
 common used to graze a donkey which seemed to 
 be the property of the residents in general. On 
 this donkey young Jones — who had not then 
 blossomed into McCawmee — would vault, and seating 
 himself on the extreme verge of the precipice 
 bounded by the donkey's tail, would perform a series 
 of unrivalled feats in the ring for the benefit of a 
 very ragged circle of admirers. Mr. Jones, senior, 
 died, as also perhaps the donkey — for the myth as 
 to the immortality of these patient slaves lacks 
 confirmation — the common became gradually ab- 
 sorbed into bricks and mortar, and Mrs. Jones with 
 her family sought a new home. Young Jones (now 
 McCawmee) had passed through many vicissitudes, 
 and hitherto had derived neither pleasure nor profit 
 from the talent on which he had once so prided 
 himself. But everything comes to him who waits, 
 and all knowledge will come in useful one day. 
 There was considerable difference, no doubt, between 
 riding on a bare-backed donkey and going a-hunting 
 in fashionable guise, and in a position which he was 
 
THE PURSUIT OF 'COPY.' 73 
 
 now to assume for the first time. A little knowledge, 
 however — the proverb notwithstanding — is better 
 than none at all. 
 
 Almost immediately on his reappearance the 
 horses were brought round, and the ordeal of 
 mounting had to be gone through. The Squire 
 lifted Maggie into her saddle, and then kept a 
 furtive eye on Mr. Jones, who had tempered his 
 valour at the last with a little discretion, and made 
 up his mind that nothing should induce him to wear 
 spurs. Even the donkey, he felt sure, would have 
 rebelled against spurs, and no doubt if anything 
 could have determined the old hunter that he was 
 on the point of bestriding to be even less than 
 usually energetic, it was the knowledge that the 
 only stimulant to which he was accustomed to pay 
 attention was on the present occasion absent. " The 
 Boy'* — the appellation had as little to do with age 
 as formerly when applied to " post-boys " of mature 
 years — was not long in making the discovery, as 
 the clumsy way in which the new proprietor mounted 
 would have been found exceedingly irritating had 
 his heels been armed according to custom. As Mr. 
 Jones scrambled into his seat, " The Boy " pricked up 
 his ears as if asking, " Who have we here ? '* 
 
 The Squire's face wore a puzzled look of amuse- 
 
74 POETS ALL. 
 
 ment. Had he made a mistake ? Could any one 
 come to grief on " The Boy " ? If any one could 
 the very man was there now, and he, the Squire, 
 would have neglected the duties of a host. " I don t 
 know about that though," he said to himself. *' Do 
 him good, perhaps. Take him down a peg. After 
 all the fellow's got some pluck. Or is it conceit ? 
 Anyhow, I wish we were safe home again." 
 
 The meet was at a distance of about four miles 
 from the Hall. Jogging along quietly Mr. Jones 
 found but little difficulty in keeping his seat. 
 Rising in his saddle, as he saw the Squire do, was 
 hard work, but on the whole he had had no idea 
 that riding — as distinguished from donkey-riding — 
 was so easy. How absurd to keep people in riding- 
 schools for months. But his might be an excep- 
 tional case. It was a great thing, he felt, to be able 
 to ride. It was too ridiculous of those people who 
 criticized things they know nothing about. He 
 flattered himself that he had never — that he recol- 
 lected — written a book — or even greatly reviewed 
 one — on fox-hunting. It was a fortunate circum- 
 stance, and the more so that there was hardly any 
 other subject on which the world had not had the 
 benefit of his ideas. Now if there was a new series 
 of the Badminton Library, he would feel capable of 
 
THE PURSUIT OF ' COPY.' 75 
 
 giving his opinion. He was immensely exhilarated 
 by the steady motion of " The Boy," and but that he 
 had a slight and unaccustomed feeling of modesty, 
 would have given vent to his excitement in a view- 
 halloo. But no doubt the Squire would consider this 
 in his department ; and at all events it would be 
 well to wait awhile and hear how it was done. 
 
 The party of three had now reached a large 
 common, on one side of which was a ragged patch 
 or two of gorse, and the hounds were seen approach- 
 ing along a road which intersected it. From every 
 side horsemen were arriving in every possible dress 
 — with the exception possibly of red-striped knicker- 
 bockers — and mounted on every conceivable variety 
 of the equine race. There were a few fashionables 
 in pink; some neatly attired, like the Squire, in 
 black ; then the local horse-dealers and publicans, a 
 farmer or two, all the butchers of the neighbourhood 
 — how country butchers who only kill a sheep or 
 two a week can afford to live so naerrily is a puzzle — 
 three or four boys, on ponies, who would go at 
 everything and somehow get over, and the usual 
 sweep. About half-a-dozen ladies were out, and 
 with two or three of these Maggie seemed to be 
 very friendly. There was soon quite a little group 
 of Dianas, one of them middle-ao^ed and the re- 
 
76 POETS ALL. 
 
 mainder too plain and too badly mounted to enter 
 into any sort of competition with Maggie. The 
 ladies one and all took the greatest interest in Mr. 
 McCawmee Jones — who had arrested his* steed at a 
 convenient distance, as if to assist the photographers 
 — and those who were so fortunate as to possess 
 eye-glasses turned them on him without delay. 
 
 " Who is that, Maggie ? " asked Mrs. Mumford, the 
 wife of a neighbouring squire. *' I never saw him 
 before. I cannot congratulate you on your new 
 beau, if you intend that he shall pilot you." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Mumford, how can you ! " replied 
 Maggie, blushing — as indeed she was accustomed 
 to do on very slight provocation. " He is a friend of 
 papa's. I believe he is a great writer and reviewer, 
 and so I should advise you to mind what you are 
 doing. We have two men staying with us. The 
 other, a cousin of papa's, Mr. Corthee, is just driving 
 up in the pony-carriage. He wouldn't ride. There 
 was old Harkaway for him if he had wished, but 
 perhaps he was wise not to venture. He is a poet, 
 and Mr. Jones is his friend" ("A very convenient 
 arrangement," put in Mrs. Mumford) ; " and if you 
 look your best there is no saying how famous he will 
 make you." 
 
 " Maggie will look her best now," said a tall, thin 
 
THE PURSUIT OF 'COPY.' 77 
 
 girl, mounted on a raw-boned chestnut, as she pointed 
 with her whip to a young man in pink who had just 
 V ridden up on a slashing thoroughbred bay horse, and 
 was exchanging greetings with the Squire. "Now 
 we can break up this little meeting, I suppose. I 
 
 am going to speak to " and without finishing 
 
 her sentence she walked her horse towards another 
 
 group, with whom she appeared to be on equally 
 
 good 'terms. Poor Maggie was blushing again. The 
 
 young man on the bay was evidently coming nearer, 
 
 though his approach was made so circuitously as to 
 
 seem, to a careless glance, accidental. Just as he 
 
 came within a yard or two, and had taken off his hat, 
 
 the master gave the signal to throw off. The little 
 
 group of Maggie's friends had melted away as if 
 
 by magic, and she and the new-comer were riding 
 
 together towards the covert on one side of the 
 
 common which was to be first drawn. The man on 
 
 the bay was a tall, broad, sufficiently good-looking 
 
 young fellow. He did not appear to have many 
 
 words to throw away, and as yet he had merely made 
 
 a remark as to the point where the fox, which the 
 
 hounds were certain to find, was likely to break 
 
 covert. Maggie assented without a word, and indeed 
 
 she could scarcely have taken the opinion of one 
 
 better qualified to judge. Together they moved 
 
78 POETS ALL. 
 
 towards the point indicated. A good number of the 
 field seemed to mistrust this judgment, or they may 
 have had other reasons for preferring a different course. 
 On witnessing the departure of the hounds the Poet 
 — who was shivering in his furs, and who had no one 
 to talk to, and would not have talked in any case — 
 giving a peevish and dissatisfied glance around, 
 requested the groom to drive him back to the Hall, 
 feeling that he had sufficiently studied the noble 
 sport of fox-hunting. He had also a second reason 
 for hurrying away. His idea of making love was 
 to retire to his room, and thence indite a sonnet 
 to his mistress's eyebrow, instead of wasting the 
 precious hours in her company. He had never been 
 smitten so hard before, and was fearful that the 
 feeling might evaporate, and with the feeling would 
 go the chance of gaining for himself on this occasion 
 the immortality he desired. An ancient might have 
 wished rather to immortalize Maggie. 
 
 Mr. Jones, at the moment when the hounds moved 
 off towards the covert, had found himself left alone. 
 The Squire was talking to a friend at a little 
 distance, and he felt at a loss how to proceed. The 
 new feeling was not particularly welcome. Mr. 
 Jones had about the average amount of courage, but 
 no amount of courage can supply the want of a little 
 
THE PURSUIT OF 'COPY. " ^^79 
 
 experience. " The Boy " had been standing perfectly 
 still, but his rider was not so simple as to imagine 
 that this pleasing state of affairs was likely to 
 continue. He was a witness of the arrival of the 
 young man on the bay, and the sight of his perfect 
 seat, and of the composed way in which he managed 
 his spirited steed, gave him a new sensation almost 
 akin to envy. 
 
 While almost every virtue has its drawbacks, there 
 are faults and even vices which are not without their 
 special advantages. The special advantage of conceit 
 is that the owner is seldom troubled by envy. 
 Whether it was the country air or not, Mr. Jones 
 was regretfully conscious of feeling less conceited 
 than usual, and therefore more inclined to envy. 
 When the young man on the bay had made his 
 discreetly circuitous approach to Maggie, Mr. Jones 
 not only felt envious but jealous. Jealousy is the 
 most pronounced form of envy. He had been 
 immensely taken with his fair hostess, and the half- 
 jocose intention that he had promulgated on the eve 
 of leaving town in the Poet's chambers, was in process 
 of developing. He — like the Poet — had been smitten 
 over-night, and the sight of the charming nymph in 
 her habit this morning had scarcely had the effect of 
 healing the wound. Perhaps he was as much urged 
 
80 POETS ALL. 
 
 on by the glances of annoyance which the Poet had 
 shot at him as by any shafts from Maggie's sparkUng 
 eyes. He was conscious and felt proud of a rebellious 
 spirit which incited him to rise in arms against one 
 whose humble slave he had hitherto thought it no 
 shame to be considered. The advent of the young- 
 man on the bay had the effect, notwithstanding 
 his inexperience, of determining him to great deeds. 
 Maggie should at least see that he was not afraid. 
 He would do or die. He forgot for the moment that 
 he did not know what to do or where to die. While 
 pondering these things with loose rein and knees far 
 from the saddle, he was conscious of a stir around 
 him. He heard a noise as of a dog baying or 
 whimpering. More dogs joined in. There was a 
 cry, a holloa of some sort (''Somebody is hurt," 
 thought Mr. Jones), and suddenly '' The Boy " faced 
 about and moved off at a trot. His rider looked up 
 just in time to see the young man on the bay push 
 his hat down firmly on his head, gather his reins 
 together, put spurs to his horse, and disappear gaily 
 over a fence which ran level with the boundary of 
 the covert. While Mr. Jones was congratulating him- 
 self on the disappearance of his rival, a horn was 
 blown somewhere in his immediate neighbourhood. 
 A second more and Maggie had popped over the 
 
THE PURSUIT OF ^COPY.^ 8l 
 
 fence in the wake of the young man on the bay. 
 There are a few moments in one's lifetime when 
 one has to make up one's mind quickly or be left 
 behind. It must remain for ever uncertain what 
 course Mr. Jones, if left to himself, would, in his 
 utter ignorance, have determined on. But " The Boy " 
 took the decision upon himself. He had been quiet 
 as a lamb till the well-known sounds proclaimed that 
 the hounds had found, and, almost immediately after, 
 that the fox had " gone away." He then declined to 
 stand still any longer. Indeed, it would have been 
 impossible to make him understand that anything 
 could be desired of him but to follow the hounds at 
 his best pace. The old horse may have been aware 
 that his pace was not what it had been, and that 
 therefore it behoved him not to lose the start. He 
 had indeed been all the time watching Maggie's 
 pony, rightly judging that its rider would be more 
 capable of deciding on a fit moment than his own. 
 As Maggie put her pony — it was only a pony in 
 name, and quite able to carry her safely anywhere 
 — at the fence, the old horse got quietly into his 
 stride and proceeded to follow. It would have 
 required a stronger hand than Mr. Jones's to check 
 him, if indeed any one could have done so. But it 
 is exceedingly doubtful whether the Critic made any 
 
82 iPOETS ALL. 
 
 such attempt. It is even possible that his heroic 
 mind may have scorned the idea of being left behind. 
 Down came* " The Boy " to the fence, which was 
 not such a very big one after all. Steadying himself 
 without any help or hindrance from his rider, he took 
 off in exactly the right place, landed well in the next 
 field, and proceeded to do his best to overhaul Maggie 
 and the young man on the bay. 
 
 It was a long time, so long a time indeed that the 
 old horse had very likely forgotten it, since he had 
 enjoyed a gallop under similar circumstances. He 
 swerved, he capered like a colt with delight. There 
 was that abominable saddle with the stirrups swinging 
 about, and these useless reins threatening to get 
 round his legs and throw him down ; but what did 
 they matter? For the first time for years he had 
 got rid of his incubus. He was too sportsmanlike 
 an old horse to have done so purposely, but the 
 incubus had got rid of itself. In fact, Mr. Jones had 
 been left behind, and was now rising from the ground 
 with a crushed hat, a bruised shoulder, and sensations 
 the reverse of triumphant. He had got down to the 
 fence all right. When the horse rose in the air his 
 rider had risen higher and higher with a forward 
 movement, leaving the saddle below and behind him. 
 Passing high over his horse's head he described a 
 
THE PURSUIT OF ' COPy/ 83 
 
 somersault in front of his steed, to that animars 
 temporary perplexity. But " The Boy '' was as clever 
 as a cat, and the Squire's confidence had been 
 fully justified. As Maggie was preparing to take the 
 next fence, she heard a sound of galloping in the rear, 
 and " The Boy's '' head appeared at her girths. To 
 her no great surprise she saw that he was riderless. 
 They took the fence together, " The Boy " keeping 
 well out of her way. Then he kicked up his heels 
 gaily, as if rejoicing in his freedom, and went on alone 
 m pursuit of the hounds. 
 
84 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A CRITICAL DISCUSSION. 
 
 The Squire and his daughter rode home together, 
 having been relieved of all anxiety on Mr. Jones's 
 account by the report of an eye-witness, who had 
 seen him starting for home on Shanks's mare. *' The 
 Boy " could be trusted to find his way back to his 
 stables. On their arrival at the Hall they found 
 Mr. Jones waiting to receive them, wearied and sore 
 from the unaccustomed experience, and from having 
 had to walk home in boots at least a size too small 
 for him, but in the best possible spirits, and feeHng 
 more or less of a hero. The Poet, who had spent 
 the afternoon in smoking endless cigarettes and in 
 searching for more than usually delusive rhymes, 
 was looking decidedly bilious. The Poet's admirers 
 were of opinion that the great man's genius was 
 never more apparent or, they added, more disagree- 
 
A CRITICAL DISCUSSION. 85 
 
 able than when he was bilious. Maggie came down 
 to afternoon tea in a tea-gown which made her 
 look more charming than ever. But the fact was 
 that the dress she happened to be wearing was 
 always the dress in which you thought she looked 
 best, and in which you fancied you had wished to 
 see her. The Poet, who had never yet been really 
 in love, though he had written some reams concern- 
 ing that passion, and who had not come down to 
 the country to waste his time, had scarcely finished 
 his first cup of tea before he yielded himself a 
 calculating captive. His way of showing his devotion 
 was so peculiar that his secret was likely to be well 
 kept. He had great belief in the theory of the 
 power of the human eye, and he laid himself out to 
 dominate Maggie as if he were some sort of beast- 
 tamer. To whatever part of the room he wandered 
 he kept his eye fixed, as far as possible, on his 
 '* study." This made it necessary for him sometimes 
 to twist his neck like a corkscrew. It did not need 
 any peculiar power in the operator to make this 
 procedure very unpleasant for the victim. Poor 
 Maggie was speedily aware of the inspection to which 
 she was being subjected, but which it was impossible 
 to evade. Whenever she raised her eyes they were 
 encountered by the basilisk glance of the Poet, 
 
86 POETS ALL. 
 
 sometimes standing near her, and as often scowling 
 from afar off. She was talking to Mr. Jones, who 
 had been assisting her in the duties of the tea-table, 
 and wdiom conscious heroism had led to discard his 
 usual affectations. Mr. Jones had been recounting 
 his day's experiences. These; though the common 
 lot of novices in the hunting-field, he seemed to 
 consider truly exceptional. Probably Maggie had 
 never heard the sensations of a novice, who has had 
 a " cropper," and walked home afterwards in tight 
 boots, described by one with such a flow of words. 
 As the narrator would possibly have put it — if he, 
 Mr. Jones, had not a flow of words, then who had ? 
 She felt amused — more than amused, interested. 
 Who could help liking the man who laughed so 
 cheerily at his own misfortunes, which he owned 
 were brought about by his own ignorance ? Mr. 
 Jones had the less difficulty in confessing his ignor- 
 ance on the recent occasion, as he certainly never 
 intended after this evening to own to any want of 
 knowledge or experience in sporting affairs. Pro- 
 bably Maggie was unaware how sympathizing she 
 looked, or even how greatly a little sympathy in- 
 creases, in the eyes of the fortunate object, the effect 
 of charms which were potent enough before. The 
 effect on Mr. Jones of her sympathy was soon 
 
A CRITICAL DISCUSSION. 87 
 
 apparent. His great eyes — gooseberry, not blue, as 
 were the orbs of Mr. Corthee — began to seek hers 
 with an expression so absurdly tender that she was 
 at her wits' end to keep from laughing. The worst 
 of it was that if she turned away her eyes from one 
 admirer they encountered the moody glance of the 
 other, who was quickly adding to his stock-in-trade 
 a comprehension of the feeling of jealousy. Each 
 rival was thinking to himself, in a different way, 
 " The girl would do." Each was mentally confound- 
 ing " that other fellow " ; but while the Poet thought 
 it the height of presumption for his friend to aspire, 
 the latter could not, even while entering his seventh 
 heaven, absolve himself from a charge of rebellion. 
 It was a relief to Maggie, at all events, when the big 
 bell announced that dinner would be served in half- 
 an-hour. The Poet hastened off to revel in what he 
 was accustomed to call " the pangs of love." It is 
 to be hoped that he found the reality enjoyable. He 
 raved about his room, taking long strides, and stopping 
 in the corners to twirl his moustache, and mouth a 
 line or two of what — perhaps from the absence of 
 the context — sounded very much like nonsense 
 verses. But he was no doubt happy in his misery. 
 So happy, indeed, that it was not until the bell 
 proclaimed dinner was ready that he threw himself 
 
88 POETS ALL. 
 
 wildly into his clothes, and rushed into the drawing- 
 room to find the Squire standing on the hearthrug, 
 watch in hand, and looking exceedingly hungry. 
 
 The Poet was at first greatly disgusted to find 
 that three guests had arrived, of whose expected 
 presence he felt, in his new rdle of prospective son- 
 in-law, he ought to have been informed. But a 
 glance at the new-comers speedily reassured him. 
 Two of these were the parson and his wife, while 
 the third was the young man who had joined Maggie 
 at the meet. The Poet did not recognize him, and 
 indeed he looked a very different person on foot 
 and in dress clothes. He was now heavy-looking 
 and rather plain, but with a healthy fresh colour 
 and a look of straightforward good-nature. Not 
 the sort of young man — so thought the Poet — whom 
 Maggie might be expected to care for. Mr. Jones 
 had been a witness to the way in which Maggie had 
 been appropriated directly the fox broke covert, and 
 had an uneasy conviction that what had been done 
 so naturally had been done often before. The parson 
 was delighted, he said, to have the pleasure of 
 meeting two such eminent literary notabilities. He 
 did not add that the greater part of his enjoy- 
 ment was derived from his intention to expose 
 them. 
 
A CRITICAL DISCUSSION. 89 
 
 Mrs. Butler was a worthy old lady, well up in 
 soups and jellies, but with hardly an idea outside 
 the parish. Both Poet and Critic were surprised no 
 less than comforted to find that the young man, who 
 was introduced as Mr. Charles Lovibond, did not 
 appear anxious to attach himself on this occasion to 
 Maggie. Perhaps it was only his slyness, yet he did 
 not look very sly. The visitors speedily set him 
 down as a nonentity. Mr. Jones, indeed, looked at 
 him without feeling in the least moved to employ 
 any of his usual flattery. But even the least valu- 
 able of pearls must not be too carelessly thrown 
 away. As the art of flattery consists chiefly in 
 praising people for good qualities most conspicuous 
 by their absence, Mr. Jones, if he had chosen to 
 flatter young Lovibond, would have complimented 
 him on his intellectual appearance. A lover 
 endows the object of his affections with the qualities 
 he considers most desirable — probably with his own. 
 Neither Maggie nor Mr. Lovibond would have cared 
 much for the praises of which they were for diff'erent 
 reasons deprived. Maggie's awe was in a state of 
 suspension. Mr. Jones had shown that he could 
 converse somewhat after the manner of an ordinary 
 being ; and Mr. Corthee had not yet given any proof 
 that he was an extraordinary one. A woman's first 
 
90 POETS ALL, 
 
 impressions of a man generally require considerable 
 correcting. Too frequently under the polished 
 exterior of the new idol lurks something rough 
 and distasteful ; as often there is nothing under it 
 at all. One day there is a crash. She rises startled 
 from her knees, rubs her eyes, and transfers her 
 worship to another — and perhaps even yet another 
 —idol. 
 
 Dinner was announced ; the Squire of course took 
 charge of Mrs. Butler, and — the parson withdrawing 
 good-naturedly in favour of the younger man — 
 Maggie fell once more to the lot of the Poet. Mr. 
 Jones took the seat on her other side ; the parson 
 neighboured the Poet ; while young Lovibond was 
 located between Mr. Jones and Mrs. Butler. The 
 Squire at once plunged into an animated conversation 
 on village matters with the parson and his wife, 
 which had been interrupted a fortnight ago. The 
 parson s eye, however, might be seen occasionally 
 to glance towards his left-hand neighbour, as if he 
 was fretting at the necessary postponement of the 
 promised encounter. Once or twice he addressed 
 a remark to the Poet, of which the latter took very 
 little notice. Maggie got tired of Mr. Corthee's 
 silence, and once more engaged Mr. Jones, who was 
 nothing loth/ in" conversation. Mr. Lovibond had 
 
A CRITICAL DISCUSSION. 9i 
 
 often dined at the Hall before, but had never found 
 the society so uncongenial. Cut off from Maggie, 
 to whom he could have talked for ever about 
 hunting, and from the Squire, with whom he had 
 many interests in common, he listened with wonder 
 and disgust to the well-modulated and perpetual 
 flow of Mr. McCawmee Jones's small-talk. What on 
 earth, he thought, was it all about ? Not being 
 able to answer the query, he resigned himself — for 
 he had an excellent appetite — to his dinner. 
 
 The Poet worked the eye that was nearest to 
 Maggie so hard that he almost developed a squint. 
 But Maggie's face was averted. The soft murmur 
 of Mr. Jones's meaningless nothings came to him like 
 the humming of bees. He leant forward a little to 
 listen. 
 
 " But you critics," Maggie was saying in her clear 
 voice, " are very cruel, are you not ? I wonder you 
 can say such unkind things — of people you know 
 too." Maggie's ideas of critics were rather old- 
 fashioned. She had heard of Keats. " ' Who killed 
 John Keats V * I,' said the Qttarterly* etc." But 
 Mr. Jones hastened to reassure her. The successor 
 of Jeffrey was conscious of feeling anything but 
 cruel, What he would have called " the sweet 
 propinquity," to say nothing of a good dinner, made 
 
92 POETS ALL. 
 
 him feel like a very good fellow indeed. Maggie 
 was an " outsider/* and confession, which might ease 
 hife soul, would go no further. 
 
 "We are awful humbugs now-a-days," he said, 
 with his oily smile. '^ I am afraid we have got into 
 the other extreme, and praise a great deal too in- 
 discriminately. The fact is, if you won t praise, you 
 had better hold your tongue. A literary paper that 
 ' slated ' everybody would have but a brief existence, 
 since the only people likely to read it would be 
 authors searching for praise. Praise may not be as 
 as good as pudding, but it sometimes brings it, and 
 if not it is the next best thing. To get praise you 
 must praise other people. Then, too, we successful 
 literary men — I mean literary men who are reaping 
 their reward in shape of a return of praise — are but 
 a small band. United we stand, divided we fall. 
 It is a duty to uphold those who have been lucky 
 enough or clever enough to become members. I 
 said the band is a small one, but it is quite large 
 enough, and if any critic is now-a-da3^s so cruel as to 
 blackball a candidate, it is because he thinks there 
 is no more room. As it is, some of the old members 
 get little enough to eat, and new members are apt 
 to be ravenous. It sounds bad, doesn't it ? but we 
 are not altogether humbugs ; there is so much we 
 
A CBITICAL DISCUSSION. 93 
 
 can honestly praise. Oh, so much. Our friend 
 there'' — with a jerk of his fork, which had been 
 conveying some candied fruit to his mouth, in the 
 direction of the Poet — '' is unutterably sweet." Mr. 
 Jones kept up his own supply of sweetness by 
 swallowing a large candied apricot. 
 
 " Do you honestly think," inquired Maggie, 
 " that there are modern poets who equal the old ? 
 Papa and Mr. Butler won't allow it for a moment. 
 Papa has an admirable collection of old poets, but no 
 moderns at all. You think he ought to get some ? " 
 
 '' Well," returned the Critic dubiously, " it is not 
 for me to say. If you ask my candid opinion, 
 between ourselves I don't know that a collection of 
 our modern poets will be greatly valued by posterity. 
 But we do not live for posterity any more than for 
 the generations that are gone by. I confess I prefer 
 the ancients myself, only I mustn't say so. There 
 would be very poor pickings to be got by criticizing 
 the ancients, who, you are aware, have already 
 undergone the process." 
 
 Maggie was here aware of a slight movement on 
 her other side, as of the Poet pricking up his ears. 
 Her fine eyes opened wider, her lower lip pouted as 
 if with vexation. 
 
94 POETS ALL. 
 
 " You are joking, of course, Mr. Jones/' she said ; 
 ^' you clever people think, I suppose, that we country- 
 folk are only fit to be made fun of." 
 
 '* Mr. Jones is telling me," she said, addressing 
 herself to the Poet, " that the critics we have been 
 taught to believe in are sheer humbugs, that he is 
 as bad as the rest, and that if they did not praise 
 people indiscriminately they would have to give up 
 business. I suppose he is joking, but what am I to 
 believe ? If they praise people they do not believe 
 in, they are not only humbugs themselves, but they 
 are foisting shame on us." — Archly, *' Does Mr. Jones 
 praise you much ? " 
 
 The Poet had no sense of humour, and he pro- 
 ceeded to answer his questioner in all seriousness. 
 
 "I know nothing about critics. Miss Ellis — as 
 critics, that is : privately, of course, I know one or 
 two. I should prefer they should leave my writings 
 alone, but what can I do ? Fame has its drawbacks. 
 I know Mr. Jones as a clever man, whose opinions 
 on art and poetry are infallible, and always sweetly 
 expressed." — " Sweet, sweet, sweet," thought Maggie, 
 who was here sensible of a movement as of the 
 Critic pricking up his ears. — " Not that I look up to 
 them myself, but " 
 
A CRITICAL DISCUSSION. 95 
 
 Maggie at this moment caught the eye of Mrs. 
 Butler, and rose rather hastily from her seat. Mr. 
 Lovibond rose too, and moved to the door more 
 rapidly than could have been expected. In another 
 moment the ladies were gone. 
 
96 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE RECTOR ON POETS AND POETRY. 
 
 Maggie v/ent back to the drawing-room feeling 
 puzzled and disturbed in her ideas. Truth to say, 
 she had looked forward with more interest than she 
 had herself been aware of to the temporary lighting 
 up of her calm and rather dull life by the two — as 
 she had figured them — brilliant literary luminaries. 
 She had been tolerably content hitherto with her 
 surroundings, and indeed had of late been trying to 
 convince herself that she had no sufficient reason for 
 grumbling with the lot which appeared to have been 
 provided. But most of us are able on occasion to 
 recognize the fact that we are a little thrown away, 
 and she had not been without visions of the possi- 
 bility of something brighter interposing. It appeared 
 then that her father had been right. The modern 
 literary man, if these were average specimens, was 
 indeed a descent from those of the past. She was 
 
THE RECTOR ON POETS AND POETRY. 97 
 
 however too sensible not to be aware that the data 
 on which to form a sweeping judgment were ab- 
 surdly inadequate. She sighed, but not very deeply 
 — Mrs. Butler was arranging herself comfortably 
 with a view to '' forty winks " — and proceeded with 
 the arrangement of a harmless little plot which had 
 struck her as likely to detect the impostors, if such 
 indeed they were. She went to a cabinet standing 
 in a corner of the room, and brought thence a 
 number of small volumes containing selections of 
 the poets she had been taught most to revere. 
 Placing these treasures on the table, she covered 
 them with some worsted-work — if a clever woman 
 can once make you believe in her simplicity, all's 
 over with you — and sat down to await the course of 
 events. When the gentlemen came in she would 
 turn the conversation to her favourites. If the 
 new-comers sneered at them, if the modern Poet 
 in fact did not acknowledge the supremacy of his 
 teachers, or those who ought to have been so, she 
 would know what to think. She recurred to her 
 father s idea of a competition between the old and 
 the new, and saw that it might be productive of 
 more than amusement. She imagined that, she had 
 seen something in the face of the Poet which sug- 
 gested that he had sufficient conceit not to shrink 
 
 H 
 
98 POETS ALL. 
 
 from the ordeal. She passed rapidly over in her 
 mind a few of the poems which have stirred men's — 
 and women's — hearts for ages, and wondered what 
 Mr. Corthee would have to show against these. 
 That ridiculous Critic — whom she rather liked — 
 would it be possible for him, after his recent con- 
 fession, to support his friend ? It was a question 
 whether a man who owned to imposture could rightly 
 be called a humbug. 
 
 No doubt there are women who look their best 
 when there is no male creature present to admire. Of 
 these Maggie may have been one. She certainly 
 looked very lovely as she stood — her preparations 
 over — with her lips parted in a dubious smile. Her 
 pleasure was enhanced, as whose is not, by the 
 doubt whether the promised sport was not a little 
 — just a little — improper or unkind. 
 
 Immediately on her leaving the diniug-room the 
 Squire had moved to his daughter's seat at the top 
 of the table, and the parson had drawn his chair 
 closer to the Poet. The latter saw himself hemmed 
 in not without suspicion, and retreated at once as 
 much farther as possible into his shell. Mr. Jones 
 scented an engagement, to the prospect of which, in 
 Maggie's absence, he was anything but averse. He 
 prepared for battle by stripping himself rapidly of 
 
THE RKCTOR ON POETS AND POETRY. 99 
 
 the encumbrance of his recently-expressed sincerity, 
 and putting on once more the false self which had 
 got to be almost the true one. He felt like a 
 child who, while well aware that the house of cards 
 he has constructed with much labour is but a poor 
 edifice, yet resists any attempt at knocking it down. 
 Had Maggie remained he might have been a traitor 
 — and true. What a predicament the Poet would 
 have found himself in ! since the presence of 
 Maggie would also have inspired the "old fogies,'' 
 who appeared already sufficiently eager for the fray. 
 He could hardly have told how he knew that the 
 Squire and the parson were thirsting, metaphorically, 
 for his blood. " Who is this old parson ? " Mr. Jones 
 was saying to himself; " he looks like somebody, and 
 yet I never heard of him. I am afraid he is going 
 to talk. I would give something to be safe in the 
 drawing-room." 
 
 Not a word had passed between the two allies, 
 though Mr. Jones had intercepted a rapid glance 
 from the parson to his host, which the clever observer 
 had interpreted to mean, *'Let me begin." Very 
 little time was lost in beginning. 
 
 " So we are honoured, in these wilds, by a visit 
 from a new poet," said Mr. Butler, in his politest 
 tones, through which was yet noticeable a faint 
 
100 POETS ALL. 
 
 trace of old-fashioned sarcasm. '' The honour is a 
 great one indeed. We are not so distant or so deaf 
 but that we have heard the flourish of trumpets. I 
 am old enough to have heard flourishes which have 
 heralded nothing. Don't imagine I am suggesting 
 that yours could be a case of that sort. But we old 
 fogies grow sceptical. For my part I can only 
 wonder. There were surely poets enough, and some 
 of them not very bad ones. One or two even whom 
 it would be hard to surpass. I own I am a stickler 
 for content. When you have a good thing, why not 
 rest and be thankful ? You remember the lines — 
 
 ' Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed 
 To add to golden numbers golden numbers ? ' 
 
 Was there ever yet a time which gained anything by 
 the variations of nimble professors ? But you will 
 despise me for talking about things I confess to 
 being ignorant of. Your muse and I must be better 
 acquainted." 
 
 The Poet leant back in his chair, his head thrown 
 back, and his long thin greyish locks floating out 
 behind him. As he watched the smoke curl up 
 from the end of his cigarette, his expression was as 
 of one undergoing physical pain. He was indeed 
 thinking that of all bores he had met, the literary- 
 clerical promised to be the worst. He had never 
 
THE RECTOR ON POETS AND POETRY. 101 
 
 undergone this particular torture before, and did not 
 care to hide the fact that he was annoyed while 
 protesting by his manner that he was superior to it. 
 There was nothing in the parson's words which an 
 ordinary man might not have taken good-temperedly. 
 Princes, it must be remembered, are precluded from 
 descending into the arena. He looked appealingly 
 towards Mr. Jones, as in olden times an insulted and 
 not too patient baron might have motioned to the 
 first and second murderers, *' Despatch me, I prithee, 
 this troublesome blade ; " and the Critic, as in duty 
 bound, lost no time in responding after his modern 
 manner. 
 
 " Surely," he lisped, with a show of more than his 
 usual deference, and leaning forward a little in his 
 chair, '* there have been a few discoveries and 
 inventions in the world since the days of — shall we 
 say Shakespeare ? Why should we rule that poetry 
 is to be the only thing that is to remain without 
 improvement, an,d, according to your view, not even 
 in static qiio 1 I cannot see why, with modern 
 advantages and the increase of knowledge, we should 
 not be able to turn out as good work as the men of 
 the past. Our friend here " — pointing his fork (with 
 which he was now conveying an olive to his mouth) 
 at the Poet — "has certainly produced some things 
 
102 POETS ALL. 
 
 which are very sweet. If he will allow me to say so " 
 — the Poet made the usual slight gesture of dissent 
 - — '' some things which are inexpressibly sweet." 
 
 This was in Mr. Jones's usual style of criticism. 
 *'This poet," he would say of a new client, ''has 
 made an unsurpassed bid for immortality " ; or, 
 " To-day it is our happy lot to inscribe a new name on 
 the roll of fame '' ; or, " For sweetness these poems are 
 absolutely unrivalled'' — till next week. Of course, 
 when it was stated that they were " inexpressibly 
 sweet," no one could be disappointed at not hearing 
 w^herein the special sweetness lay. 
 
 Mr. Jones eat his olive, while the parson struck in 
 again — 
 
 '* Of course I am not so silly as to think that no 
 one now writes good verses or good prose, or even 
 that occasionally some one does not hit on a new 
 idea, or at all events on an idea that the majority 
 think new. But 1 think the some one very lucky 
 to hit on it, and doubly lucky not to be found out. 
 I am afraid that research has, to a great extent, 
 taken the place of originality. No doubt it is better 
 to be able to resuscitate, alter, or adapt what had 
 slipped into oblivion than to do nothing at all. 
 Modern poets have so many examples to study 
 from that bad work would be as inexcusable as 
 
thp: rector on poets and poetry. 103 
 
 turning out a bad steam-engine. There is a good 
 deal of the mechanic about your poet now-a-days. 
 Of the old poets, Tom Moore (whose lyrics are 
 wonderfully good, considering that he wrote with a 
 purpose) is the only one that I can remember who 
 ever suggested a mechanical invention. It is now 
 pretty well known that he invented — on .paper — 
 switchback railways. A modern engineer is rather 
 an improver than an inventor. With all his im- 
 provements lie has not been able within the last 
 thirty years to increase very much, if at all, the 
 speed on railways. Poetry rather demands an 
 inventor than an improver. No amount of work or 
 of polishing will make up for the withdrawal of the 
 * divine afflatus J You cannot take other people's 
 poetry and improve it as you would a steam-engine ; 
 nor can you begin again and invent steam. Clever 
 people discover in old libraries and odd corners— you 
 could find no end of them here — things that have 
 been forgotten, or perhaps were never known to 
 more than a few, and perhaps are not even good. 
 The digging out and polishing up of these is a 
 praiseworthy employment, not so the presenting 
 them in a slightly altered setting as their own. I 
 pity people who must write — only I don't see why 
 they must — they are so heavily handicapped by the 
 
104 POETS ALL. 
 
 enormous amount that has been already written. If 
 they read much they cannot be original. They get 
 steeped to the lips in old literature, and out of the 
 abundance they speak. On the other hand, if they 
 read little or nothing, they say things which have 
 been said before, and resemble a man hurrying off to 
 the Patent Office with an invention which he should 
 have known was patented a hundred years ago." 
 
 Perhaps the parson was rather too evidently 
 enjoying himself. It is sufficiently aggravating to 
 be flogged without having to bear in addition the 
 self-congratulatory looks of the clever performer. 
 As a Don the parson had had frequent opportunities 
 of laying down the law. These were now valued in 
 proportion to their rarity. He really believed there 
 were no modern poets. The belief, at any rate, 
 absolved him for his ignorance. The Squire looked 
 round as to say, " You hear that. How do you like 
 it ? " Young Lovibond had at the tip of his tongue 
 a remark on the day's hunting which had been 
 suggested by the parson's mention of '' digging out," 
 but he was a slow speaker, and before he was ready 
 the Critic's unctuous voice was heard again. The 
 turn of affairs was not pleasing to the Londoners, 
 who were of the class Avho wish to talk or not to 
 talk, as the case may be, but have a standing 
 
THE RECTOR ON POETS AND POETRY. 105 
 
 objection to being talked to. "He will be starting 
 again," Mr. Jones had thought, "unless I cut in." 
 
 ** There are moderns," he observed, a ci'pro'pos of 
 nothing, " who write admirable plays." 
 
 "Are there?" said the parson quickly. "I am 
 indeed happy to hear it. I should be happier if 
 you could tell me why they write them. Are they 
 likely to improve on Shakespeare, who, though few 
 know him well, is just well enough known for it to 
 be almost impossible to crib from him. To be a 
 third-rate Shakespeare would be no doubt to prove 
 oneself of — in these days — exceptional talent, but 
 after that — of what possible use would a third-rate 
 Shakespeare be to me ? " 
 
 "If every one was judged by your standard," said 
 Mr. Jones suavely, " there would be little room for 
 mediocrity. But it seems to me that an indis- 
 criminate admiration for old poets commits you to 
 worshipping a host of inferiors. There are numbers 
 of poets (and others) who, because they happened to 
 write fairly well in days when few people wrote any 
 better, have got, so to speak, bound up with fame, 
 and thus have an immortality of stupidity. They are 
 'standard works' because they crept into this col- 
 lection or that. People — who do not read them — 
 talk about them as if they ought to be read. And 
 
106 POETS ALL. 
 
 there are others who long ago hit the popular fancy, 
 or what answered in those days to the popular fancy, 
 in whom educated men can now see little or nothing 
 to admire, and whom we indeed consider over- rated." 
 (The Squire, who, having seen the discussion well 
 started, had begun to nod, sat bolt upright in his 
 chair.) *' You would not I suppose forbid the moderns 
 to compete with them ? " 
 
 " Over-rated 1" exclaimed the parson. 
 
 " You Ve said it now," murmured young Lovibond 
 enthusiastically. 
 
 ''Over-rated!" said the Squire, shaking off his dis- 
 position to slumber. ''I am delighted that a Londoner 
 can see what a shameful state of affairs we suffer from. 
 I should think, indeed, that we are over-rated. Little 
 do townsfolk imagine the burdens that land has to 
 bear. My poor farmers, what with School-board rates, 
 tithes — one for you, parson — highways, County Coun- 
 cils, and a score of things besides, are being ruined 
 as fast as possible. Now we are to have the Small 
 Holdings Act on the top of it all, and up will go rates 
 again. When the best land has been taken for these 
 fellows (whoever they are to be, and who will never 
 make it pay), the farmers, who can't make a living as 
 it is, are to subsist on the worst land. It is odd that 
 the Tory party don't see that the agricultural interest 
 
thp: rector on poets and poetry. 107 
 
 can't go on unless something is clone soon. Surely 
 they don't fancy that creating sham yeomen is help- 
 ing the agricultural interest. Every now and then 
 a vote-hunting Radical comes down and shows us 
 what miserable beings we are, and how we have to 
 bear up the whole country. Atlas was nothing to it. 
 But of course we can't admit to Radicals that every- 
 thing is not just as it should be, seeing that our own 
 friends did not help us when they got the chance. 
 It is all • the working-man ' now. I am sick of him, 
 for my part, and should think he must be sick of 
 being buttered." f' People can stand a good deal of 
 butter," interrupted Mr. Jones.) ''Now, if instead 
 of beo^inning: at the wrons^ end the Government would 
 do something for my farmers so that they could do 
 something for the agricultural labourer, there would 
 be some sense in it. But then that would stop 
 agitation, which is the breath of life to some people. 
 Over-rated, indeed ! By the bye, when we get into the 
 drawing-room, Maggie shall read you some verses — 
 I won't say poetry — on the state of rural affairs. 
 They were written by a friend of mine on one of our 
 farmers who went off to New Zealand the other day 
 — just one of those we ought to have kept at any 
 price." 
 
 The Poet was conscious of a suspicion that his 
 
108 POETS ALL. 
 
 host was chaffing him. Had he come down into the 
 country to hear other people's verses ? No one had 
 ever dreamt of offering him such an indignity before. 
 It had always been, " Oh, Mr. Corthee, that sweet 
 thing of yours now — really too sweet/' Even Mr. 
 Jones glanced at the Squire with a polite air of 
 deprecation. The latter discovered that something 
 was wrong, and desisted, rather reluctantly, from 
 his harangue. " Much these fellows care about the 
 backbone of the country," he muttered — as if it was 
 a case of lumbago. Aloud he said — 
 
 '' Gentlemen, if no one will take any more wine, we 
 will go into the drawing-room. Perhaps Mr. Corthee " 
 — sarcastically — " will read us a poem or two. I am 
 afraid I have been talking about things you do not 
 understand. Now you can pay me out." 
 
 All rose with alacrity for various reasons. The 
 Poet because he was bored, and because he hoped 
 that he would soon have to refuse, unsuccessfully, to 
 read his poems, and also because he thought it was 
 time for his eye to be fixed on Maggie again ; Mr. 
 Jones was desirous of making love after a more 
 ordinary fashion; the parson was anxious to bring 
 his critical powers to bear on the poetry, as to the 
 merits of which he had already made up his mind ; 
 the Squire had determined that Maggie should read 
 
THE P.ECTOR ON POETS AND POETRY. 109 
 
 the verses on the expatriated farmer; while young 
 Lovibond was, to his surprise, conscious of feeling 
 more than ordinary amusement. It was not perhaps 
 as good as fox-hunting, but these fellows were really 
 not bad sport. 
 
 *' Hang it all, you know ! By Jove 1 to look at 
 that thin chap. He's a caution/' 
 
 Mrs. Butler, hearing the footsteps of the approach- 
 ing males, instinctively sprang up and arranged her 
 cap ; while Maggie removed herself from the neigh- 
 bourhood of the mine to which some one would no 
 doubt oblige her by applying a match. 
 
110 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 AN INTERRUPTED COMPETITION. 
 
 On arriving in the drawing-room the Poet at 
 once looked out for a position whence to resume his 
 dominating glances, to which the object^s evident 
 uneasiness gave additional zest. Mr. Jones walked 
 up to Maggie and engaged her in conversation. 
 
 " We were having a discussion/' he remarked 
 suavely, "as was indeed to be expected. Perhaps 
 1 should rather say that Mr. Butler has been giving 
 us a lecture. We finished by getting on to ' rates,' 
 and there I felt like a fish out of water. Your father 
 won't allow there are any living poets, and I 
 am bound to differ from him. Oh ! " — in answer 
 to an upbraiding look — " I could not go so far as 
 that, you know. Business is business. If you had 
 been there I should have done my best to agree with 
 you, no doubt ; though to say there are no modern 
 
AN interruptp:d competition. Ill 
 
 poets — actually none, you know — would be to pro- 
 claim myself an ass." 
 
 While he spoke Maggie was being irresistibly 
 attracted towards the table on which her little heap 
 of books was arranged. Soon her hand was on the 
 worsted-work with which the little battery was 
 masked. The Critic was so used to all sorts of 
 humbug and pretence, that he was able and some- 
 times even too ready to detect it. It was child's 
 play for him to discover, when Maggie glanced shyly 
 up at him, that there was something under that 
 worsted-work which she was half wishing to disclose 
 and was yet desirous of hiding. What could the 
 secret be ? Possibly, nothing very important. Could 
 Maggie have been writing poetry herself? Now 
 he thought of it, she was just the sort of girl to 
 write poetry — well, verses. After his frank con- 
 fession in the dining-room it seemed not unlikely 
 that she should wish to confide in him. If that 
 was so, he smiled as he recognized that she need 
 be in little fear of harsh judgment. She should 
 be a poetess — a Laureatess — if she chose. Mr. Jones 
 was one of those — of whom there are still a good 
 many, and who must be obnoxious to every sensible 
 girl — who, w^hile thinking it a sacred duty to flatter 
 a good-looking woman to the top of her bent, would 
 
112 POETS ALL. 
 
 never dream seriously of allowing that she had 
 anything but her " charms " — as the Poet would 
 have said — to recommend her. Strong-minded, plain 
 women he hardly considered women at all, and 
 he flattered them in quite a different way, which 
 presumably — though there was a doubt about it — 
 was what they wanted. 
 
 Having made up his mind as to the nature of the 
 coming revelation, he fixed his eyes with all the 
 eagerness of a terrier on the spot whence the secret 
 might be expected to bolt. Maggie laughed nervously 
 when the Critic calmly removed the worsted -work, 
 and took in his hand the volume on the top of the 
 little pile. His face fell as he recognized his mistake. 
 
 " Charming, delightful ! " he exclaimed, with mock 
 unction ; '' these are your favourites. Miss Ellis ? 
 Very nice indeed," he continued, his manner getting 
 more and more contemptuous, as one by one the 
 collection passed through his hands. " Selections 
 from Byron ! " — in a surprised tone. 
 
 ''Why not?" said Maggie, ready in a moment 
 to take up the cudgels ; '' I have always understood 
 that he was one of our great poets." 
 
 '* Well, yes," said the Critic dubiously; ''only 
 I thought I had shown pretty conclusively that 
 there was very little of the true poet about him. 
 
AN INTEKRUPTED COMPETITION. 113 
 
 He will never go down to posterity with our friend 
 here. I wrote, indeed — but you may not have read 
 it — that Byron was all fustian and bombast. More- 
 over,, I offered to write a Siege of Corinth in four- 
 and-tvventy hours, which would be quick work. 
 Byron I Really, Miss Ellis, your taste is a little ante- 
 diluvian — from living in the country, no doubt. 
 Byron, to put it vulgarly, is as dead as Julius Caesar, 
 I assure you. I fancy you would find a study of the 
 moderns more improving than Byron, though, perhaps, 
 not quite so amusing. Yet I would be generous. We 
 can surely afford to be generous. For all that poor 
 Byron is dead as Julius Caesar, I will not deny that 
 he may have written a good thing or two." 
 
 The Squire and the parson were bringing the 
 reserves into action, the latter evidently with the 
 intention of forcing the fighting, when the voice of 
 young Lovibond was unexpectedly heard addressing 
 the Poet. The young man had been thinking that 
 he had acted a boorish part during dinner, and he 
 did not wish " these Cockneys " to imagine that 
 young fellows in the country were without an idea 
 in their heads. In fact Mr. Lovibond had two — 
 hunting and Maggie. He had been doubtful how 
 best to open a conversation — for he was no great 
 talker — when Mr. Jones's last words gave him his 
 
114 POETS ALL. 
 
 cue. " Talking hunting, by Jove," he said to him- 
 self ; " who'd have thought it ? " 
 
 *' We had a good thing to-day, if you like," he 
 began. *' I did not see you out, but we got away so 
 quickly that I might have missed you. I hope you 
 were there " — to himself, " Gad ! he doesn't look like 
 it" — ''Saw your friend, though. I twigged the 
 Squire's old pink. There's a mulberry mark on the 
 left shoulder. A little tight for our friend, who looks 
 short of work. He came a cropper, I heard. Do 
 him a lot of c^ood. We lost our fox at Bac^nal Wood. 
 Ought to have killed. Do you know the country, 
 Mr.— Mr. ? " 
 
 The Poet stared at his interlocutor in blank 
 astonishment. Know the country, indeed ! What 
 did this bumpkin mean ? He knew as much as 
 he wanted to know about it, and the people too — 
 always excepting Maggie. "I dare say," he 
 replied rudely, *' that I know as much about the 
 
 country Mr. — Mr. as you know about the 
 
 town." 
 
 '* You might easily know more," said young 
 Lovibond, nettled at the receipt of his advances 
 (" Confounded bear," he muttered aside) ; and he 
 rapidly decided that he was unadapted by nature to 
 converse with a " Cockney." The parson caused a 
 
AN INTERRUPTED COxMPETITION. 115 
 
 welcome diversion. He was, indeed, burning to 
 avenge Mr. Jones's disparaging mention of Byron. 
 
 ''I cant imagine," he began, ''why you literary 
 men of the rising* generation make such a dead set 
 at Byron. I shall be exceedingly surprised — or my 
 ghost — if one in a thousand of you will get a hun- 
 dredth part of his lease of fame. I should call it 
 'fouling your own nest,' but that you are of the 
 namby-pamby order — birds of quite another feather. 
 In not showing appreciation of fire and feeling you 
 commit yourselves, I suppose, to an opinion that 
 poetry is possible without both or either. You won't 
 find many to agree with you, but you are yourselves 
 quite a little public. It is easy to exalt the indis- 
 pensable art of manufacture and machinery too 
 highly. Technical skill is all very well — I had been 
 under the impression that Byron was not without 
 skill — but what is mere skill in versifying without 
 passion or fire, or whatever you choose to call them ? 
 — fustian and bombast ! To me it seems childish to 
 argue that any modern could have written CJiilde 
 Harold, I will be silent about Don Juan, as I am, 
 of course, not blind to its gross defects; yet parts 
 of that poem have, in my opinion, never been equalled. 
 Are none of Byron's lyrics the work of a true poet ? 
 Half-a-dozen of them would suffice to set up a 
 
116 POETS ALL. 
 
 modern poet in business. As for writing a modern 
 Siege of Corinth., there is no objection surely to 
 any one doing so who wishes, but what w^ould be the 
 good of it ? At best it could be but an impertinent 
 imitation or parody, and of imitations I, for one, think 
 we have had enough. A painter who is but a clever 
 copyist is not, that I am aware of, considered a 
 genius." 
 
 The Poet, having recovered his equanimity, was 
 busily making a pretence of not listening to the 
 harangue. 
 
 " I confess," put in the Squire, '' tliat I know little 
 or nothing about modern poetry — indeed, I have got 
 to think there is none — but I am willing to be 
 enlightened. I have a magnificent collection in my 
 library of the rarest editions of almost every English 
 poet from — from" — the Squire hesitated — "Adam to 
 Byron, and I imagined that there was as little worth 
 reading after the latter as — here, perhaps, Mr. Jones 
 will agree with me — before tlie former. I may be 
 wrong, of course. I ought to have bought my cousin 
 Corthee's books — as he did not send them to me — but 
 no doubt he has them with him. Maggie and I, and 
 Mr. Butler also, I have no doubt," — here the parson 
 made a wry face,—" will have the greatest pleasure 
 in listening to any new thing that you may think 
 
AN INTERRUPTED COMPETITION. 117 
 
 worthy of being put in competition with the old. But 
 first I will ask Maggie to read the verses to which I 
 referred just now." To Maggie — *' My dear, where 
 are those lines on poor Smout who went to New 
 Zealand ? Our friends would like to hear them." 
 
 Maggie looked rather astonished, but after search- 
 ing through a scrap-book on the table, soon came 
 forward again with a slip of paper in her hand. The 
 parson had no time to protest against what he 
 thought an ill-advised interruption of the intended 
 programme. 
 
 " You will read it, papa, I hope ? " said Maggie. 
 
 " Not I," said the Squire. " I can't read poetry — 
 or verses. Read it yourself." 
 
 Maggie stood for a minute in silent protest witli 
 the slip of paper in her hand. She looked from one 
 to the other. All, with the exception of the parson, 
 seemed desirous that she should proceed. Her father 
 because he really thought the verses very fine ; Messrs. 
 Jones and Corthee because they hoped to find them 
 very bad; and young Lovibond because he had an 
 idea that the reading of them would somehow " take 
 the shine out of the Cockneys," 
 
 Maggie felt very shy, and she blushed of course ; 
 but she was accustomed — when the doing so was not 
 too disagreeable — to please others. She commenced 
 
118 POETS ALL. 
 
 reading in a low voice, which gradually gained con- 
 fidence as she forgot her audience and only remem- 
 bered poor Mr. Smout, who had had the Home Farm 
 for many years, and who was now so many thousands 
 of miles away. And this is what she read — 
 
 GONE TO NEW ZEALAND. 
 
 "Off to New ZeaL^ud yesterday ; 
 
 This was his only chance they told him ; 
 He was a farmer, tradesmen they 
 
 Accustomed to advise and scold him. 
 These glibly speed upon its way 
 
 The lessening bark we sadly scan. 
 AYits miss their butt and rogues their prey, 
 
 For us, we lose our honest man. 
 
 At least he soiled not England's name 
 
 By arming 'gainst her breast her foes, 
 Or starving India made cry shame 
 
 On rotten cloths and calicoes. 
 Let hungry placemen foul their nest 
 
 And to debase their country vie. 
 But in his patriotic breast 
 
 Their madness never found ally. 
 
 Though forced in self-defence to know 
 
 The rudiments of many trades. 
 He lacked the polished swagger so 
 
 Distinguishing commercial blades. 
 He could not pose in the Gazette 
 
 'Midst giant sums which so astound, 
 Nor cleverly a fortune net 
 
 To fail for twopence in the pound. 
 
AN INTERRUPTED COMPETITION. 119 
 
 A Tory still, he could but tire 
 
 Of those who ' in ' forgot his need, 
 And ' out ' his welfare must desire. 
 
 But inability could plead. 
 While demagogues — which vexed his soul — 
 
 As truer friends preferred loud claims. 
 And made him by each cunning dole 
 
 Their stalking-horse to selfish aims. 
 
 His tithes he paid, yet wondered how 
 
 The more corn fell the more they rose, 
 Since tithes repair no churches now 
 
 Or warm poor parson's portless nose. 
 His roads untaxed trim bagmen ground, 
 
 The lavish School-board learnt to cling 
 To his o'erloaded shoulders round, 
 
 And made spoiled ploughboys sum and sing. 
 
 He toiled, made honey ; as it grew 
 
 The drones rapacious filched his store 
 Before the taste himself he knew. 
 
 Nor left him heart to gather more. 
 His ill-spared coin like drops of blood. 
 
 His sweat ubiquitous o'erran 
 His parish with impartial flood, 
 
 Or larded wastes of Hindoostan. 
 
 This couldn't last ; collectors call 
 
 Too often at his surly door : 
 The world grew rich ; who bore it all 
 
 — Atlas — grew thinner and more poor. 
 Friends whom his votes had helped to scale 
 
 Life's ladder, pledges half outgrown 
 Took office, turned deaf ear, turned tail, 
 
 Turned lords, and kicked the ladder down. 
 
120 POETS ALL. 
 
 So wisely while lie could lie went, 
 
 The last of all we thought to spare, 
 While some surviving coins unspent 
 
 In much-worn pocket lingered rare ; 
 Ere the poor ' guardian of the poor,' 
 
 A^ictim of fate's excessive whim, 
 Stood suppliant at the workhouse door, 
 
 Which sadly oped to welcome him." 
 
 Maggie^s hand, with the paper in it, fell to her side. 
 She turned away to replace the verses in the scrap- 
 book. 
 
 "I call that good," said the Squire aggressively, 
 " considering that it is modern, and does not pretend 
 to be poetry." 
 
 *' That's all nonsense about tithes growing larger/' 
 objected the rector. " My tithes are down to nothing. 
 Why couldn't the fellow stick to his facts ? " 
 
 " Excellently read/' said the Critic, glad to have it 
 over. 
 
 The Poet saw that to raise a discussion on such 
 trumpery was to defer the introduction of more 
 interesting matter. "You don't call it poetry," he 
 said carelessly, and as if he felt thereby absolved 
 from further criticism. 
 
 The Squire accepted the situation rather sulkily, 
 but a debate cannot be sustained against the silence 
 of the opposition benches. 
 
AN INTERRUPTED COMPETITIOX. 121 
 
 " I told you it was not what you call poetry, only 
 a versified statement of the position of rural affairs. 
 I should beg your pardon for introducing such topics, 
 but to us they are rather important. Now Ave can 
 go back to what we were talking about. Byron was 
 as dead as Julius Csesar, and we were on the point, I 
 fancy, of hearing who had superseded him. I am 
 not too old to learn, or too conceited to confess my 
 ignorance. I hope Mr. Corthee will not feel too 
 bashful to enlighten our darkness, and, if we are no 
 longer to worship our old idols, to show us a better 
 religion." 
 
 The Squire sat down in his arm-chair with an air 
 of resignation which suggested that he would sit 
 there for a week if required. 
 
 Young Lovibond came up to the table with the 
 air of one who anticipated and was even willing to 
 assist in the production of a little amusement. The 
 Poet was asking himself whether he would be worse 
 in his jocose than in his polite mood. " Mr. — this 
 gentleman," he went on, after once more trying to 
 recall the Poet's name, and using the phraseology he 
 was accustomed to employ at Conservative smoking 
 concerts, ^' will kindly favour us with the next song." 
 
 *'I am not in the Ivibit of singing," said the Poet 
 huffily; ''nor do I generally" — he added, as if lie was 
 
122 POETS ALL. 
 
 a railway contractor — '' carry my works about with 
 me. I am afraid " — and there is no doubt that he 
 felt genuine pity — "you must manage to put up for 
 to-night with Byron." 
 
 " I happen, by the merest chance," here put in the 
 Critic, who had before found it convenient to be able 
 in this way to assist a bashful client, " to have in my 
 pocket Mr. Corthee's last little book. Perhaps he 
 will read something '' — the Poet waved a disclaimer 
 — '' or I will, with his permission, read a little piece 
 or two which I think will put poor Byron into the 
 shade." 
 
 The Poet neither gave consent nor withheld it. 
 He certainly had the acquired faculty of looking 
 extremely bored. 
 
 A little circle formed round Mr. Jones, who took a 
 small book from the pocket of his dress-coat, opened 
 it, and held it out in his right hand, while with his 
 left he pawed the air like an impatient courser. 
 The Squire and the parson, notwithstanding the 
 former's declaration, exchanged a glance of triumph. 
 Surely the enemy was delivered into their hands. 
 Maggie became pleasingly sensible of the fact that 
 the Poet was no longer regarding her. 
 
 " It cannot be all nonsense,',' she was thinking, 
 " though he does not resemble my outward idea of 
 
AN INTERRUPTED COMPETITION. 123 
 
 a poet. We shall have a treat, no doubt/' and she 
 composed herself to listen. She stood up facing the 
 reader, her hands clasped behind her, her rosy lips 
 parted in expectation. How foolish her own trifling- 
 rhymes would hereafter appear ! 
 
 All at once she started. Young Lovibond, bent 
 on improving the occasion, had stolen behind her, 
 and, the scrutiny of the " Cockneys '* being tem- 
 porarily withdrawn, had taken her two hands in his 
 own. What was she to do ? She could not call out, 
 and roughly to remove her hands from custody 
 would make a scene. Certainlv she did not wish to 
 make a scene. She was not even quite clear that 
 she would have objected to Tom Lovibond, one 
 of her oldest friends, playing childish tricks — as 
 indeed he was always doing. But she did not like 
 it before these strangers. Gradually a blush stole 
 down over her neck and bosom. When the Critic 
 looked round to command attention, Mr. Lovibond, 
 feeling rather foolish, moved away. Maggie felt 
 that it was almost like sacrilege to be — foolish on 
 an occasion like the present. 
 
 And now the voice of Mr. Jones was heard, sad, 
 pathetic, with even an added wail of despair. He 
 prided himself, not without reason, on his reading. 
 " And was it all you said ? " 
 
124 P0ET8 ALL. 
 
 He paused triumphantly and looked round. It 
 would have been wiser perhaps to go on. 
 
 '' What an unnecessary question ! " broke in the 
 parson, with a short laugh. *' Surely he would have 
 known — if he listened — whether he, or she (I sup- 
 pose it is a she) said any more. If there was no 
 more, why ask ? If any more was said we might 
 have been told so without making a kind of riddle 
 of it. Perhaps after all it was sufficient ; only we 
 were talking of Byron. He, I am sure, would not 
 have asked such a question, though perhaps he 
 might have pleaded — 
 
 " ' Oh, talk not to me.' " 
 
 " If you would have the goodness to wait," Mr. 
 Jones was at last able to interpose, still holding the 
 little book in his outstretched hand, ''you would 
 hear all about it. It is surely absurd to criticize 
 what you have not heard. Allow me to proceed." 
 And he besjan aoain. 
 
 " And was it all you said ? 
 
 Salt tears, restrain your flow. 
 No crystal drop be shed 
 
 Until the worst I know, 
 That nothing more was said. 
 
 If that was all you said -" 
 
AN INTEKEUPTED COMPETITION. 125 
 
 "If Peter Piper picked a peck of pepper," put in 
 young Lovibond, who on this first and only occasion 
 came forward as a critic of poetry. ''Don't you 
 know — couldn't you now find something a little 
 livelier ? That seems to me a trifle melancholy. 
 Maggie — I mean Miss Ellis," he went on, struck by 
 a bright idea, '' won't you give us John Peel 1 " 
 
 '' Do be quiet, Mr. Lovibond," said Maggie, who, 
 whatever her disappointment, felt that politeness 
 demanded the hearing of the precious specimen to 
 the end. She had quickly decided that she would 
 deny herself the satisfaction of submitting her 
 effusions to the judgment of her guests. 
 
 It was probably a relief to every one when the 
 Poet took the matter into his own hands. Walking 
 up to Mr. Jones, he snatched the little book out of 
 his hand and put it in his pocket. 
 
 *' I'll wish you good-night," he said, moving 
 towards the door; and without fulfilling this promise 
 he speedily disappeared. Mr. Lovibond ordered his 
 trap. All felt that the '' competition " had been a 
 failure — or rather that there had been none. As 
 Maggie was saying '' good-night " to Mr. Lovibond, 
 he bent with a tragic air over her hand. 
 
 '* ' And was it all you said ? ' " he whispered in 
 mock-heroic tones. 
 
126 POETS ALL. 
 
 " It was a great deal too bad of you, Mr. Lovi- 
 bond," said Maggie, trying to restrain a smile. 
 
 *' Mr., indeed ! '* said he, dropping her hand, and 
 making for the door. 
 
 Maggie looked after him thoughtfully. ''He is 
 certainly better," she said to herself, '* than a score 
 of these mock poets and sham critics. But then, 
 that is not saying very much." 
 
127 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AT THE HOME FARM. 
 
 When the Poet had taken his candle, together 
 with his abrupt departure, he had been fully deter- 
 mined that on the next morning he would bid fare- 
 well to Beddington. He had never been so insulted 
 before, and the Squire had evidently enjoyed the 
 onslaught of that horrid parson. It was not, he 
 thought, for himself that he complained, but for his 
 art, which had been insulted through him. He would 
 pack his things in the morning before breakfast. 
 Jones, who was a regular trimmer, might do as he 
 liked. The latter was welcome to Maggie, who, how- 
 ever, was evidently destined for that booby young 
 squire. They would make a fine pair. The remem- 
 brance of young Lovibond's rude laughter came to 
 him as a shock. He had no idea that such vulgar 
 people existed. No doubt Maggie was as bad as 
 the rest. Beautiful ! oh, yes, she was beautiful — a 
 
128 POETS ALL. 
 
 blooming village hoyden — but it was scarcely the sort 
 of beauty that a poet, or a modern poet at all events, 
 should bow down to. Before he extinguished his 
 candle, Mr. Corthee had quite convinced himself that 
 the only type of beauty for which a poet should 
 greatly long was the exact opposite to Maggie's. The 
 form of a woman he knew, and whose talents he ap- 
 preciated perhaps none the less that he imagined the 
 feeling was returned, rose before him. A long thin 
 face, its paleness slightly embrowned — or yellow. 
 Eyes thoughtful, hair not too tidy, dress peculiar — 
 how the Beddington folk would stare at it ! — tastes 
 literary, mind a little strong. Her image hovered 
 over him, as he dozed off, bearing in one hand an 
 enormous white lily. To the waving of this emblem 
 sleep at last visited his eyelids. 
 
 On waking in the morning he did not at first 
 remember either his over-night determination to quit 
 Beddington, or his renunciation of Maggie. When 
 they occurred to him he at once put the first on 
 one side as foolish, since he had never yet packed 
 his own things, and had a decided distaste to 
 attempting it. Under the circumstances he could 
 hardly summon Mr. Jones — who had recently been 
 accustomed to '"valet" him — to his aid. It would 
 be better to swallow his annoyance^ and defer his 
 
AT THE HOME FARM. 129 
 
 departure until the date originally fixed. As for 
 Maggie, he quite forgot that he had renounced her 
 at all. In reality he was conscious of something 
 warmer than he was accustomed to feel at the 
 knowledge that he would have another day of her 
 sweet company. The word " sweet " occurred as 
 frequently in the thoughts and language of Messrs. 
 Jones and Corthee as in Hymns Ancient and Modern, 
 Perhaps on this occasion the epithet was well 
 applied. 
 
 As he descended to breakfast he was nourish- 
 ing a feeling of anger against the Critic. He had 
 for some time accustomed himself to look on him as 
 an unswerving ally, but last night there had been 
 symptoms of an intention to desert. The first 
 whisper of rebellion rouses in the breast of the 
 autocrat blind and unreasoning anger. It could not 
 have been accident that had caused Mr. McCawmee 
 Jones on the previous evening to make that foolish 
 and fatal pause. He had wished, no doubt, to make 
 him appear ridiculous in Maggie's eyes. It needed 
 but the certainty of this to bring the Poet back to 
 his allegiance. Whether he wanted Maggie or not, 
 he would never yield her up to such an ass as Jones. 
 Something too his eye- work must — if there was any 
 faith to be placed in travellers' tales, and he forgot 
 
136 POETS ALL. 
 
 that there is generally very little — have effected. As 
 he took his seat at the breakfast table, after saluting 
 his hostess, there was a look in his face which would 
 have told her — had she had the slightest idea that 
 she had offended him — that she was forgiven. 
 
 Far more amiably than was his wont he agreed 
 with the Squire's suggestions for the day's work. 
 There was to be a walk, it seemed, round the Home 
 Farm, and afterwards the visitors were to be intro- 
 duced to the chief institutions of the village. Maggie 
 was to accompany the party as a matter of course. 
 There had been a slight fall of snow, and it needed 
 all the anticipations derivable from her presence to 
 overcome the Poet's natural dislike to encountering 
 it with thin patent-leather shoes. In London, and 
 by the fire, he liked to celebrate the praises of snow. 
 It required a great amount of good-nature— as of a 
 friendly critic — to do so afar from hansom cabs. But 
 something must be done to-day. Yesterday rhymes 
 had either held aloof, or been absolutely idiotic. He 
 had even become aware that the useful custom of 
 fitting your sense to your rhyme, or, oftener perhaps, 
 abandoning the former entirely in favour of the latter 
 might be overdone. 
 
 Mr. Jones had resumed his knickerbockers, and 
 though stiff from his exertions of yesterday, declined 
 
AT THE HOME EARM. 131 
 
 to be left behind. Maggie laughed at the laborious 
 way in which he crawled over the first stile they 
 came to, and the Poet could not avoid seeing that 
 the two were on excellent terms. It was certainly 
 not intentionally that he diverted her attention from 
 his rival into another and more amusing channel. 
 Crossing a paddock not far from the house, the party 
 came on a little herd of yearling cattle, amongst 
 which was a young bull, who made himself very 
 absurd by antics which would perhaps have threat- 
 ened danger had he been full-grown. He attached 
 himself instinctively to the Poet as the one who 
 would be easiest frightened, and so greatly inti- 
 midated that gentleman that, after several futile 
 attempts to evade the unwelcome attention, he fairly 
 turned tail and started off at a run. This excited his 
 enemy, as a policeman is moved to pursuit by seeing 
 any one run away, and in spite of the reassuring 
 shouts of the Squire — which he may have taken for 
 incentives to speed — the Poet was soon in full flight, 
 with the whole of the little herd capering and dancing 
 in delight at his heels. The sight of the fugitive, his 
 long, thin legs stretched to their utmost length, his 
 long locks floating behind him in the breeze, was 
 more than the gravity of those left behind could 
 resist. The Squire roared like any full-grown bull of 
 
132 POETS ALL. 
 
 Bashan, Maggie's enjoyment was as evident if less 
 loud, and even Mr. Jones saw no reason foi' restraining 
 his mirth. When they rejoined Mr. Corthee — after 
 the next stile — the Squire did his best to conceal his 
 merriment. 
 
 '•'You needn't have run/' he said; "did not you 
 hear me calling to you to stop ? They're only calves. 
 Now I want you to use your eyes here. You've 
 heard of the ' working-man ' ? Oh, poetically you 
 can make nothing of him. But you might have 
 made something of a smock. Ever see a smock ? 
 The * working-man ' now is a fraud. He has been 
 taken up politically and spoilt. There's as much 
 poetry to be got out of him now as out of — my 
 hat. There's no poetry now in agriculture. Bare as a 
 modern stubble. Goldsmith and * Sweet Auburn ' was 
 all very well ; but now that ' a bold peasantry,' or ' a 
 small holder,' or whatever he may have meant has 
 died out, it seems to me absurd to try and restore him. 
 Such things must be left to supply and demand. 
 You might as well stick up scarecrows about the 
 place, and call them 'a bold peasantry,' as try to 
 make ' small holdings ' prosper by Act of Parhament. 
 Here's a bit of good land here. Do you know good 
 land when you see it ? I thought not. Well, the 
 County Council or somebody takes a fancy to just 
 
AT THE HOME FARM. 133 
 
 this bit to set up a bold peasant with. Is there any 
 sense in that ? In a few years the bold peasant will 
 be in difficulties, and I — Maggie rather — may get 
 the land back again. And the experiment will have 
 been rather a costly one. But the day is yet far 
 off when the country — thafc means the people who 
 talk — will be tired of trying costly experiments with 
 other people's money — which usually means mine." 
 
 The Poet appeared to be paying no attention to 
 the harangue, being engaged in mopping his face, 
 which necessary operation he was aware was yet, for 
 a poet of the modern genus, an absurd one. He 
 glanced uncomfortably at Maggie, whose face was 
 turned away. There was a convulsive twitching of 
 her shoulders which showed that she was still 
 laughing inwardly. The Squire smothered his 
 laughter, and as soon as possible prepared to take 
 up his parable again. 
 
 ''It appears," thought Mr. Corthee — as he heard 
 the preliminary clearing of the Squire's throat — 
 " that I have come down here to be talked to." 
 
 " Papa," put in Maggie, " here is old Jarvis with 
 the sheep. Surely there is poetry in old Jarvis. At 
 all events he is not commonplace, though he has 
 given up his smock. He says there are none to be 
 had now." 
 
134 POETS ALL. 
 
 Mr. Jones and Mr. Corthee raised their eyes and 
 saw approaching across the grass field a very old 
 man, clad in a suit of dilapidated corduroys, an old 
 billycock hat, and high leather gaiters. In his 
 hand was a sheep crook, and he was followed by a 
 flock of sheep closely as the Poet had been followed 
 by the calves, but in a different spirit. In rear of 
 the flock walked, tail on ground and with watchful 
 eye, an old black-and-tan sheep dog. As the old 
 man came up to the party he pulled his forelock by 
 way of salute, with a special nod in Maggie's 
 direction, and stood still in mute contemplation of 
 the two strangers. 
 
 " A vine day. Squire, if it udn't snow," he said at 
 last. *' You re gotten some new varmers, I reckon. 
 What 'ud the gennelmen think of my vlock now ? 
 I'm proud of my vlock, I am. Hast a ever seen a 
 better ? '' raising his eyes to the Poet, at whose shoes 
 he gave a passing glance of wonder. " You're no 
 ways shod for varming, leastways in winter," he said 
 sympathetically. '' Happen you'll catch your death." 
 
 " He wants to know," explained the Squire, " what 
 you think of his sheep. These gentlemen" — 
 turning to the shepherd — '*are not farmers" ("I 
 knowed it,'' put in the ^shepherd), " they have come 
 down from London to look about them. Perhaps, if 
 
AT THE HOME FAKM. 135 
 
 they like it well enough, they will take the Home 
 Farm off our hands." 
 
 " Like enough/' said Mr. Jarvis sarcastically. 
 '^ Lunnon ! They comes from Lunnon, does they ! 
 I've heerd tell of Lunnon. Does the Lunnon people 
 know a sheep when they sees one, I wonder ? " 
 
 "We are not quite so silly as you fancy," said Mr. 
 Jones; *' we eat plenty of mutton, and ought to know 
 a sheep by sight well enough." 
 
 " What un sort of sheep be theesen ? " asked the 
 shepherd. 
 
 Mr. Jones made no answer, and the Poet had 
 turned his back on the discussion. 
 
 " They bin ewes, they bin," said Mr. Jarvis, after 
 the manner of Her Majesty's Inspector of Schools 
 when trying to find out if a little boy knows any- 
 thing at all ; " and now can eether ef you gennelmen 
 tell what a ewe bin ? " 
 
 Mr. Jones's face wore the pleased look of a 
 medical student when the examiners have chanced 
 on his sjp4cialiU ; but before he could answer the 
 Poet turned sharply round. 
 
 ''I suppose," he said briskly, '* every one knows 
 that an ewe is a lamb." 
 
 "Haw, haw, mister, you do make me laugh, you 
 do," said the shepherd, preparing to pass on with his 
 
136 POETS ALL. 
 
 flock. *• I could see as you knowed summat. You 
 learns everything up in Lunnon." 
 
 The Squire began a loud roar, which he rather 
 awkwardly cut short in the middle. ''The little ewe 
 lamb of the Bible/' he thought to himself. " Good- 
 morning, Jarvis," he said aloud. 
 
 Maggie was in a state of perplexity. It was bad 
 manners no doubt to laugh at the ignorance of her 
 guests, but restraining was painful, if not absolutely 
 dangerous. The drollest thing was that the Poet 
 was unconscious of any slip. Probably he imagined 
 country-folk were in the habit of bursting out 
 laughing for very little or nothing. What was to 
 be done with these people ? Just then her eye 
 caught a glimpse of the red brick of the old village 
 school through the hedgerows. A path close by 
 where they were standing led to it across two or 
 three fields. 
 
 '' Oh, papa," she said, '' could we go by the 
 school ? I should like to go in for a minute. 
 Perhaps" — turning to, Mr. Corthee — "you would 
 come in too. I dare say schools are more in your 
 way than old Jarvis and his sheep." 
 
 The Poet magnanimously assented. 
 
 *' r thought you would have liked old Jarvis/* said 
 the Squire, rather unwisely returning to the very 
 
AT THE HOME FARM. 137 
 
 matter Maggie had been anxious to shelve. " I 
 could not have shown you anything I fancied you 
 would enjoy more. He is a walking eclogue, straight 
 out of Virgil ; though we have improved the breed of 
 sheep, I trust, since those days. I thought he would 
 have given you quite a pastoral feeling — Melibceus 
 and all that. But I suppose it is cold for that sort 
 of thing. Well, 1 hope you 11 find something to 
 interest you in the school. It is not my fault if 
 you don't. You can't expect anything very new 
 down here, and old things you don't seem to care 
 for. Our school is about as old-fashioned as Jarvis. 
 The kind of place Noah's grandchildren went to after 
 tlie Flood. Goldsmith would have liked it ; but then 
 you don't care about Goldsmith. Dear me ! dear 
 me ! Here we are, gentlemen " — with the air of a 
 showman — ''walk in." 
 
 The Poet lost no time in entering a place where at 
 least he would be able to stand on dry boards, and 
 be safe for a time from the intrusion of snow into 
 his shoes. Maggie entered with him. The Squire 
 button-holed Mr. Jones for a minute outside. 
 
138 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE YOUNG SCHOOL-MASTER. 
 
 ''This free education," quoth the Squire to the 
 guest, whom he detained after the fashion of the 
 Ancient Mariner, "is a swindle. True, the work- 
 ing-man is let off his pence, but farmers throughout 
 the country are still assessed to School-iboards on 
 their rentals, and it is their money which in reality 
 defrays the cost of education in the country. It is, I 
 suppose, a grand joke to make the farmer pay the 
 expenses of an Act which has taken away his plough- 
 boys, and made it almost impossible for any farm 
 labourer hereafter to be trained, as he should be, 
 from a youth up. I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Jones. 
 The farmer — like the landlord — has no friends ; every- 
 thing is piled on him, and no one seems to see, or to 
 care when he does see, that the agricultural industry 
 is being ruined. Here we are now going in for 
 over-educating everybody, and the craze has but 
 
THE YOUNG SCHOOL-MASTER. 139 
 
 commenced. County Councils are bitten with the 
 same fad. The fact is the rates are being utilized 
 wholesale with the hope of getting votes, and when 
 we've spent the money we may ivhistlefor the votes. 
 This educating people ! Look what it has done with 
 the memories of the working-classes, and of other 
 classes too. Why it has simply destroyed them. 
 There's old Jar vis — never learnt to read or write, 
 yet he could tell you everything that happened here 
 since he was a boy, and the day and year it happened 
 in. You'll find very few young people who, without 
 looking at their notes, could tell you what happened 
 last week. Now you poets, I know you must be 
 hard up for material, but you won't get much out 
 of modern agricultural life — what little there was 
 the education craze has settled. In Wordsworth's 
 day it was different, but now you might as well 
 write poetry on a lot of plates in a plate-rack — very 
 ordinary plates, and exactly alike. But come along 
 inside." 
 
 The school was a Liliputian affair, without any of 
 the splendour which causes a modern Board School to 
 far surpass Eton or Rugby ; and indeed Her Majesty's 
 Inspector was constantly threatening to withdraw the 
 grant if it was not at once beautified and enlarged. 
 As the Squire and Mr. Jones entered they found that 
 
140 POETS ALL. 
 
 the Poet had already betaken himself to the hot- 
 water pipes which ran round the school-room, and 
 was trying to dry, or at all events to warm, his feet. 
 Maggie was speaking to the master, who now signed 
 to the children to stand up by w-ay of greeting the 
 new-comers. The Poet, who was chiefly interested 
 in the state of his socks, was standing with his face 
 close to the wall. The Critic's observant eye noticed 
 a glance cast on him by the master as he entered, by 
 which he was at first slightly puzzled. The master 
 was an exceedingly handsome young man, slight, 
 rather delicate and fragile-looking, with fair curly 
 hair and keen intelligent eyes. It was impossible to 
 see him in this little village school without thinking 
 that he had missed his vocation — unless that vocation 
 chanced to be the cutting of blocks with a razor — 
 and hoping that he would one day find it. The 
 Squire walked up and introduced Mr. Jones, who, 
 being gopd-natured and fond of patronizing, at 
 once entered into conversation. The work was dull 
 and monotonous he — Mr. Jones — feared. He was 
 astonished to find in such a position one evidently 
 intended for something higher. So he would have 
 gone on, glad to please when he could do so without 
 any trouble to himself, when a look on the young 
 master's face caused him speedily to veer round. 
 
THE YOUNG SCHOOL-MASTER. 141 
 
 " But no doubt," he continued smoothly, " the 
 work has its compensations. There must, even here, 
 be some measure of appreciation," and he glanced 
 with some cruelty and more impertinence in Maggie's 
 direction. The meaning of the look the young 
 master had given him as he entered the school had 
 that instant flashed across his mind. People who 
 fancy themselves, or who wish to be in love, may 
 have something of the power of insight supposed to 
 be monopolized by lovers. Jealousy — or something 
 as much akin to it as his new-born feeling for Maggie 
 was to real love — enabled him to discover that the 
 young school-master was jealous. 
 
 Mr. Collins — by this name the Squire had intro- 
 duced him — blushed slightly, as if offended. He had 
 one of those tell-tale faces on which every thought is 
 immediately advertised. 
 
 *' I have nothing to complain of in that way," he 
 said ; " in fact, a good many things to be grateful for. 
 The interest that everybody now-a-days takes in 
 educational matters is, or perhaps ought to be, one of 
 them." • 
 
 "I have touched him," thought Mr. Jones. "Poor 
 fellow, I had no wish to hurt him." 
 
 As he was searching for some remark which should 
 be at least innocuous, he found that the Poet, having 
 
142 POETS ALL. 
 
 dried his shoes, was approaching them. Mr. CoUins 
 was looking at him curiously, and with a smile so 
 slight as to be almost unnoticeable. 
 
 *' I must tell you," said the Squire politely, " that 
 Mr. Corthee — my cousin — is a great poet. At least 
 so I am told. I suppose you are aware " — to the 
 Poet — " that we all learn Shakespeare now, and that 
 these little brats — who had far better be working as 
 ploughboys — are well up in Romeo and Juliet. I 
 hope they will learn to conduct their courtships when 
 they grow up in a less rough way than their fathers 
 and mothers did — not that Shakespeare's people were 
 always all that could be desired. The taste for 
 poetry' implanted by Mr. Collins in their young hearts 
 will no doubt have the effect of sending those who do 
 not themselves turn out poets, to your shop — when 
 they have any money. I suppose there are poets 
 . even now who could do with a few more customers." 
 This was, for the Squire, a great piece of pleasantry, 
 and he chuckled accordingly. 
 
 " I don't think that a too early introduction to the 
 poets will have the effect you anticipate, sir,'' put in 
 the young master timidly, "but quite the contrary. 
 The reason Byron gave for not visiting Horace's Sabine 
 farm was that the ' odes ' had been flogged into him 
 before he was old enough to appreciate them, and 
 
THE YOUNG SCHOOL-MASTER. 143 
 
 that he could never afterwards conquer his disgust. 
 I suppose his childhood was spared the Ars poetica. 
 Children who learn by rote that of which the sense 
 is beyond them, are never likely to trouble themselves 
 afterwards about the meaning. I am put here to 
 comply with the Act and to please Her Majesty's 
 Inspector — the latter an impossible task. I confess 
 if I had my way I would never let any child even 
 know the meaning of the word 'poetry/ or 'rhyme/ 
 which is often mistaken for it." 
 
 Mr. Jones was staring at the speaker in amaze- 
 ment. What was the world coming to when a prig 
 of a country school-master prated about the Sabine 
 farm ? The Poet appeared to be slightly irritated 
 by Mr. Collins's wish to cut off the customers jocosely 
 promised by the Squire. 
 
 " Do you not think," he said, " that — to quote the 
 Eton Latin grammar — such learning softens manners 
 and robs them of their fierceness ? " 
 
 " No doubt," said the young master, less timidly 
 and with a kindling eye. " And if it were certain 
 that a rough peasant could not be as happy as a 
 poet, I should never think these children could learn 
 poetry enough. But in softening the manners, and 
 teaching the understanding of poetry, and of what 
 makes the poet — supposing the attempt not to be a 
 
144 POETS ALL. 
 
 mere waste of time — do you not also endow with a 
 larger capacity for pain ? It is Pan — as Mrs. Brown- 
 ing put it — making a pipe out of a reed, a poet out 
 of a man. Besides/^ he added more lightly, '^ the 
 Squire says that you, sir, are a poet ; don't you think 
 that there are poets enough, and can you willingly 
 look on and see what an enormous competition is 
 being prepared for you ? " 
 
 Mr. Cor thee made no reply. In truth he did not 
 know what to say. Something in the first part of 
 the master's little speech touched him strangely. 
 The eye that had been so inoperative when turned 
 on Maggie, now tried to look his interrogator through. 
 Mr. Corthee had never felt any pain arising from the 
 fact that he was — or called himself — a poet. He had 
 been annoyed, no doubt, when rhymes had been 
 more than usually elusive ; but pain — what was 
 there to feel pain about ? Could it be possible that 
 this poor school-master had more insight into what 
 should be the feelings of a poet than he had ? If so, 
 it was no doubt time to stop this indiscriminate 
 teaching of poetry. But he would sound him. 
 
 " I feel sure you have tried your hand ; you speak 
 so feelingly of the sufferings of the poet," he said, in 
 a tone of banter which Mr. Collins ignored. 
 
 '* Oh, I've made a fool of myself like a good many 
 
THE YOUNG SCHOOL-MASTER. 145 
 
 others/' he said. " One is obliged to write. If not 
 because one feels — and God forbid that any one 
 should write who cannot feel — yet because one has 
 nothing else to do." 
 
 With this he bowed slightly, and turned towards 
 his class again. 
 
 Maggie had heard all that passed. She now came 
 up to shake hands before leaving. There was a look 
 of pity in her eyes which the young man was careful 
 not to see. Careful as he was he was somehow aware 
 of it, and felt annoyed. He touched her hand 
 lightly, bowed to the Squire and his guests, and in a 
 moment more was alone again with his class. 
 
 But when his visitors had left him he was con- 
 scious that the sun had suddenly gone behind a 
 cloud. Education had certainly brought with it, in 
 his case, a capacity for pain. To be able to enjoy 
 what you have no chance of acquiring is indeed a 
 very doubtful blessing, and — '' the blind boy " notwith- 
 standing — destructive of our peace of mind. There 
 are people, no doubt, who would be better without 
 feelings; plenty of people, too, who are as much 
 without them as it is to be hoped is the case with 
 molluscs. Even feelings can be put to sleep or ignored. 
 They wake up, no doubt, like babies, just when they 
 are not wanted to, and then the sooner they are put 
 
146 POETS ALL. 
 
 to bed again the better. But he would not put his 
 away at once. Those men, who were they, and what 
 did they want here ? But their errand did not 
 matter to him. Pity ! He certainly did not want her 
 pity. Let her keep it for the two strangers. A poet 
 indeed ! The long-legged man was no poet. And yet 
 he might be ; and, at all events, no one could ever 
 hope to be a true poet who had unkind or jealous 
 thoughts of others. The long-legged man should be 
 a poet if he wished, and if Miss Ellis wished. And 
 the red-legged man ? The red-legged man was no 
 fool. He was clever enough to understand that look 
 which indeed he had not understood himself. He — 
 the school-master, who it appeared stood in need of 
 a lesson — had better be off from here. Yet could he 
 go ? And where to go to ? But this dreaming ! Bah ! 
 " Now, boys, attention. Smith — read on, please." 
 
 " ' 'Ere rests 'is 'ed upon the lap of Tiearth.' " 
 
 ** Not * Aearth.' Smith, do be more careful with 
 your h's." 
 
 " * A youth to fortune and to fame unknown.' " 
 
 *' What do you mean by fame ? Can any boy tell 
 me what is meant by fame? Tomkins, you are 
 holding your hand up ? " 
 
^^'cu^roH 
 
 THE YOUNG SCHOOL-MASTER. 147 
 
 " It means being talked about, sir/' 
 " Sometimes it does, Tomkins. Mind you don't 
 get talked about. Now, Smith, go on, please." 
 
 " ' Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, 
 And melancholy marked him for her own.'" 
 
 " Jenkins, what do you understand by melancholy ? 
 Do you ever feel melancholy ? " 
 
 *' Please, sir, yes." 
 
 " Well, Jenkins, when do you feel melancholy ? " 
 
 " Please, sir, when I ain't had no dinner." 
 
 " Quite right, Jenkins ; enough to make any one 
 melancholy. Only you shouldn't say ' ain't had no 
 dinner.' Don't you know that two negatives make 
 an affirmative ? And I suppose when you've had a 
 good dinner you're as happy as a king ? " 
 
 " Please, sir, yes." 
 
 '' I don't think there is much wrong with my boys 
 yet," thought the school-master. 
 
148 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE EECTOE's glass-house. 
 
 The parson went to bed in a joyful mood on the 
 night after dining with the Squire, delighted to have 
 come off with such flying colours in his contest with 
 the two impostors — as he considered them. Nor 
 was he in the least impressed by the mild curtain- 
 lecture administered by Mrs. Butler. The good lady, 
 who knew little about poetry, and would never have 
 been able to understand why a modern poet should 
 not be as much better than an ancient one as a new 
 lamp is superior — in the ideas of a practical house- 
 wife — to an old one, was shocked at what she 
 considered the rude behaviour of her good man. 
 A stranger was to her a blessed boon, which it was 
 almost impious to slight, or to accept in any but 
 a most thankful and humble spirit. She was glad 
 of a change, although she would never have dreamt 
 of letting her husband see that she had any aspir- 
 
THE rector's glass-house. 149^ 
 
 ations beyond clothing clubs ; nor had she ever been 
 able to overcome a feeling of awe at encountering 
 any one who came from the great world of which 
 she would have liked' to know a little more. But, 
 though at night the parson laughed off his wife's 
 meek disapprobation, when the matter recurred to 
 his mind in the morning, he owned, to himself — he 
 was too wise to own it to any one else — that he had 
 been a little brusque in his behaviour. By the time 
 he had breakfasted he had pleaded guilty — before 
 the same judge — to having been rude. Now the 
 knowledge of having been rude to the most humble 
 of his own parishioners would have come on him as 
 a shock and a disgrace. How much more inexcus- 
 able was it to have been rude to a stranger whom 
 he might never see again, and who would not have 
 the countless opportunities of a neighbour — and de- 
 pendent — for making the return of which rudeness 
 is more secure than kindness. From acknowledg- 
 ing that he had been rude to feeling a wish to 
 make the amende honorable was for a man of his 
 nature only a step, and he took it at once. Scarcely 
 had he finished breakfast before he was on his way 
 to the Hall, with the intention of inviting the 
 literary gentlemen — whom to-day he would take 
 at their own valuation — to visit his church. No 
 
150 POETS ALL. 
 
 doubt, without apologizing in so many words, some- 
 thing would occur which would give him the oppor- 
 tunity of obliterating the unfavourable impression 
 which the strangers had most probably formed of his 
 temper and judgment. 
 
 His attempt at evading his parishioners having 
 resulted in the presentation of more than the usual 
 number of urgent ''cases/' it was eleven o'clock 
 before he found himself passing the school on his 
 way to the Hall. As he passed the door the Squire, 
 accompanied by the rest of the party, was just 
 emerging. The coldness with which the Poet 
 received his advances he welcomed as the first 
 strokes of a well-deserved penance. 
 
 '' But you will see my church ? I am proud of it, 
 and the more so that nothing in the way of ' restor- 
 ation ' — with the exception of ' putting in ' some 
 stained glass — has been permitted in my time. I 
 have no doubt you are as fond of old churches as you 
 are opposed to old poets.'' 
 
 These last words had been better left unsaid, since 
 they quickly recalled the part which the parson had 
 taken in the discussion of the previous evening. 
 With simulated unwillingness the Poet allowed 
 himself to be taken in tow. Perhaps there would 
 be some more hot-water pipes. If not there would. 
 
THE rector's glass-house. 151 
 
 almost certainly, be some way of paying out the 
 parson. The Poet was one of those whose golden 
 rule was to do to others as you were "done by" — 
 and more of it. It would be a golden rule of life — 
 or a silver-gilt one, at any rate — to remember that 
 there is no one so humble as not to be able to repay 
 with interest an insult or a slight. Even conferrers 
 of obvious benefits do not always escape punish- 
 ment, since the majority of people are rightly very 
 particular as to the way in which they permit 
 themselves to be benefited. Nor does the laziness 
 of the great majority of those whom you have 
 benefited or wronged, always secure impunity, since 
 lazy people appear to keep a considerable store 
 of energy in stock wherewith to pay off their 
 grudges. The most sanctimonious and the most 
 truly pious people — two very different things — while 
 precluded from revenging themselves after the 
 manner of the worldly ones, are yet found quite 
 equal to the occasion. The practice of heaping 
 '' coals of fire " on the heads of those who offend us 
 has come down from King David's days, and the 
 present followers of the art have no doubt dis- 
 covered that the general baldness of the pates of 
 their victims makes the infliction more trying than 
 of old. It follows that it is exceedingly unwise for 
 
152 POEiTS ALL. 
 
 any one who regards his own well-being or advance- 
 ment to allow himself the luxury of offending. The 
 worst of it is that people are so touchy that a man 
 who would make no enemies should speak neither 
 good nor evil of any one. Sitting perfectly still 
 without opening your mouth, though some appear 
 to enjoy it, would for the majority be a trying and 
 monotonous role. Your very silence too and immo- 
 bility would before long be made an offence. Per- 
 haps therefore, after all, Mr. Jones's plan of praising 
 everybody indiscriminately is the safest. Even this 
 plan will offend the wise ; but the wise are so few 
 that they may practically be disregarded. 
 
 Now the parson was perfectly right in saying that 
 he had allowed nothing, with the exception of the 
 windows, to be altered in his church since his 
 appointment to the living, though he was no doubt 
 wrong in thinking that the stahts quo left nothing to 
 be desired. Many years ago he had spent a good 
 deal of money in embellishing — as he fancied — his 
 church with stained glass. The same habit of mind 
 that had caused him to acquiesce readily in the 
 abrupt ending of the Squire's collection of the poets, 
 permitted him to think that his windows — which 
 may once on a tinTe have been fashionable, if they 
 could never have been ornamental — were everything 
 
THE rector's glass-house. 153 
 
 that a lover of art could desire. Even if he had not 
 originally considered them admirable, he was like 
 other human beings in that he could soon get 
 accustomed to and admire what had once struck 
 him as inartistic and absurd. '' A poor thing," says 
 mock modesty, *' but mine own;" adding, "and not 
 such a very poor thing either ! " 
 
 What religious opinions^ Mr. Jones and Mr. 
 Corthee held were entirely subject to their ideas 
 of art — as they knew it. Worship in what they 
 considered an inartistic building — not that they 
 worshipped often anywhere — would be to them as 
 revolting as an ugly parson would to their minds be 
 ridiculous. The Poet, in particular, had certain 
 undeveloped ideas, which made ninety-nine out of 
 every hundred church windows that he had seen 
 obnoxious to him, and the hundredth only laudable 
 as a make-shift. On the parson cheerfully remark- 
 ing that he thought he had some windows that 
 would please him, the Poet felt that his enemy had 
 been delivered into his hand. Maggie trembled at 
 the censorial look which condemned her favourites 
 in advance and unseen. The Critic felt pleased that 
 he would soon have something to criticize, which he 
 greatly preferred to having his art exercised on 
 himself It is a well-known fact that no one more 
 
154 POETS ALL. 
 
 than a doctor objects to being operated on. As 
 the party entered the little old-fashioned build- 
 ing, which the deep hues of the stained glass had 
 left almost in darkness, Maggie and the parson were 
 for the first time sensible that the designer s art left 
 something to be desired. 
 
 '' Ha ! " exclaimed the Poet, in a tone of mockery, 
 when he had walked half-way up the nave without 
 remembering to remove his hat, " this is indeed 
 charming. May I ask what is the subject of that 
 window ? " 
 
 On the window to which the Poet was pointing 
 was depicted a pale young lady in a red velvet 
 ball-dress, reclining on a blue couch ; by her side 
 was a little spider-legged table, and on the table 
 a cut-glass decanter, three-parts full of some liquid 
 which matched the dress of the invalid. By the 
 side of the blue couch, sat up on his tail a rather 
 large-sized Scotch terrier. Everything but the dog 
 and the young lady's face were of the brightest 
 possible hue. 
 
 *' The young lady,'' continued Mr. Corthee, without 
 waiting for an answer to his question, " looks ex- 
 ceedingly unwell, and, I see, has not taken her 
 medicine. Perhaps when she has done so she will 
 feel a little better. The faithful dog is evidently 
 
THE REOTOKS GLASS-HOUSE. 155 
 
 anxious. Am I right in supposing that I am look- 
 ing at a representation of the raising of Jairus's 
 daughter ? " 
 
 " Yoii are," said the parson huffily, '' though I am 
 sure I don't know how you guessed it/' 
 
 " Perhaps not/' answered the Poet, '' but the fact 
 is I have seen it before. Not here/' — he hastened 
 to add in response to the parson's look of surprise — 
 '* but it was the usual thing everywhere in the last 
 generation. The ' church- window-men ' were always 
 raising Jairus's daughter. You have seen scores of 
 them, Jones ? " he added, turning to his ally. 
 
 Mr. Jones was not disinclined to enjoy or even to 
 assist at the parson's discomfiture. He was on the 
 point of sarcastically assenting, when the look he 
 saw on Maggie's face made him pause. He remem- 
 bered with a feeling of relief that he was under no 
 necessity of upholding the Poet's ideas on church 
 windows. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said weakly. '' Don't you think this 
 is rather good ? I've seen worse you know." In 
 reality he had not, and it is doubtful whether any 
 one was grateful for the faint praise. 
 
 The Poet withered him with a contemptuous 
 glance, and put Jairus's daughter on one side. 
 
 '' This, too," he said — with a nod towards the large 
 
156 POETS ALL. 
 
 window at the east end of the church, on which 
 the Twelve Apostles were represented in gorgeous 
 raiment — " is really admirable. The white satin 
 cloaks edged with gold embroidery, and the breeches 
 of scarlet plush — evidently Bradford make — leave 
 nothing to be desired. But the straw hats are hardly 
 suitable head-gear. I am an admirer of originality, 
 and the first conception of the Apostles in scarlet 
 plush breeches and satin cloaks was no doubt highly 
 original. Unfortunately it has long since been worn 
 threadbare." 
 
 The Squire was laughing inwardly. He was not 
 greatly concerned to defend the windows, though he 
 would have objected to subscribing for new ones. 
 Perhaps he thought it as well that the parson should 
 not have everything his own way. 
 
 Maggie's face was flaming. ''I don't think that is 
 the way to talk of a church," she said. " I think we 
 had better go home." 
 
 " Unless," said the Poet — pushing his advantage, 
 regardless of its effect^ on Maggie. A mean spirit 
 will starve its love to feed its malice — " Mr. Butler 
 has any more curiosities to show us. These windows 
 are good ; almost too good in fact. It is indeed a 
 gratification to have seen them." 
 
 " I have no more — curiosities, sir," said the parson 
 
THE rector's cilass-house. 157 
 
 with a rueful smile. " I agree with Miss Ellis that 
 we had better go/' 
 
 Mr. Butler left the party at the church door, and 
 Maggie put her hand on her father's arm. 
 
 " What horrid men, papa," she whispered. *' I 
 think them perfectly hateful. I shall never like to 
 look at those windows again." 
 
 " My dear, I don't suppose the windows are good. 
 Only, as they'll have to last us, it is a pity to be 
 told of their imperfections. Mr. Jones did not seem 
 to dislike them." 
 
 " Oh yes, he did, papa. But he did not want 
 to displease me." She added with a blush, " I am 
 afraid he is very insincere." 
 
 The Squire laughed. " We are all that, more or 
 less," he said. " Now, gentlemen, we must be getting 
 towards home " — waiting for the two friends to come 
 up — " I want my lunch. You were awfully down 
 on poor Butler's windows " — to the Poet. 
 
 " Please let the windows be, papa," Maggie put in 
 pettishly. "I am sure we ought to apologize to 
 Mr. Corthee for venturing to show him such things." 
 Maggie was still very angry. 
 
 Mr. Corthee smiled a superior smile. " Art is art, 
 you know, Miss Ellis," he said. 
 
 In the drawing-room, after dinner, no other guests 
 
158 POETS ALL. 
 
 being present, Mr. Jones turned the conversation to 
 the school and the young school-master. 
 
 '' He looks above his position/' he said, in allusion 
 to the latter, and with a sly glance towards Maggie. 
 '* I should say from his appearance that he is thrown 
 away on those young bumpkins. He should go to 
 London, and make his way.'' 
 
 *' Oh, he suits us very well," said the Squire, 
 rather vexed that it should be imagined that any 
 one could be too good for Beddington. " Don't you 
 be putting foolish ideas into his head. From what 
 I've heard it is a pretty hard matter to get on in 
 London. What would you advise him to do there ? " 
 
 " I should advise him to try poetry," rejoined the 
 Critic, who was feeling angry with Mr. Corthee, and 
 wished him to understand that his place was only 
 tenable during good behaviour. " To begin with, he 
 looks the business, which is more " — a glance here 
 in the direction of the Poet — '' than they all do." 
 
 " Another poet ! " said the Squire, with a snort of 
 vexation. " I fancied you had already too many in 
 the trade. What does our friend here say to that ? " 
 
 Mr. Corthee put on his most supercihous air ; he 
 had sufficient conceit not to feel jealous of a possible 
 competitor. 
 
 ''I think I could survive it," he said, ''but it would 
 
THE RECTOES GLASS-HOUSE. 159 
 
 be hardly fair to disturb a young man who I pre- 
 sume has had an imperfect education (and who has," 
 he felt inclined to add, " no encyclopaedias) by pro- 
 mising him the reversion of the Laureateship. Mr. 
 Jones," he rather unwisely added, '' has a very quick 
 eye for a new poet." 
 
 " I had a very quick eye for you," murmured the 
 Critic in a soft aside — not so faintly but that Maggie 
 caught the words. 
 
 " Please don't find any more poets just now, Mr. 
 Jones," she said, blushing slightly. " I think, with 
 papa, that there are enough '' — with a slight smile. 
 " Besides, Mr. Collins teaches me the organ, and 
 until my education has progressed a little further, it 
 would be extremely unkind of you to rob me of my 
 teacher." 
 
 '* I had no idea of that, Miss Ellis," said Mr. Jones. 
 '* I envy him his task, though as I am not fitted to 
 take his place, I will certainly not say or do any- 
 thing to deprive you of his services. I hardly know 
 how the discussion as to his abilities arose. He 
 is a very striking-looking young man, especially in 
 his present position. He might be a little lost in 
 London, but he would be good-looking anywhere." 
 
 This last was a great piece of impertinence, and 
 Maggie felt it as such, without perhaps knowing 
 
160 POETS ALL. 
 
 why. Mr. Jones had the habit among his intimates 
 — into which he had now unintentionally lapsed — of 
 saying in his unctuous way the most impudent 
 things. He really was angry that this young fellow 
 should be having opportunities of meeting Maggie 
 with which he — Mr. Jones — was never likely to be 
 favoured. He could not imagine it possible to be 
 in Maggie's company without admiring her. The 
 young school-master-organist had been in her 
 company a good deal, and must naturally feel a 
 large amount of admiration. 
 
 The Squire evidently thought the subject had 
 been sufficiently discussed, and a move was soon 
 made for the billiard-room. Somehow every one 
 wanted to go to bed early. The Squire because 
 he always did, the Poet because he was vexed with 
 Mr. Jones, and the latter gentleman because he felt 
 that he was making a fool of himself, and would 
 prefer to continue the operation in private. When 
 sleep visited his eyelids he dreamt of the young 
 school-master, who was blowing while Maggie played 
 the organ. Then he was in the *' Immortals," and 
 next him — which was very unlikely to happen — was 
 sitting, rather disguised by long locks and a little 
 peaked beard, the same young man. The well- 
 known room was tenanted by those who had been, 
 
THE EKCTOE's glass-house. 161 
 
 or were, his familiar friends, but the face of the 
 Poet was not to be seen there. 
 
 Maggie retired when the gentlemen we at off to 
 the bilhard-room. Jealous people play their game 
 in the worst possible way, and — moved by the Critic's 
 ill-advised remark — she found herself, almost for 
 the first time, thinking of Mr. Collins. Well, she 
 supposed he was good-looking. A poet too ! not 
 that at present she had any particular admiration of 
 the genus, of which one was, at all events, enough 
 at a time. But it was possible that there might 
 be desirable examples of the species. Thrown 
 away here, was he ? Poor fellow ! what chance — 
 even supposing him to be a genius — had he of doing 
 anything here ? The next day but one would be 
 her organ lesson. For the first time she felt uneasy. 
 She wished, unconsciously, that Mr. Jones had not 
 said that her teacher was a poet, and handsome. 
 And yet, what could it matter to her ? She could 
 give up her lessons if on further consideration she 
 found him so very handsome, and if he should begin 
 inditing sonnets to her eyebrow. 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 THE DAWN OF AMBITION. 
 
 In the evening of the day in which the dis- 
 tinguished strangers had visited his school, Mr. 
 Collins was sitting by himself — as indeed he generally 
 did in the evenings — in the little sitting-room over 
 the baker s shop which it had always been taken for 
 granted that the school-master for the time being 
 should occupy. He had been about three years at 
 Beddington, anxiously hoping for the day when some 
 more remunerative, or even more congenial occupa- 
 tion should present itself. But nothing had offered. 
 Here, no doubt, he might stay till he was super- 
 annuated — he was not ungrateful for the small mercy 
 — but once at Beddington and one might as well 
 be buried alive. Nor after the first few months did 
 he even appear to be getting on better terms with 
 the few inhabitants with whom he had at first 
 seemed to have something in common. His father. 
 
THE DAWN OF AMBITION. 163 
 
 the vicar of a poor country parish, had died un- 
 expectedly, and without having made — perhaps 
 without having been able to make — any pecuniary 
 provision for his only son, to whom, however, he 
 had bequeathed his own literary tastes, and the 
 gentlemanly feelings that are almost the only things 
 out of which, in these days, one can never make 
 any money, since the attempt causes them speedily 
 to vanish. He had been thankful for the offer of the 
 little school — indeed he had not the experience re- 
 quired for a more important appointment — and there 
 he had striven to the best of his ability to qualify him- 
 self for something higher. He had had some know- 
 ledge of music, and — for want of a better — he one 
 day was promoted to church organist. This brought 
 him a tiny increase to his small salary. His evenings 
 he spent in reading, being able to get any quantity 
 of books that he had never read, and some that he 
 had never heard of, from the Squire's neglected 
 library. Perhaps naturally, with these stores to 
 draw upon, he got by degrees to neglect all other 
 reading for poetry. He was aware that— pecuniarily 
 speaking — it would have been impossible to make 
 a worse investment of his time. But there was fame. 
 Some, who seem by nature precluded from making 
 money, are yet able to acquire fame, or, at any rate, 
 
164 POETS ALL. 
 
 they find the j)ursuit of the latter the more con- 
 genial. It should also be the more hopeful, since 
 it is the prize for which the fewest contend. It had 
 not escaped his eyes — which, indeed, were remark- 
 ably keen ones — that the great majority acquire 
 neither. Then, he may have thought, if I fail to 
 win either money or fame, I shall win the happiness 
 Avhich knowledge must bring — knowledge and the 
 consciousness of feeling more than the common herd. 
 It was not long before he found that to have feelings 
 above the common herd w^as productive more of 
 misery than of happiness. Doubtless it is a misery 
 wdiich many — like St. Simeon Stylites on his column 
 — have enjoyed. Perhaps the most annoying thing 
 connected with the position is that the common herd 
 — who are all as jolly as sandboys — never dream of 
 lifting their eyes to notice w^hat they ^vould consider 
 a most undesirable exaltation. It would be some- 
 thing to be credited, if not with superior happiness, 
 yet with superior misery. 
 
 To the Squire he was the school-master, " a good 
 little fellow," to whom his patron occasionally con- 
 descended. To the parson — this was still harder 
 to bear — he was the organist, and the organist who 
 did not always give satisfaction. To his boys — 
 well, he felt sure his boys liked him. With Maggie 
 
THE DAWN OF AMBITION. 165 
 
 he had never come much in contact until about 
 three months ago, when by the Squire's wish he had 
 consented — without any misgivings — to give her 
 lessons on the organ. It was not long before he 
 found the occupation a pleasing pain, to which he 
 yielded the more unconsciously that Maggie did not 
 seem to perceive that there was any awkwardness 
 in the situation. There was no doubt that he had 
 got to think the two or three hours a week in which 
 she was alone with him in the church — for the 
 presence of the little " blower '' did not count for 
 anything — worth all the rest of his days. He had 
 opportunities of studying Maggie's face, to which 
 he yielded the more readily from the knowledge 
 that his inspection must necessarily be unobserved 
 by its object. The course of his poetical studies had 
 prepared him for the now unfashionable worship of 
 woman ; and he had met one — as he tald himself — 
 whom he could have appreciated without any special 
 education. There was little that was pleasing in 
 his life, and if the organ lessons had been taken 
 out it would have been a barren existence indeed. 
 Flowers that we are prohibited from gathering, grass 
 on which we are requested not to walk, are better 
 than no garden at all, and they are the flowers and 
 tlic grass that we especially covet. 
 
166 POETS ALL. 
 
 Not that Mr. Collins had ever gone so far as to 
 imagine whither his folly could lead him, or indeed 
 that it could lead to anything or anywhere. He had 
 scarcely got so far as to acknowledge to himself that 
 there was any folly. His was simply the romantic 
 feeling of a young man attracted by a beautiful girl, 
 made more beautiful than the reality by imaginary 
 endowments. It certainly was not love, and it 
 might never be love. That it could ever be success- 
 ful love he would never have dared even to dream. 
 But this evening as he sat at his desk — his pen, in 
 which the ink was dry, in his hand — he wa-s conscious 
 of a new feeling which a little experience would 
 have taught him was jealousy. Nothing is so easily 
 detected in another by a lover as the jealousy to 
 which he is himself unwittingly a martyr, and he 
 had been aware that Mr. Jones had given him credit 
 for taking unusual interest in his pupil. To have 
 recognized that he was jealous might have warned 
 him whither he was tending. Then that super- 
 cilious Poet ! The two Londoners, whatever they 
 might be, had the immense advantage of meeting 
 Maggie — Miss Ellis — on equal terms. To be a 
 worshipper is scarcely to be on equal terms with 
 one's goddess. The fear of falling into an abyss from 
 which he should be unable to extricate himself was 
 
THE DAWN OF AMBITION. 167 
 
 now first appearing to him as a remote possibility. 
 That the woman who was to him all that he 
 regarded as ''pure womanly '* appeared likely to 
 inspire others with the same feelings, gave him little 
 comfort. Yet he would have been still less pleased 
 to see her overlooked or despised. He had never 
 had any more doubts than had Paris as to the 
 correctness of his judgment, which he was not sorry 
 to see ratified by far more experieiiced connoisseurs. 
 Our admiration is apt to be unconsciously swayed by 
 that of others. What so many admire we take it 
 for granted must be admirable, and we prostrate 
 ourselves with faces towards the earth without first 
 raising our eyes to carefully inspect the goddess 
 whose glance after all might not have been so very 
 scorching. It never strikes us that the majority of 
 the worshippers whose example we are following 
 may have acted in the same way. But what — he 
 asked himself — did it matter to him who admired 
 her ? If she was not fair to him he cared little for 
 whom she was fair. It was all very well to talk like 
 that, but alas ! he was not poet enough yet to say 
 clever — or even foolish — things that ho did not 
 feel. One day, if he ever blossomed into a real poet, 
 like the long thin gentleman, he might arrive at 
 this. At present poetry to him meant not even the 
 
168 POETS ALL. 
 
 partaking of "all passions as they pass," still less 
 the attempt to portray passions he had never felt or 
 could feel. All that he had hitherto written was 
 the genuine outcome of his own feelings, and he 
 never desired to write anything else. In this way 
 no doubt wrote our first — poetical — parents, and the 
 departure from their rudimentary system is a ques- 
 tionable improvement. Poets now-a-days can not 
 only write about what they never felt, but also they 
 can be eloquent on things which no one else ever 
 felt either — or is likely to feel. 
 
 But would it be necessary — he sighed as he asked 
 himself the question — to give up the lessons? 
 Yesterday he had thought them so harmless. What 
 could there be wrong in them to-day ? Perhaps, 
 though, they were more foolish than wrong. The 
 eating of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good 
 and evil is not always an enjoyable, and still less 
 frequently a digestible meal. We were so happy 
 before our eyes were opened that we almost wish 
 that our blindness could have endured for more than 
 the brief days of puppy hood. If the lessons were to 
 be given up he would have to leave Beddington. 
 The stout, smooth-spoken man with the red legs 
 had suggested London. He had heard a rumour — 
 he was too inerenuous to imas^ine that the two visitors 
 
THE DAWN OF AMBITION. 169 
 
 could have had a hand in its circulation — that 
 Messrs. Jones and Cor thee were shininof liahts of 
 the literary world. Would they stretch out a hand 
 to him ? He did not think so, and he would prefer 
 to make his way unaided. He had not the idea as 
 to the material of which the London pavement is 
 composed which moves so many to start light- 
 heartedly on their travels. Rather he thought that, 
 as had been the case with others, he would find the 
 great city a stony-hearted step-mother. But from 
 London at least one could return — he either forgot 
 or was ignorant that very few do so — and there were 
 two ways of returning. One way he would not 
 anticipate that he would have to use, yet it was that 
 by which most people come back. Success — like 
 the Scotchman — seldom goes back at all. The 
 alternative was a triumphant entry to a new and 
 improved position. The Squire not merely patroniz- 
 ing, the parson appreciative. Miss — but it was time 
 to stop this fooling. He laughed rather bitterly — 
 he had been striding up and down his little room 
 with flushed face and sparkling eyes. At least — to 
 come back to common-sense — it was a comfort to 
 know that the secret of the inspiration which had 
 produced so many poems, some of which were not, he 
 trusted, quite hopeless, was hidden in his own bosom. 
 
170 POETS ALL. 
 
 If people only knew it, life might be made 
 prosperous, and more than prosperous, happy, if they 
 would but firmly decide to adhere to two simple 
 rules. One of these is to make good resolutions, 
 and the other to keep them. Either rule is use- 
 less if we discard the other, since if the resolutions 
 are bad it is better not to keep them, and if they 
 are not to be kept there is no use in making 
 them at all. After all we can but do our best; 
 make the best resolutions we are capable of — some 
 of them will no doubt turn out mistaken ones — and 
 keep them as well as we can. Unfortunately the 
 resolutions that it will be easiest to keep are those 
 which there was least wisdom in making. 
 
 Before he slept that night the young school-master 
 had decided to try his fortune in London. 
 
171 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 DEFERRED WOOINGS. 
 
 It was the last day of their stay, and not without 
 regret — which neither would have admitted to the 
 other — the two friends recognized that on the morrow 
 they would be recommencing the dreary round of 
 town life again. The flattery by which no one was 
 taken in ; the being lionized — only less unpleasant 
 than being deserted for a new lion ; the hard pave- 
 ments; the too jocose cabmen; the stale, inexpres- 
 sibly stale, dinners. To a certain extent, no doubt. 
 Poet and Critic were aware that the journey had 
 failed of being a success. Even the former may have 
 recognized that a few days was too short a period 
 in which to " take in '' the country. A lamb he had 
 discovered indeed — after considerable reflection — to 
 be a lamb, but to diagnose a country maiden might 
 require a little more leisure. He was already aware 
 that these studies are not unattended by danger, 
 
172 POETS ALL. 
 
 and the result of his ^' eye-practice " had been that he 
 had succumbed to charms by which he certainly had 
 not intended to be vanquished. He despised, he 
 loathed himself for his weakness, but his self-denun- 
 ciation had not the effect of making him strong. 
 He was a fool, he saw clearly ; but his folly, he 
 acknowledged, would in the case of a less dis- 
 tinguished captive have been pure wisdom. That 
 he, an ilhistrious and unwilling victim, had been 
 conquered was proof sufficient of the enemy's prowess. 
 There were few people with whom he would have 
 admitted that a friendship could be anything but 
 derogatory, but he did not foresee that he would have 
 to blush very greatly for Maggie. Then, if not rich 
 — he had seen and heard enough during his visit to 
 the country to be aware that she was not likely to 
 be a great heiress — she would at her father's death, 
 which was not likely to be long deferred — what a 
 rage the Squire would have been in — have an 
 income which would come in exceedingly handy. 
 There would be no necessity for spending it on this 
 mouldy old Hall, which could be well let to a brewer. 
 He and Maggie — he always came first — would take 
 a house in Mayfair, where her appearance as hostess 
 would no doubt have a beneficial effect on his career. 
 There would be money enough, after the housekeep- 
 
DEFERRED WOOINGS. 173 
 
 ing bills were paid, for the printing of sundry little 
 — but not inexpensive — books, which had hitherto, 
 for want of the necessary coin, been condemned to 
 pine in manuscript. Maggie's money would be put 
 to a good use. She, poor girl, would be a little 
 countrified at first. Perhaps she would always be a 
 little countrified, but at all events she would have 
 had her chance. In old age she would be able to 
 plume herself on the fact that a poet had written of 
 her in the days when she was young — for he would 
 write something on her. But these confounded 
 rhymes. Yet not the rhymes so much as the sense. 
 ''How on earth,'" murmured the Poet softly to 
 himself, "did the little witch manage to catch 
 ME?" 
 
 Breakfast was over, his host had left him, and he 
 was for a few minutes alone. He was standing by the 
 dining-room' window, with a fatuous smile on his lips, 
 when Maggie, basket in hand, descended the steps 
 from the front door, and passed the window on her 
 way, as he easily guessed, to the garden, whither she 
 was wont to resort after breakfast — weather permit- 
 ting — for a conference with the old gardener. In the 
 centre of the large walled kitchen garden was an 
 old greenhouse, sheltered by an enormous mulberry 
 tree. Small events have often had immense influence 
 
174 POETS ALL. 
 
 on the careers of great men. The Poet recognized 
 this truth as he hurriedly made up his mind. 
 
 " The very place," he said, as he caressed his 
 moustache. " I'll follow her at once and get it over. 
 How extremely fortunate. I trust that ass Jones is 
 not about. I have not seen the fool since breakfast. 
 He* has been, I think, rather too obviously inclined 
 to be^sweet on Maggie. Confound his impudence. 
 It's hardly likely that she would have anything to 
 say to such a fellow. And his red-striped knicker- 
 bockers too ! She can be trusted to see the differ- 
 ence between chalk and cheese." 
 
 The Poet ran hastily up-stairs to cast a glance at 
 himself in the mirror before proceeding to the inter- 
 view which would be for Maggie such a momentous 
 one. '' It is one's duty, I suppose, to look one's best 
 on these occasions," he murmured. The housemaids 
 fled from the room in dismay on his entrance. After 
 a few hasty touches to hair and necktie he hastened 
 down-stairs again. He was conscious, as he snatched 
 up his hat and made his way to the walled garden, 
 that his heart was beating faster than usual, and 
 he carefully noted the fact for future use. Before 
 arriving at the large green door through which no 
 doubt Maggie had preceded him, he looked anxiously 
 back at the Hall, but there was no Mr. Jones or any 
 
DEFERRED WOOTNGS. 175 
 
 one else in sight. So far so good. The old door 
 opened inwardly, and he was careful not to make 
 any unnecessary noise. When the door was about 
 half open he took the precaution to peep stealthily 
 round the corner. It was well that he did so. 
 Maggie had disappeared, as he had expected, but a 
 door on the opposite side of the garden, which was 
 used chiefly by the gardeners, was ajar. His own 
 movements had engendered suspicion of others, and 
 he withdrew as much from sight as was consistent 
 with keeping his eye on the other door. As he was 
 on the point of advancing, the door he was watching 
 opened a little wider, and two red objects were 
 distinctly visible which could be nothing but the 
 gorgeously-striped knickerbockers which encompassed 
 the stalwart legs of Mr. McCawmee Jones. He closed 
 the door gently, but continued to peep at short 
 intervals through a chink in the rotten wood-work. 
 In a few minutes he saw that the other door was 
 also closed. The incident disgusted him, and he 
 walked rapidly back to the house, chafing inwardly, 
 and cursing — poetically — his folly in not having paid 
 his visit to Beddington unattended. As he reached 
 the front door he found that his heart was once more 
 beating placidly in his bosom. 
 
 Mr. Jones, in entire forgetfulness of the startling 
 
176 POETS ALL. 
 
 hue of his stockings, had evaded his friend after 
 breakfast, having also decided to risk a farewell 
 interview with Maggie. Rightly or wrongly, he too 
 had come to the conclusion that she was necessary 
 to his conceit, or his impudence, or whatever stood 
 to him in the place of happiness, and he had decided 
 to make her the offer of his hand. He, too, had 
 tracked his inamorata to the walled garden, and was 
 proceeding boldly to follow her towards the old green- 
 house when from the doorway by which he was 
 entering he saw a lonoj slim fio^ure in a white wide- 
 awake — a head-dress which the Poet affected in the 
 winter season — appearing at the opposite door. He 
 closed his door stealthily, but some minutes elapsed 
 before he could take his way back to the Hall. He 
 leant back — his hands thrust deep into his pockets 
 — against the garden wall, which shook with the 
 vehemence of his emotions. When at last he got 
 back to the house his face was redder than usual. 
 One of the under-gardeners whom he passed on his 
 way was heard afterwards to remark that he had met 
 the gentleman with the red legs, " and his face were 
 redder nor his legs. And blest if the cove wasn't 
 nigh a-busting of hisself, a-trying not to laugh." 
 
 Not long after the departure of the two faint- 
 hearted lovers, Maggie — in ignorance of the double 
 
DEFERRED WOOINGS. 177 
 
 greatness which had been so nearly thrust on her — 
 came out of the old greenhouse, still talking to the 
 gardener. As she took her way back to the house 
 again, her face wore a slightly puzzled air. Possibly 
 — who can say ? — she had rather expected to be 
 followed by one or other of her new admirers. There 
 may even have been occasions when such an experi- 
 ence had happened to her. Even when one is 
 relieved by the discovery that one has made an 
 inaccurate forecast, it is humiliating to have been 
 mistaken in a judgment as to one's attractiveness. 
 But on this occasion Maggie was not hurt at the 
 double desertion, and indeed it would have been 
 awkward to have had to entertain at once two 
 admirers. Which of the two she would have pre- 
 ferred she herself would have found it difficult to 
 say. Mr. Jones would certainly have been the 
 easiest to get rid of, but the fact was of doubtful 
 advantage to a lover. Mr. Jones's praise, if excessive, 
 was after all of the human sort which gods — and 
 goddesses — are said to prefer. He himself, if rather 
 absurd, was not without the desirable quality of 
 good-nature. It is, of course, an open question 
 whether the quack who can on occasion laugh at his 
 own humbug is less harmful than the one who keejDS 
 up, even to himself, the pretence of being genuine* 
 
178 POETS ALU 
 
 But to have been subjected, in the privacy of the old 
 greenhouse, to the scorching ordeal of the Poet's 
 eye — which in a mixed company had been an in- 
 effectual terror — -would have been found decidedly 
 disturbing. Maggie's slightly puzzled air yielded 
 graduall} to a look of content caused by a conviction 
 that eveiything was for the best in this best of all 
 possible worlds. She was satisfied to have been 
 spared a homage — or homages — to the offering of 
 which she might yet not have objected. Did it 
 follow, she asked herself, that she had therefore to 
 give up her ideas as to the future ? She had a 
 determination not to grow up like a vegetable in the 
 bucolic fashion of w^hich she saw so many examples 
 around her. She would not, if she could heljD it, settle 
 down into a country bumpkiness. Yet " bumpkin " 
 was unfair. Young Lovibond was no bumpkin. At 
 least he was not w^hat was considered a bumpkin in 
 the country. He was probably wise in occupying 
 himself with matters which he felt capable of under- 
 standing. Maggie knew perfectly well that Mr. 
 Lovibond wished — for reasons which she understood 
 perfectly — to marry her, and he might perhaps be 
 able to work himself up into passion which should 
 be as genuine as that of any other country young 
 man. Affairs of the heart about Beddinsfton were 
 
DEFERRED WOOTNGS. 179 
 
 arranged, or arranged themselves, in a rather placid 
 and bovine way. In London she supposed it was 
 different. The behaviour of the two Londoners was 
 probably not a fair sample of the whole, or perhaps 
 when these great people went into the country they 
 tried to do as the country people did. If so they 
 failed signally. A picture of Mr. Jones on his knees 
 in his knickerbockers on the sharp gravel, while 
 Mr. Corthee carefully spread a handkerchief before 
 kneeling on the other side, came into her mind, 
 and if she had had the pen of Cruikshank 
 she might have immortalized the imaginary scene. 
 Yet perhaps there are few women who would be 
 capable of caricaturing the most sacred of their feel- 
 ings. At tlie bottom of her heart was a feeling of 
 disappointment. When the Londoners had been on 
 their way she had felt, '* Now we shall see something." 
 She had indeed seen something, but doubted whether 
 it was worth seeing. Everything they said or did 
 was unreal, and she had a feeling that they wished 
 this fact to be evident. If the sham surface con- 
 cealed anything, its presentation was an impertinence, 
 while if it concealed nothing it was even less satis- 
 factory. " Rather than have such a lover as either 
 of them," she was thinking, ''I would put up 
 with Tom Lovibond." 
 
180 POETS ALL. 
 
 By three o'clock in the afternoon the two visitors 
 Avere seated in the train on their way back to London. 
 The Poet had regained the state of simulated indif- 
 ference which he thought becoming to the occasion. 
 No doubt there are occasions when it is necessary 
 to assume something. The Critic watched him not 
 entirely without envy. He was conscious himself of 
 feeling less smooth and perhaps a little less happy 
 than usual. He sat with his back to the engine, and 
 looked with a sigh of regret on the wintry landscape 
 they were so speedily leaving behind them. There 
 was little in the view which those who fancied they 
 knew him would have expected him to mourn for. 
 Dark woods, like ink-stains on a map, patches of half- 
 melted snow on the half-ploughed fallows, swollen 
 streams, here and there the chimneys of some old- 
 fashioned mansion like Beddington. And in the 
 mansion ! A hospitable old squire, who could tell ? 
 And a daughter ? a daughter perhaps in some way 
 resembling Maggie. Not that it was likely that 
 there would be many to resemble her. No, there 
 was only one Maggie, and he was leaving her to go 
 back to London with its shams and its smooth say- 
 ings, and its mutual and not too profitable admir- 
 ation. Well, it was fate. Perhaps he had been 
 mistaken in thinking that, for a permanence, he 
 
DEFERRED WOOINGS. 181 
 
 could endure anything else; but if that was the 
 case it only made him out the greater fool. Quickly 
 he thought over the incidents of what he felt had 
 been an eventful visit ; the hunting, of which he 
 felt rather proud ; the reading, which had hardly 
 been a success ; the young school-master so genuine 
 and unaffected. It was not long before he found 
 himself recalling his — this morning's — visit to the 
 kitchen garden. He saw, as if he were an amused 
 spectator, the two doors opening and the appearance 
 at either of the white hat and the red knickerbockers. 
 He glanced down, with a smile on his good-natured 
 face, at his legs. His lips opened as if to address 
 his companion. But the Poet was fast asleep. 
 
182 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 MAGGIE MAKES A DISCOVERY. 
 
 '' I AM in a great rage," said the Squire at break- 
 fast one morning, about six weeks after the visit 
 which was concluded in the last chapter. '' That 
 young school-master 'has sent in his resignation. 
 There is no such thing as gratitude now-a-days. I 
 thought he would have lived and died here. What 
 more could he possibly want, I should like to know ? 
 It is all those poetry fellows of yours." — '' Of mine ! " 
 thought Maggie. — '* They turned his head. I sup- 
 pose he will go to London to starve, as so many have 
 done before him. Confounded young puppy !" and 
 he held out his hand for his tea-cup, with what, for 
 the Squire, was a near approach to a scowl. 
 
 Maggie had been looking quieter for the last few 
 weeks, as if something had occurred that required 
 thought. She had not raised her eyes during her 
 
MAGGIE MAKES A DISCOVERY. 183 
 
 father's speech. She was smiling now at the 
 vehemence to which she was so well accustomed, 
 and which she knew, in cases of this sort, meant so 
 little, or rather it meant a good deal — that the 
 Squire had taken an interest in Mr. Collins, and was 
 hurt that he was leaving. Now she had to look up, 
 and to make some sort of answer. 
 
 '' I don't think," she said, '' that you are quite 
 fair, papa. Surely Mr. Collins was not under an 
 obligation to stay here all his life without any hope 
 of advancement. It was very poor kindness to help 
 him, if he was never to be allowed to help himself 
 afterwards. You would not really wish him to stay 
 here always. He seems to me fit for something 
 better than a village school-master.'' 
 
 " Just so, Maggie. That's the way every one talks 
 now. Above ' the position to which it has pleased,' 
 etc., — as we used to say. Why the deuce, I should 
 like to know, is every one to be educated above his 
 position in life ? Of course, I wish the young fellow 
 no ill ; but what are we to do for a master ? Then 
 there are your organ lessons. Just as you were 
 getting on so well. The next chap will know 
 nothing about the organ. Twenty pounds for an 
 organist; and where to get one I can't tell." 
 
 "Papa," said Maggie, blushing slightly, ''did not 
 
184 . POETS ALL. 
 
 you know that I gave up my organ lessons quite a 
 month ago/' — the Squire looked up quickly from 
 his paper, — " when I had that cold ? " 
 
 " You hussy," said her father ; " you never said a 
 word to me about it." Maggie looked demurer than 
 ever. *' By the bye, I quite forgot " — with an 
 assumption of having remembered the fact quite 
 suddenly — ''to tell you that young Lovibond is 
 coming over to see me to-day. Indeed, I asked him 
 to lunch." 
 
 The Squire was now looking at his daughter with 
 the expression seen on a dog's face when he has 
 done something he is ashamed of. But Maggie did 
 not raise her eyes. 
 
 *' Very well, papa, I'll remember," was all she 
 said. 
 
 The Squire was not much given to "taking notice" 
 — as the old nurses used to say — or he would have 
 seen Maggie's fingers tremble as she passed him his 
 cup. She made an early excuse to get out of the 
 room. The Squire looked after her wistfully. 
 *' Wonder how 'twill answer," he said to himself. 
 " He is a good young fellow. I don't see how she 
 could do better. It would be nice for me if she 
 married some one I could get on with.", Yet he 
 did not feel quite comfortable. Maggie had never 
 
MAGGIE MAKES A DISCOVERY. 185 
 
 appeared to look on Tom Lovibond in the light 
 of a lover, but there was no one else in the field. 
 No doubt she would allow herself to be moved by 
 his evident wish to see her safely settled near him. 
 The thought made him feel sadly ashamed of 
 himself. He had approached the matter once or 
 twice without quite arriving at it ; Maggie, indeed, 
 had not allowed him to arrive at it. Yet he knew 
 that she understood his wishes. He felt at this 
 moment that he had far rather have a son-in-law 
 he could not get on with than that Maggie's incli- 
 nation should be forced. Perhaps he had better 
 explain himself He went to the door, opened it, 
 and called, *' Maggie." No one answered. " Maggie," 
 again. Still no answer. Perhaps he took this for 
 a good omen; if so, he decided not to call out again. 
 He did not see anything more of Maggie till lunch - 
 time, punctually with which meal Mr. Lovibond 
 made his appearance. Never before probably in 
 that old house had a more constrained party sat 
 down to a meal. There was Tom Lovibond — usually 
 so blunt and jovial — blushing like a great boy, as 
 indeed he was. A sudden change — for which he 
 had no one to blame but himself — had come over 
 his cousinly relations with Maggie. The three 
 people who used to l)e so open-hearted now seemed 
 
186 POETS ALL. 
 
 each to be oppressed by the burden of a secret, and 
 to have no longer anything in common. Not that a 
 maiden can be always expected to wear her heart on 
 her sleeve. But the Squire ! The way in which he 
 shuffled out of the room directly lunch was over — 
 pretending (he who so hated pretences) that a letter 
 he had expected to find in the left-hand pocket of 
 his coat had been left up-stairs — was something quite 
 new. When he was gone not a word was exchano^ed 
 while the servants were clearing away the debris. 
 Maggie looked at her guest as if she wished he 
 would go. And he returned her look with another 
 which meant that he really would oblige her if it 
 was in his power. He knew that he was doing, or 
 going to do, what Maggie — whatever answ^er she 
 might make — would prefer that he should leave 
 undone. He hated to vex her, but he was in love — 
 or he supposed so. A young man who has got to 
 suppose that he is in love can scarcely be expected 
 to show any regard for other people's feelings. Fur 
 years he had been on terms of close friendship with 
 Maggie. They had met out hunting, and at Bed- 
 dington; she had always been his beau-ideal of a 
 ''jolly girl," and up to the present time there had 
 never been the slightest awkwardness between them. 
 This bothering love upsets everything. In reality, 
 
MAG(4IE MARKS A DLSCOVEflV. 187 
 
 young Mr. Lovibond was in love with the Squire. 
 The Squire, he knew, wished him to marry Maggie, 
 and he would do a good deal to oblige the Squire. 
 Besides, it was almost necessary, if Maggie and he 
 were to continue friends, that he should marry her. 
 Some one else would certainly do so if he did not, 
 and he could not afford to lose such a friend. He had 
 not any doubt in his mind that Maggie had a sin- 
 cere liking for him, but whether that was enough 
 he could not say. Girls are so silly, and go into fits 
 about it. Yet he mentally made an exception in 
 Maggie's favour ; there was no nonsense about her. 
 Maggie and he would run well — in this horribly 
 unromantic way did he put it to himself — in double 
 harness. 
 
 *' Maggie," he said, addressing her suddenly, as 
 soon as they were alone, '' will you come into the 
 garden ? " 
 
 Into Maggie's head at once popped the words — 
 
 " Come mto the garden, Maud ; '^ 
 
 but Tom Lovibond's matter-of-fact way was not 
 suggestive, except by contrast, of the late Laureate. 
 She smiled. One better versed than her companion in 
 affairs of the heart would have recognized an enemy 
 in the smile. Mr. Lovibond recognized nothing of 
 
188 POETS ALL. 
 
 the sort; he had never yet found cause to dread 
 Maggie's smiles, which indeed — being of opinion 
 that one smile is very like another — he had never 
 taken the trouble to analyze. Maggie quickly got 
 her hat and gloves, and they went out together. It 
 was one of those fine spring mornings, pleasant but 
 delusive, which are sometimes seen in March, which 
 month often now delights to puzzle us by coming in 
 like a lamb and going out like a lion. 
 
 " Which way ? " he inquired, as they descended the 
 steps from the hall door. '' Shall we go to the green- 
 house ? " — " a comfortable place," he was thinking ; 
 "and perhaps Maggie would not object to a pipe." 
 In fact Maggie had been turning towards it almost 
 as a matter of course, but now something made her 
 hesitate. She was fond of the place, and would not 
 carry away from it what she foresaw might very 
 likely be an unpleasant memory. " We will go to 
 the elm walk," she said ; and turned in another 
 direction up a path which led through some shrub- 
 beries to the summit of a slight hill, along the crest 
 of which ran a row of old elm-trees. Here a gravel 
 walk had been made once upon a time, and there 
 was a rustic seat or two often used in summer. It 
 was one of those mornings when spring's approach 
 is felt by everything — bird, beast, man, and worm ! 
 
MAGGIE MAKES A DISCOVERY. 189 
 
 The sun shone through the bare boughs of the old 
 trees and made the mossy trunks gleam Hke burnished 
 copper. A lark rose from the grass in the hollow 
 below; the rabbits scuttled hither and thither. 
 Not a bad day for a young couple who loved each 
 other to come to an understanding. Perhaps it was 
 not Tom Lovibond's fault that his head was not 
 fully occupied — as it doubtless ought to have been — 
 with the affair of the heart which he nevertheless 
 intended to bring to a conclusion. He was well 
 aware no doubt that the best way, the only way to 
 insure success, is to take one thing at a time. Artists 
 who perform on several instruments at once are 
 seldom masters of any one in particular. His excuse 
 must be that Maggie had always been so identified 
 with his hunting that his love for her was almost a 
 love of hunting — and vice versa. And this was the 
 way in which he thought fit to begin his love-making 
 — as he no doubt considered it. 
 
 ''No more hunting, Maggie," — then certainly he 
 sighed like a furnace, — *' but what a famous season 
 weVe had. Never saw you go so well. I say," — he 
 continued with a chuckle, — " do you remember the 
 day those two fellows who were staying with you 
 were out? The one done up in furs in the pony 
 trap, and the chap who got the spill in the governor's 
 
190 POETS ALL. 
 
 old pink. I twigged the old pink directly. I say, 
 that was a good thing. What's become of them ? 
 What a game the parson had with them that evening. 
 I thought I should have died. I believe those 
 fellows were tremendously smitten with somebody." 
 Maggie bit her lip, and stamped her little foot ever 
 so gently. She did not want him to say anything, 
 but if it was coming — if it had to come — the sooner 
 it was over the better. 
 
 Tom Lovibond looked crestfallen. He made a 
 note of the fact that " proposing " — or trying to 
 propose — differed from hunting in that the latter 
 seldom brought him face to face with a leap he 
 wished to shirk. For the first time he doubted 
 whether Maggie would follow his lead. He thought 
 ruefully of a day when he might be no longer acting 
 as pilot, but taking a line by himself. If that day 
 came, hunting would have lost its chief charm. To 
 prevent this was worth an effort. 
 
 '' Maggie," he said, " you don't care about any one ; 
 I mean " — he was already quite red in the face, and 
 felt, as he would have said, that he was muffing it 
 awfully. *' Maggie, would you marry me ? We 
 should be awfully jolly together. I've liked you 
 ever since you had your first pony. I taught you 
 to ride, and it would not be quite right for you to 
 
MAGGIE MAKES A DISCOVERY. 191 
 
 be piloted by any one else. Wait a moment," — for 
 Maggie was going to speak, — " it would please your 
 father if you'd take me. I'd do anything to please 
 the old man, and, Maggie, I love you, I do indeed, 
 and we should get on famously together, I feel sure. 
 Say you'll have me." 
 
 If not very lover-like, the little speech was manly 
 and genuine, but Maggie could not help smiling at 
 the conclusion. " Say you'll have it," was the invari- 
 able formula used by the cattle-dealers about Bed- 
 dington — and indeed elsewhere. When they were 
 trying to persuade a customer to buy a lot of cattle 
 they w^ould follow him all about the town, far away 
 from the market, repeating, parrot-like, the not 
 particularly enticing formula. When the fugitive 
 came out of the shop in which, he had taken shelter, 
 there was the obliging dealer still waiting for him 
 with his hand out. '' Say you'll have 'em " — implor- 
 ingly. Mr. Levi bond saw Maggie laugh, and he 
 laughed too; he did not know why. 
 
 " It's awfully absurd, I dare say," he said good- 
 humouredly ; " no doubt I put it badly. But that's 
 of no consequence " — that was all he knew about it. 
 " May I tell your father we are going to make a match 
 of it?" 
 
 Now Maggie had a strong feeling of friendship for 
 
192 POETS ALL. 
 
 her companion, and, never having been really in love, 
 might have fancied that it would be possible to get 
 on well enough without anything more ardent. Her 
 father's wishes would have come, too, almost as a 
 command — for the reason that he never commanded. 
 There might have been occasions when she would 
 have accepted her present suitor almost gladly, but, 
 for some reason or other, the present was not one of 
 them. It would be absurd of course to suppose that 
 the news she had just heard of the young school- 
 master's resignation could have had any effect on 
 her feelings. Yet perhaps it would be moie absurd 
 to lay down strict rules as to what shall move, or not, 
 the feelings of a young woman. The young school- 
 master was nothing to Maggie, yet she was in 
 some way disturbed as she let her thoughts wander 
 on what might be his career. Would he have a 
 career ? Mr. Jones had prophesied that he would ; 
 but how did Mr. Jones know ? Now young Lovibond 
 would never have " a career." Any girl who married 
 him might make up her mind at once to that. She 
 knew no one who wished less for a career, or to 
 whom — if thrust on him — it would be a greater bore. 
 He would lead a useful life, no doubt. And he might 
 be trusted to "put in" a fair amount of hunting. 
 Why — she thought— should not Tom and I stay as 
 
MAGGIE MAKES A DISCOVERY. 193 
 
 we are. There is no necessity for any change. Papa 
 won't mind if I don't marry any one else, and Tom 
 would never be so silly as to mind. 
 
 " Tom," she said, and there was a tear ia her eye 
 — she was disappointed, so she put it, in him for 
 being after all as selfish as other people. But here 
 she wronged Tom, who was not sufficiently in love to 
 be really selfish. There is no selfishness like that of 
 your true lover — "would it not be better to keep 
 friends. We are not lovers, are we ? " — (" I am," 
 dissented Tom) — '* and there is no use in making 
 believe. I dont feel that I love you. Indeed, I 
 don t love anybody — in that way — and I don't feel 
 that I ever shall." — They all say this, and how com- 
 forting it is too. — ** Let us stay as we are. It will be 
 much jollier. Papa will be just as glad, if you are 
 not offended ; and you won't be offended, will you ? 
 We will tell papa we are not going to make geese of 
 ourselves." 
 
 Naturally Mr. Lovibond looked rather taken aback. 
 
 It is a question whether, even when one wishes a 
 
 woman to refuse one — which was not Tom's case — 
 
 it is possible to escape a slight feeling of not very 
 
 permanent annoyance at one's wish being granted. 
 
 But then he had plenty of common-sense. 
 
 " Well, Maggie," he said sheepishly, yet not with- 
 
 o 
 
194 POETS ALL. 
 
 out an inward consciousness of relief. '' It must be 
 just as you like. Of course I could not bear not to 
 be friends with you, and, if you won't do the other 
 thing, the friendship is a good deal better than 
 nothing. There isn't any one else, is there' ? Perhaps 
 one day you'll think better of it. I'm like you. 
 Most likely I shall never care for anybody — except 
 you, of course," he added as an afterthought, and by 
 way of tribute to the occasion. " Now we'll tell the 
 governor that we are sorry to have to disappoint him. 
 I say, Maggie " — another afterthought ; he may have 
 fancied a refused man no less than an accepted lover 
 had certain rights — " I must have a kiss, you know. 
 Just by way of letting one down easy, you know." 
 
 He was approaching awkwardly, when Maggie, with 
 a frown and heightened colour, moved quickly away. 
 " Don't be silly, Tom," she said. " That would spoil 
 it all. Now, if we've said all there is to be said on 
 the matter, we will go back to the house again." 
 
 So they walked back to the house, Maggie keeping 
 about a yard in front and looking over her shoulder 
 occasionally. Her lover's final proposition — if, indeed, 
 he was her lover — had suddenly made it quite clear 
 to her that she was not the least little bit in love 
 with him. 
 
195 ^^^UFOR 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 WHAT BECAME OF THE ROSE. 
 
 We may know people, as we think, intimately 
 for a number of years, and yet have a very incorrect 
 idea as to how any particular event will move them. 
 This is the less strange, as we are frequently astonished 
 at the totally unexpected effect on ourselves of events 
 for which we had imagined we were thoroughly pre- 
 pared. An introduction to some wild animals from 
 foreign lands may even determine a countryman — 
 who has never been fifty miles from home — to travel. 
 The strange beasts were very likely ugly, and a sight 
 of them might have been expected to be deterrent. 
 Could it have been the sight of the two strange and, 
 as he thought, outlandish beings which had struck a 
 spark of discontent ? If so, it was certainly no wish 
 to resemble them which had determined the young 
 school-master to start on his travels. The desire of 
 seeing: the world had but lain dormant, and a thrust 
 
196 POETS ALL. 
 
 from any stick would have awakened it. At any 
 rate, as the Squire had said, he had made up his 
 mind. He spent many nights looking over his manu- 
 scripts. Many of these he burnt ; of the remainder 
 he was sometimes hopeful, oftener despairing, and 
 from the last state of mind he recovered slowly. 
 But he could do better, he told himself, when he got 
 away from Bedding ton. He would go at once, before 
 he made a fool of himself He shivered on the bank 
 looking at the stream which would bear him he 
 knew not whither, but he was none the less deter- 
 mined to take the plunge. Sending in his resignation 
 was casting himself adrift, quitting the haven where 
 the storms would never reach him, the petty port 
 where those fine ships, Honour and Glory^ never 
 put in. Whoever would get aboard these must first 
 cross the bar. 
 
 The Squire's anger, of which he was soon made 
 aware, hurt him, though from a knowledge of his 
 " patron's " character he could understand the feeling 
 by which it was aroused. He could see, too, that he 
 rose distinctly in the Rector's estimation, and this 
 from one who perhaps regretted his own now irre- 
 vocable renunciation seemed to him to argue well for 
 his intended move. The parson may even have been 
 conscious of a little mild — surely all clerical passions 
 
WHAT BECAME OP THE ROSE. 197 
 
 except piety are, or ought to be, mild — jealousy. 
 Here was a young man who might play his part on 
 the stage from which he — the parson — had retired. 
 
 One evening the young school-master went up to 
 the Hall to say good-bye. A change had come over 
 him, and he looked, as indeed he felt, eager and self- 
 reliant. His soul — not the soul of one who was to 
 live and die, as the Squire thought was his duty, a 
 humble village school-master — was in his eyes, as 
 Maggie, in a few kind words, wished him well. They 
 chanced to be alone, and he held her hand — she was 
 trhe only fair and noble woman he knew, and he was 
 leaving her — for a moment longer than was neces- 
 sary. He could not prevent that wistful look from 
 showing itself — the desire of the moth for the star. 
 Audacity ! perhaps. Nothing is more astonishing to 
 the vast^number whom everything astonishes, than the 
 unexpected audacity of the most retiring and bashful 
 people. But then it must be remembered that they 
 have never been spendthrifts of their courage, and 
 can draw, when occasion demands it, on their 
 reserves. 
 
 " Give me something — some little thing by which 
 to remember you — and Beddington," he murmured. 
 
 Bold as he was, he dared not omit the qualifying 
 clause. Maggie looked up at him startled by some- 
 
198 POETS ALL. 
 
 thing in his voice. It was impossible — or at least 
 she found it so — to look into that hopeful, impas- 
 sioned face, and those eyes which were surely a poet's, 
 without blushing. To refuse the tiny favour by 
 which he appeared to set such store were mere 
 objectless cruelty. She was wearing a single white rose 
 in her bosom, and upon this the young man's eyes 
 were now fixed. Slowly, unwilhngly — for " the gods 
 themselves cannot recall their gifts " — she detached 
 it from her dress, and gave it him with a hand 
 that trembled from some new and incomprehended 
 feeling. He took the perishable gift calmly enough, 
 but no sooner was he alone than he kissed it raptur- 
 ously. It was certainly the first time he had ever 
 kissed a flower. Had he not been the merest novice 
 he would have had no difficulty in discovering that 
 Maggie was strangely disturbed. How different, she 
 was thinking, from the day when Tom Lovibond had 
 asked her to marry him. Here was one who would 
 certainly never ask her to marry him. One whom 
 she might never see again — whom perhaps she did 
 not wish to see again. What was there in it to make 
 her feel so happy? She was not so vain as to be 
 pleased by a proof — for a proof it clearly was — of her 
 power to hurt one to whom she wished w^ell. Un- 
 doubtedly she was pleased. She smiled as she went 
 
WHAT BECAME OP THE ROSE. 199 
 
 up-stairs. She smiled at her charming face — all 
 blushes — in the glass ; at the spot where the rose no 
 longer bloomed. The rose was gone ; was anything 
 else — she wondered — gone with it ? No one — not 
 even a Duke of Westminster — -cau give anything 
 away, and yet be quite the same. Sometimes to 
 poor givers — what a blessed inducement to charity 
 — the gift brings wealth. So the young school-master 
 was going, and she would see no more of him — or of 
 the rose. She did not trouble herself to inquire what 
 he would do with the latter, bat she did not imagine 
 that he would throw it away when faded. The rose 
 and its new owner were both gone out of her life. 
 And yet she did not feel as if it could be so, but was 
 in some way conscious of a completeness hitherto 
 unknown. 
 
 The day soon came when Charles Collins left 
 Beddington. He must be a poor young fellow, though 
 on the way perhaps to riches, who does not on leaving 
 home take a backward look from the last eminence 
 whence it is visible. Is the old home an obscure one, 
 his eye searches out all the more carefully the spot 
 where it stands half -hidden between more pretentious 
 buildings. So homely, so retiring, and so dear. If 
 the old home stands prominent and stately on the 
 opposite hill, a place any one might be proud of, it 
 
200 POETS ALL. 
 
 is of course all the easier to regret it. Then having 
 taken one last look you pass on. If it was not your 
 home, but only the place where you left your heart, 
 you look back, and back, and back, and it will almost 
 certainly be dark before you reach the first stage of 
 your journey. 
 
201 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE critic's thumb. 
 
 Three months have gone by, during which time 
 nothing had been heard by the inhabitants of Bed- 
 dington of their old school-master. He appeared to 
 have suddenly passed out of their lives. At first 
 Maggie frequently thought of him and wondered 
 how he was doing. Gradually she thought of him 
 less and less often, until now his memory was almost 
 as faint as that of the rose which she could not yet 
 quite forget that she had given him. " The absent 
 are always in the wrong" in having left any one 
 whom they wish to retain special interest in their 
 movements. There is no doubt, as Solomon re- 
 marked, a time for doing everything, and for a lover 
 the time to leave is when he has a desire to be 
 forgotten. There are times no doubt when an exit 
 will more certainly have this effect than at others. 
 Notably when the young woman has suddenly 
 
202 POETS ALL. 
 
 discovered, rather to her dismay perhaps, that her 
 thoughts have been dwelling too much on one 
 who, socially or otherwise, would be thought by her 
 friends unfit to be so honoured. The departure of 
 the ineligible young man brings her to what those 
 friends would call her senses, and her pride assures 
 her perhaps that she never thought of him ; certainly 
 that she will never think of him again, and the more 
 frequently she has recourse to this aid the more 
 confidently may it be asserted that she is thinking of 
 him all the time. 
 
 On reaching London Charles Collins had taken 
 lodgings in a quiet street leading out of the Strand. 
 They were about as bare and uncomfortable as 
 London lodgings generally seem to those who are 
 not to the manner born. Knowing no one, it was 
 not long before he pined for a friendly voice or for 
 a sight of the country. Sometimes he would have 
 given up both these hopes for a word of praise 
 which should have brought him the much-needed 
 assurance that he was not labouring in vain. If 
 successful people only remembered how a little 
 sympathy assists or even makes more capable those 
 who are struggling beneath them, they would not— 
 for it is only the impostor who trembles for his 
 monopoly — so often pause to consider whether the 
 
THE critic's thumb. 203 
 
 word of praise is, under the circumstances, excusable. 
 In fact, flattery is never more excusable than when 
 its objects stand in need of a tonic which it is 
 unlikely they will offer in their turn. To churlishly 
 refuse is to put an insurmountable obstacle in the 
 way of many aspirants. True that even with a little 
 praise and sympathy few are capable of rising very 
 high ; but until the glow of a little kindness has 
 been experienced, the majority are incapable of rising 
 at all. 
 
 June, and here he was, high up among the 
 chimney-pots and the smoke thereof. Fumus et opes 
 strepitusque. He had indeed plenty of the first, to 
 make up perhaps for the absence of the second. 
 The third hardly reached his attic. The cats on the 
 roofs did their best at night-time to incite to 
 elegiac poetry. If their bodies had been inhabited 
 by the souls of poets to whom the cowp de grace had 
 been administered by Reviews or Quarterlies, with a 
 cruelty now happily out of date, their shrieks could 
 scarcely have been more heartrending. They came 
 indeed as an incitement to modern bards to wail out 
 their souls in pessimistic discontent and anguish. 
 Perhaps there is room for thankfulness that the 
 temptation is sometimes resisted. What a place 
 whence to gather inspiration ! Fortunately, if the 
 
204 POETS ALL. 
 
 most lovely scenes cannot convert the average 
 Cockney into a poet, the " born " poet is independent 
 of his surroundings. To the true poet all places are 
 equal. The So7ig of the Shirt, The Bridge of Sighs, 
 cannot be written again — cannot even, I am happy 
 to think, be imitated — but there will always be 
 plenty of inspiration in London smoke — for the 
 inspired. Yet as, in these days, poets are without 
 " intuition," it is as well to be able to work on a 
 suhstratum of country life. I have known a boy, 
 thirteen years old, whose parents were wealthy, yet 
 who had never seen a bird's-nest, or even a primrose 
 in its native home. Should this youth take to 
 poetry, his ideas of the country may be trusted to 
 be at least original, and it might be predicated of 
 them that they would appeal chiefly to those to 
 whom " a day in the country " was an unwished-for 
 
 joy. 
 
 For two months Charles Collins had been occupied 
 in re-writing and in re -arranging his manuscripts. 
 He then thought it was high time to look out for a 
 publisher. Perhaps there is no task more hard for 
 a novice than to hit on a suitable publisher. Pub- 
 lishers must laugh — those of them, at least, who 
 have any sense of humour — at the manuscripts sent 
 for their kind consideration which are often quite 
 
THE CKITIC'S THUMB. 205 
 
 out of their " line." There is very little room in the 
 world, but still room for a ''literary agent," who 
 should advise the inexperienced author as to who 
 would be the fittest recipient of the good thing. 
 There are presumably publishers who would shrink 
 with horror from printing any ridicule, however 
 masked and courtly, of the G. 0. M. Others who 
 would rather prefer that Tory principles should be 
 lugged in anywhere and anyhow — by the heels. 
 There are subtle distinctions which a novice is 
 incapable of arriving at, ignorance of which causes 
 him to lose time, temper, and postage. As the 
 world is ruled by " the rule of contrairy," it is almost 
 a matter of certainty that a young author who has 
 no one to advise him will send his first venture to 
 the wrong man. 
 
 Then, too, Charles Collins was unfortunately 
 ignorant that poetry, except in very rare cases indeed, 
 is a " drug." There was no one to give him this 
 information, which indeed he would scarcely have 
 credited. To him poetry seemed — amongst so many 
 modern shams — almost the only genuine thing left. 
 Surely no one would grudge a few pence, or a few 
 shillings, for a peep into the unknown. He forgot 
 what an enormous amount of affected stuff, which 
 could by no stretch of meaning be called genuine, 
 
206 1>0ETS ALL. 
 
 had been published between the days of Chaucer and 
 our own, and that genuine poetry was in danger of 
 being swamped. Bari ncmtes in gurgite vasto. To 
 these few survivors it scarcely appeared that it was 
 any one's business to throw life-buoys. The Golden 
 Treasury has made a laudable attempt to rescue 
 some of these, and to assemble them in a sort of 
 poetical Sailor's Home, from which Dibdin — properly 
 or the reverse — is excluded. The way in which Mr. 
 Jones and his friends talked about poetry would 
 mislead any — with the exception of the initiated — 
 who heard them. The majority, of course, are 
 ignorant that there are people who live by telling 
 other people that they are poets — and what not. 
 One naturally gets to consider that a guild to which 
 one awards the decorations must be a grand one, 
 and nobody — except the very few people who are 
 poets and have no patrons — is greatly hurt by the 
 arrangement. 
 
 But the first glow of enthusiasm is not easily 
 damped. If Mr. Collins had heard these sad tidings 
 — even from the mouth of a poet who had failed — 
 he would never have believed a word of them. 
 Experience teaches more credibly than one sent from 
 the dead. When he had completed the arrange- 
 ment of his manuscripts — as one about to open a 
 
THE CRlTIC^S THUMB. 207 
 
 new shop is careful to show off his goods to the best 
 advantaofe — he beofan to offer them for sale. He was 
 modest, and did not expect a rush of customers 
 eager to purchase, nor to be invited — within the 
 week — to lunch at Windsor Castle. It was well that 
 he did not allow hopefulness to expand into certainty. 
 Any approach, even to hope, should be as far as 
 possible discountenanced when dealing with a 
 publisher. One day his little parcel returned from 
 its first voyage. It was accompanied by a note, 
 whose courtesy was the more striking as there was 
 no visible sign to show that the manuscript had been 
 studied in the most cursory wa}^ The young poet 
 took it very lightly. Indeed,'he rather pitied the 
 publisher for a mistake which would no doubt be 
 a very costly one. '' He will repent,'' he thought to 
 himself, " when some one else has it." This opinion 
 he got by slow degrees to fear was a mistaken one. 
 
 By the end of the three months the manuscript 
 had been about a good deal, and had seen more of 
 London than its owner. It had entered the lofty 
 portals of limited liability companies, and had ven- 
 tured also into some very modest-looking edifices, 
 which for all practical purposes were probably not 
 inferior to their showy rivals. To whatever class of 
 establishment it journeyed it always came back — like 
 
208 POETS ALL. 
 
 a bad shilling, or the affectionate but unappreciated 
 dog which you cannot lose. 
 
 To-day, as he is going rather slowly up the narrow 
 staircase — his step has lost a little of its youthful 
 buoyancy in the last few weeks — he encounters his 
 landlady, who draws on one side to let him pass. 
 This she has the less difficulty in doing, as she is 
 extremely thin. Her long, dark, anxious face is 
 seamed with tiny wrinkles. The ill-luck and mis- 
 fortune to which she has been a life-long victim, 
 poor soul, have given her a distaste to any one with 
 at all a prosperous look. Appearances are deceptive, 
 but even so she had very few opportunities of feeding 
 her dislike. When chance brought Mr. Collins to 
 her door, she imagined that for once she would have 
 a lodger favoured by fortune, whom therefore it 
 would be her duty to snub. Gradually she had been 
 changing her opinion. Within the last week or two 
 he had indeed looked so miserable that she had 
 become convinced that she might take him — meta- 
 phorically — to her bosom, without being inconsistent. 
 She had noticed the parcel carefully packed and 
 re-packed, and knew well what it contained. A long 
 experience of authors had made her look with 
 certainty for its return, and even approximately to 
 fix a date for its delivery. When it had returned 
 
THE critic's thumb. 209 
 
 several times she began to feel towards her un- 
 successful lodger as towards a son. Now, as he was 
 passing her on the stairs, she said, in a deep tragic 
 voice in which was yet something which was cer- 
 tainly not sorrow — " It has come back again." He 
 took no notice of a warning with which she had 
 probably favoured him before. Only his steps 
 seemed to go more slowly towards his attic, as if he 
 would defer the unpleasant sight. Arrived at his 
 room, the first thing that his eye fell upon was the 
 manuscript in its new wrapper — he had now quite a 
 number of these — lying on his table. The days were 
 passed when he used to feel confident that on 
 opening the parcel he would find inside a note or 
 some kindly message that would mitigate the blow 
 — even perhaps a line requesting him to call with 
 the manuscript on some future day. But even 
 sanguine people require some little occasional mental 
 ''pick-me-up" if they are to remain sanguine. 
 Hitherto his hope had had no encouragement to feed 
 on. He tears open the parcel mechanically, quite 
 prepared to find that it had been simply re-packed, 
 without any one having taken the trouble to read it. 
 He was getting clever at discovering the slightest 
 signs of perusal, and could tell to a page where the 
 
 " reader " had felt an access of weariness — in the few 
 
 P 
 
210 POETS ALL. 
 
 cases where he had not been weary before beginning. 
 The manuscript on the present occasion had only 
 left him two days. It had got apparently to be 
 fonder of home, or to return — as to its ark — as if 
 disgusted with what it found outside, and, unlike 
 Noah's dove, at intervals each shorter than the 
 previous one. The day might come — must come — 
 when it would decline to go out at all. On the 
 present occasion he found the usual courteous litho- 
 graphed note. He looked wearily at the corner of 
 the first page of his manuscript, where, if anywhere, 
 some sign would be found of its having been " con- 
 sidered.'' He had several times found this first page 
 marked with cabalistic signs and numbers, which, as 
 he could not erase them, had necessitated re-writing. 
 There was sign enough of "consideration" to-day, 
 for on the right-hand bottom corner of the first page 
 appeared a huge black thumb-mark. Fearfully he 
 turned over the leaf, expecting to see the same sign- 
 manual — he hoped not quite so black — on the second 
 page. But it was not there. He could only feel a 
 doubtful joy, since it became evident that the gentle- 
 man with the thumb had not been able to keep up 
 his interest very long. 
 
 Recognizing that things were getting serious, he 
 nevertheless set to work to rub out the thumb-mark. 
 
THE critic's thumb. 211 
 
 It was some time before he found that it was not to 
 be removed. The page had to be re-written. How 
 he was getting to hate that first page, which he used 
 so short a time ago to think contained his chef- 
 d'ceuvre. How wearisome to him now was every 
 turn of expression on which he had so prided himself. 
 If the reader — he thought — had only read it as often 
 as I have, one could understand. When the page 
 had been re-written, something led him to put the 
 spoilt page into his desk instead of tearing it up. 
 '* That thumb," he thought, as he put the page away, 
 " is something of a curiosity. I've heard that no two 
 thumbs are alike, and I can certainly not expect ever 
 to see a thumb-mark like that again." 
 
 Having selected from his list a new publisher — 
 he was at least careful not to send his manuscript 
 twice to the same firm — he lost no time in starting 
 it forth again. Its return was now delayed for some 
 ten days, at the end of which time it re-appeared, 
 and on being opened was found to have brought back 
 another thumb-print. This last the young author 
 speedily compared with the first one, and, with the 
 aid of a microscope which he had brought with him 
 to London — and which had hitherto laid neglected, 
 and almost forgotten, in a corner — he discovered that 
 the two thumb-marks were identical. This puzzled 
 
212 POETS ALL. 
 
 him a good bit, since he had had the idea — common 
 to youthful authors — that each firm of pubHshers 
 had separate ''readers/' This illusion he saw must 
 in future be discarded. Evidently the number of 
 publishers which he had imagined unlimited, was, 
 practically, much smaller. Yet the discovery was 
 not without its bright side. Supposing all publishers 
 to have but one " reader " between them, his manu- 
 script would only have been condemned by one — 
 perhaps prejudiced — person, instead of by quite a 
 host. If, however, the man with the thumb was 
 ubiquitous, it was hard to see how he could be 
 avoided. Nor indeed was there any obvious way by 
 which he might be discovered and — if such a thing 
 were possible or allowable — propitiated. He felt 
 very angry, .for indeed he was but human. 
 
 "Who the devil," he asked himself with a stamp 
 of the foot, which nearly proved too much for the 
 crazy flooring, " is the fellow with the thumb ? " 
 
213 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A SYMPATHIZING PUBLISHEE. 
 
 Mr. Wadhams, of the firm of Wadhams, Skim- 
 mery and Co., publishers, etc., etc., sat in his office 
 one June morning, as it was his custom to sit for 
 an hour or two throughout the year. Mr. Wadhams 
 might truly have advertised himself — only he would 
 have done nothing so dreadful — as (in two senses) 
 " the oldest publisher in the city of London.'^ Per- 
 haps the description was rightly rejected as likely to 
 suggest a picture of senile decrepitude of which the 
 elderly head of the ancient firm was in no sense an 
 example. Advertising has developed into a fine art, 
 and while some of the well-known advertisements 
 which we read every day on the walls may be ad- 
 mirably adapted to their purpose, it would seem as 
 if. the talented gentlemen who act as advertisers* 
 designers cannot always resist the temptation of a 
 
214 POETS ALL. 
 
 joke at the expense of their employers. The firm 
 who announce everywhere that they are "the 
 largest manufacturers in the world," are probably 
 the most gigantic victims to this love of combining 
 sport with business, and may be presumed to be 
 unaware of the enormous bulk with which the 
 partners are individually credited by the public who 
 run and read. Some of us may have been so for- 
 tunate as to come across very large manufacturers 
 indeed. Amongst these millers and bakers — publi- 
 cans can hardly be termed manufacturers, though no 
 doubt they are so to a greater extent than is gener- 
 ally imagined — will have been noticed as conspicuous 
 by their girth. Farmers were once on a time very 
 big manufacturers, though now even in the best 
 farming districts they are chiefly noticeable for a lean 
 and hungry look, caused no doubt by anxiety and per- 
 petual running to and fro. But — the largest manu- 
 facturers in the w^orld ! One cannot help wondering 
 where and by what jury this mammoth boast was 
 verified, and how it was possible for the competitive 
 examinations, that must surely have been necessary 
 before the award could be justly given, to take place 
 without the newspapers bestowing upon the contest 
 at least as much space as they give to a baby or 
 a barmaid show. 
 
A SYMPATHIZMG PUBLISHER. 215 
 
 Mr. Wadhams was an exceedingly handsome old 
 gentleman, and had for a generation or two been 
 considered one of the chief ornaments of the trade. 
 He was still what some ladies would call *' an old 
 duck," or ''a dear old thing/' He had blue eyes 
 which were still tolerably bright, a quantity of the 
 most lovely grey hair which he wore rather long, 
 white whiskers which met under a rather prominent 
 chin, a frock coat with the merest shade of blue in 
 it, a white waistcoat, and an aquiline nose. It had 
 always been his department to be courteous and 
 kindly to all comers, and the practice of courtesy 
 and kindness had become — not a second nature, since 
 that would suggest, what was certainly not the case, 
 that he had been originally without any great share 
 of these qualities. It was of course necessary, in a 
 great commercial undertaking like that of Messrs. 
 Wadhams and Skimmery, that one member of the 
 firm should be a hard and practical business man, 
 and it had been discovered that " our Mr. Skimmery '' 
 — Jorkins mutato nomine — might be trusted when 
 necessary not to be too courteous or too kind. But 
 there were still occasions when the head of the firm 
 asserted himself, and the qualities for which he was 
 known. On the day that he so asserted himself 
 there was wrath in the bosom of " our Mr. Skim- 
 
216 POETS ALL. 
 
 meiy/' and joy in the heart of at least one impecu- 
 nious author, who might have been impecunious for 
 ever if he had not luckily happed on the hour and 
 the man. 
 
 It was old Mr. Wadham's custom — except on 
 these special occasions — to drive up in his brougham, 
 walk quickly through the shop or ofSce to his pri- 
 vate room, and there seat himself calmly at his 
 writing-table. When he had sat there an hour or 
 two without doing anything in particular, and very 
 often without being interviewed, he would rise and 
 go away. To-day he seemed to be waiting for 
 somebody. He had been sitting at his writing-table 
 about an hour, amusing himself by tracing his profile 
 — of which he was justly rather proud — with a very 
 long white forefinger, when a clerk entered to say 
 that Mr. Jones was waiting to see him. 
 
 '' Mr. McCawmee Jones ? " inquired the publisher ; 
 and being answered in the affirmative, he gave 
 orders for the Critic's admittance. 
 
 Any person who had only seen that gentleman on 
 the rare occasions when he masqueraded in what he 
 considered bucolic apparel, would have had consider- 
 able difficulty in recognizing him in his town clothes. 
 Mr. Jones agreed with Charles Lamb in thinking 
 that it was no less absurd for a landsman to go down 
 
A SYMPATHIZING PUBLISHER. 217 
 
 to the seaside carrying his town necessaries than for 
 a fisherman to go up to see London with his fishing- 
 tackle on his back. Wherever he went he strove 
 that his costume, at any rate, should not clash with 
 his surroundings. Failure to harmonize with these 
 last was owing — as in the case of his brilliant-hued 
 knickerbockers — to too ardent a wish to shine. He 
 was now dressed like an ordinary man about town, 
 but somehow the " get up " did not appear to suit 
 him any better than that which had made him look 
 ridiculous in the country. Indeed, it would have 
 required a far larger outlay than he could afford to 
 provide a separate suit for each of the various 
 intellectual and athletic contests which it was his 
 pleasure critically to preside at with more or less of 
 success, while it was impossible for the smartest 
 tailor to reflect the rapidity of his chameleon-like 
 changes. At the present moment he presented the 
 appearance of a country grocer who had unexpectedly 
 come into a small fortune which he was expending 
 in seeing life in London. 
 
 *' Ah, Mr. Jones,*' said the publisher, extending 
 two of his long white fingers, but without rising 
 from his chair. ^' How do you do, Mr. Jones ? I 
 had a little matter to speak to you about" — here 
 the old gentleman paused to consider — '' Ah ! yes ; 
 
218 POETS ALL. 
 
 some manuscript verse by a young man unknown. 
 Mason ? Gray ? I cannot remember the name." 
 
 " If it was Collins," said Mr. Jones, " I cannot 
 recommend you to take up the book." 
 
 " I thought I was very near it," returned the 
 publisher. '^You have not been very long in making 
 up your mind. Why, you only had the book two 
 days ago." 
 
 ' ' Quite long enough, Mr. Wadhams, I can assure 
 you," replied the Critic glibly. *' Besides, I had seen 
 it before." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said the publisher, not without 
 interest ; '' at Smedley's, perhaps ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the Critic coolly, "and also at Trump- 
 ington's." 
 
 Mr. Wadhams frowned. It may have struck him 
 that the arrangements as to publishers' " readers " 
 required revising. The effect, however, of the 
 disclosure was different to that which the Critic 
 expected. 
 
 " I looked into that manuscript myself,'' he con- 
 tinued, " certainly without giving a great amount of 
 time to it, and I fancied I saw signs of — well, not 
 genius perhaps, but more than the ordinary amount 
 of talent. That is not saying much, you think ? Our 
 Mr. Capon " — this was the Co. — *' also glanced at it, 
 
A SYMPATHIZING PUBLISHER. 219 
 
 and we rather anticipated that you would have 
 recommended our taking it in hand. Who is the 
 writer ? " 
 
 '* I don't think he has written anything before," 
 said Mr. Jones, rather surlily. He was vexed that 
 the partners should interfere with what he considered 
 his prerogative. 
 
 "Do you know him? " asked Mr. Wadhams, with 
 a look intended to be a piercing one, but which 
 glanced harmless from the pachydermatous Critic. 
 
 '* I have seen him," he replied, " but, independently 
 of any merits the manuscript might have, there are 
 so few people who ever dream of reading poetry that 
 to publish verse by an unknown writer means almost 
 certain loss. There are such a vast number of minor 
 poets already. There are fifty-two '' 
 
 " Yes, I know," said the publisher, with a smile, 
 " and for some of them Mr. Jones is responsible." 
 (The Critic, jocosely — *'I don't want to be responsible 
 for any more.") " But " — with a relapse into dignity 
 — " I did not wish you to consider the question of 
 probable profits ; merely to advise us as to literary 
 merit. Thank you, Mr. Jones ; " and the publisher 
 put out the two thin white fingers again with a view 
 to closing the interview. 
 
 When he was alone again he sat for awhile at the 
 
220 POETS ALL. 
 
 writing-table tracing his aristocratic profile — as was 
 usual with him when thinking of anything — with 
 his finger. When he had traced it satisfactorily for 
 the eighth time, he had come to a conclusion. 
 
 " I do not think," he was saying to himself, " that 
 Jones is a mean fellow. Can he possibly have a 
 spite against this new man ? He may be wise in his 
 generation in wishing to keep down aspirants. But 
 it would serve the same purpose to dethrone a few 
 of his idols. Well, he does that occasionally " — with 
 a smile. " I will look into this manuscript myself. 
 I was certainly struck with one or two things that I 
 chanced upon." 
 
 He felt pleased — as an octogenarian could hardly 
 help feeling — to find himself still capable of even a 
 little self-assertion, and walked through the shop to 
 his brougham with quite his old air of authority, 
 causing the clerks to look inquiringly one at the 
 other. 
 
 Having decided to take up the matter, Mr. Wad- 
 hams directed a note to be sent next day requesting 
 Mr. Collins to be so obliging as to forward his manu- 
 script for re-perusal. No doubt the young poet, when 
 he received the welcome missive, would have been 
 greatly astonished and excited if he had had any idea 
 how unusual it was for a publisher to re-consider a 
 
A SYMPATHIZING PUBLISHER. 221 
 
 decision, which indeed, he had not always the chance 
 of recalling. As it was, he did not allow what ought 
 to have been his injured dignity to prevent him from 
 feeling exceedingly pleased. To avoid delay he put 
 the manuscript in his pocket forthwith, and hurried 
 off to * * * Street, where he rather amused the old 
 publisher — who happened to be on the premises — by 
 his breathless haste. Charles Collins now enjoyed 
 his first conversation with one of those who make 
 the fortune — every now and then — of authors. It is 
 astonishing how many authors never arrive at an 
 interview which they may consider — without any 
 just reason — the one thing wanting to their happiness. 
 It is even possible for a man to have written a suc- 
 cessful book, and yet to have no idea of the person- 
 ality of any member of the firm which is responsible 
 for its appearance. Even if he has once or twice 
 been interviewed by a respectably-dressed gentleman 
 seated at a writing-table, he has known no better 
 than his hat whom he was talking to. Great men, 
 no doubt, are in the habit of making themselves too 
 common ; but for little people to make themselves 
 difficult of access is not in these days to develop 
 into a mysterious godhead. In fact, nothing is more 
 ridiculous than the pretence of hiding what does not 
 exist. 
 
222 POETS ALL. 
 
 Mr. Wadhams received his new client courteously, 
 explaining that he thought it possible the firm might, 
 on a first perusal, have overlooked the merits of his 
 poems. In fact the old publisher was scrutinizing 
 the young man keenly. It required no deep scrutiny 
 to discover that he was thin and pale, and the coat 
 was certainly a little — or not a little — threadbare. 
 The eyes — what eyes they were ! Mr. Wadhams 
 was pleased with his self-assertion, and quite prepared 
 to acknowledge a genius whom nobody else had 
 discovered. 
 
 "Dont misunderstand me, Mr. — Mr. Collins. I 
 can't promise anything. We will let you know our 
 decision in a few days. But I may as well tell you 
 — if you don't know it already — that you will never 
 make money by poetry. We never make any either. 
 Why not try your hand at some prose ? Perhaps 
 you have tried it. No ? All the more reason for 
 beginning. New writers are every now and then 
 original. Send us something for our magazine. We 
 will try and consider it favourably, and we will let 
 you know very shortly about the poems. Good-day, 
 Mr. Collins. Glad to have seen you." 
 
 And the young author went home. It was the 
 first word of encouragement that he had heard since 
 he came to London, and he had not known how 
 
A SYMPATHIZING PUBLISHER. 22eS 
 
 much he wanted it. Write prose ! Of course he 
 would write prose. He had never written any, and 
 considered it would be as easy as we deem every- 
 thing we have not attempted. He was astonished 
 to find himself— when seated at his desk — at a loss 
 how to begin. True, he did not know what subject 
 to write about. Perhaps it is a mistake to write 
 prose or poetry without having any prejudice in 
 favour of a subject. When he was writing poetry he 
 had never found any difficulty in the choice. Un- 
 consciously his hand stole to a part of his desk 
 where were a number of unfinished poems, some of 
 them mere sketches. Must he really give up this 
 congenial work for prose ? Harnessing Pegasus to a 
 bread-cart with a vengeance ! Would it be possible, 
 he wondered, to turn some of these sketches into 
 prose ? At first glance it appeared little short of 
 sacrilege ; and yet — he looked at the sleeve of his 
 coat. Its threadbare condition had not escaped his 
 notice any more than that of Mr. Wadhams. He 
 thrust his fingers into his waistcoat-pocket, and 
 brought them out again with two sovereigns and 
 some silver. When that was gone he did not know 
 where to get any more. "Needs must," he said to 
 himself, "when the devil drives. There are good 
 and bad devils. Perhaps this may be a good 
 
224 POETS ALL. 
 
 one ; " and he began at once to turn over his manu- 
 scripts with a view to choosing the prosiest of them 
 for the new experiment. As he glanced over the 
 papers the idea of the transformation became less 
 and less unpleasant. The care with which his ideas 
 had been thought out and compressed made it easy 
 to expand them. Here was one which he would 
 immolate — regretfully — on the new shrine. '' An 
 old Mill." His fancy began to paint and embower it 
 with all sorts of poetic accessories — lichen, and what 
 not. It might be made, he felt sure, to look poetical 
 even in the most prosaic of dresses, and he would 
 take care that the dress was not too prosaic. Having 
 thus salved his conscience he set to work, expanding 
 and elaborating. In three days^ he had finished, and 
 no one who had not himself made the same attempt 
 would have guessed how it had been done. I have 
 pleasure in advertising this method of turning an 
 honest penny for the benefit of the million or so of 
 unappreciated bards — among whom I do not include 
 the fifty odd minor poets of Mr. McCawmee Jones's 
 manufacture, some of whom I fear are also unappre- 
 ciated — who have drawers full to overflowing with 
 unpublished poems which cannot by any other means 
 be converted into the smallest coin of the realm. 
 They will discover with satisfaction that the practice 
 
A SYMPATHIZING PUBLISEiER. 225 
 
 of their laborious and unremiinerative art has at 
 least taught them to write " Queen's English " — as 
 distinguished from the slipshod inaccuracies which 
 are the siodcialiU of the anchastened and inarticulate 
 novelist. 
 
 The new plan proved a success. In a few days a 
 note arrived from Messrs. Wadhams, Skimmery and 
 Co. accepting "An old Mill," and intimating that 
 the firm would undertake the publication of the 
 poems " on shares." This last, though meaning but 
 little probable profit in the case of a new author, 
 was yet better than nothing. Mr. Wadhams, while 
 intending to be good-natured, had nevertheless the 
 objection to being too generous which is felt by 
 many business men who are yet without the fear of 
 their particular Jorkins. In a week arrived a cheque 
 for five guineas for the magazine article, together 
 with an intimation that any future paper from the 
 same pen would have favourable consideration. 
 Would it be possible — or useful — to imagine a 
 publisher who should do more ? 
 
226 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF FAME. 
 
 It is not now the fashion to relate one's dreams 
 on coming down to breakfast in the morning. Yet 
 the custom, if slightly vulgar, had a good deal to 
 recommend it. It was certain to be productive 
 of amusement, and of amusement there is not 
 too much now-a-days. How well one remembers 
 one's maiden aunt unfolding her budget of night- 
 mares. The custom was also an incentive to 
 invention, since inferior dreams required a consider- 
 able admixture of fiction if they were to compete 
 successfully with the nightmares of those who had 
 supped — with a view to dreaming — wisely and well. 
 In Biblical days dreams were found exceedingly 
 useful for the conveying of opinions or warnings, which 
 the monitor — possibly with a view to escaping per- 
 sonal violence — preferred to offer in a form to which 
 he least possible objection could betaken. It would 
 
A GLIMPSE OF FAME. 227 
 
 be absurd to quarrel with opiaions involuntarily 
 evoked, and which the intended victim had the 
 option of regarding as the wanderings of a disordered 
 fancy or the outcome of an indigestible meal. 
 
 Charles CoUins's dream on the night after the 
 receipt of the publisher's letter and enclosure was 
 not of a very startling description, which was of the 
 less consequence as he had no one to whom he 
 ^vished to tell it. He dreamt that he was in the 
 old school-room at Beddington, and that Maggie 
 came in, accompanied by two strange, outlandish- 
 looking people, in whom — allowing for the exagger- 
 ation to be found in all nocturnal visitations — he had 
 little difficulty in recognizing the two gentlemen 
 who had been staying at the Hall. The shorter 
 and thicker of the visitors was conspicuous by a 
 black thumb. So black, was it, indeed, that it caught 
 the dreamer's eye to the exclusion of other objects. 
 As he moved about the school, apparently intent 
 on examining the rude provisions for rustic education, 
 he would touch with his thumb as he passed the 
 corner of a desk or a map, or even occasionally a 
 page of the copy-book in which some youthful 
 •student was laboriously inditing one of the good old 
 saws of which the words (after the practice has 
 departed) are still considered good enough to employ 
 
228 POETS ALL. 
 
 the pens of the first and second standards. Long 
 before the seventh standard is reached — so precocious 
 are young people now- a-days — the well-worn maxims 
 of our great-grandmothers are voted antiquated and 
 absurd. Wherever the black thumb of the strano^er 
 settled for an instant, there remained after its 
 removal a large round black mark. After a great 
 many of these marks had been affixed — as if they 
 were a sort of trade-mark — all about the school, the 
 dreamer was conscious of an expectation that each 
 succeeding impression would become fainter than 
 its ]Dredecessor. But this did not appear to be the 
 case. The longer of the two strangers looked on at 
 the performance w^ith an expression of gratified malice. 
 Maggie's eloquent face wore a displeased look, and 
 it was easy to guess that her protest was only not 
 forthcoming on account of the usual difficulty 
 experienced by actors in a dream of saying or doing 
 what they wish to. At last, however, the short thick 
 gentleman got ruder or bolder, and, instead of being 
 satisfied with marking the maps or even the copy- 
 books, made for the young school-master himself, 
 and attempted to affix his sign-manual. The thin 
 stranger uttered a discordant shriek of laughter. 
 Maggie rushed forward — and the dream was over. 
 There v/as nothing particularly pleasant in the 
 
A CtLIMpsk of fame. 229 
 
 dream itself. The shriek had no doubt been im- 
 ported from a quarrel — which might even be a 
 renewing of love — between two cats on the roof. It 
 was therefore the more strange that the dreamer 
 on awaking was conscious of a happiness which the 
 best of dreams seldom leaves behind it — a fec^ling that 
 something had happened which would make life 
 for the future worth living. Those who have felt 
 this on awaking are to be envied in that they 
 have felt what falls but to the lot^ of very few, and 
 pitied because they will always be wishing to feel 
 it again. But the man who feels it only once will 
 cease for a while wondering why he was born. It 
 was some time before he could recall the cause of 
 a happiness which could scarcely be attributed to his 
 dream. Then the letter and cheque of the publisher 
 flashed into his mind, and he turned over and went 
 to sleep again. 
 
 Doubtless, if ^people — even not very kind ones — 
 knew what great things a little kindness can do for 
 others, and how it re-acts on the recipient, and makes 
 the most surly anxious to do a kindness to some 
 one in his turn, they would be less sparing of what 
 often costs them little or nothing. Almost everybody 
 miorht do somethino^ towards makins^ the world less 
 miserable, for the reason that if you have no real 
 
230 pop:ts all. 
 
 kindness to offer, simulated kindness often does as 
 well. In fact, the latter is occasionally found the 
 more serviceable, as it is not liable to err through an 
 excess of zeal. But the affectation of a virtue one is 
 wanting in is always praiseworthy as setting a good 
 example, and also as showing a desire in the pre- 
 tender for better things. There are an immense 
 number of people who, from one motive or other, are 
 always ready to do a kindness. But then the needy 
 are so many. I like a man who, if he has a parrot 
 that enjoys having his head scratched, will walk 
 yards every morning to scratch it for him, rather 
 than that the poor bird should feel even for a day 
 that nobody cares for him. 
 
 Of the cheque for five guineas, which he would 
 have kept framed over his mantelpiece if he could 
 have afforded it — perhaps no money is ever after- 
 wards as sweet as that first cheque : the Barents 
 banknotes of fabulous value are nothing to it — one 
 shilling was expended on a copy of the magazine in 
 which his article appeared, and this was posted at 
 once to Beddington. Nor did it — how bold the tiny 
 success had already made him — bear the name, 
 though it bore the address, of the Squire. Perhaps 
 it would be incorrect to say that no one before ever 
 built so palatial a mansion, such a castle in Spain, on 
 
A GLIMPSE OF FAME. 231 
 
 such a poor foundation. But no one could ever have 
 built on any foundation a palace he wished more 
 to inhabit. Of one of his heroes Bulwer-Lytton says 
 that *' from the eminence of five shillings a week 
 he looked over the promised land." Charles Collins 
 looked up rather at an eminence whose summit was 
 obscured by clouds. But the hill was Parnassus — or 
 whatever may be its modern substitute — and the 
 difficulties of scaling it had vanished. 
 
 Perhaps he would have felt less excitement if he 
 had known that the road, for those who have the 
 entree, is macadamized, and that the Pegasuses of 
 those who ride up a-horseback are rather remarkable 
 for length of ears than strength of wing. 
 
 In thinking, too, that it would be impossible to 
 work out the new mine, Mr. Collins had fallen into 
 a mistake to which all who have hit on a new dis- 
 covery or a plagiarism of an old and ha If- forgotten 
 one are especially liable. They insist on throwing 
 an enormous quantity of their precious metals — as 
 they consider them — on the market. The market 
 gets glutted, and the price drops. One day the 
 people — or those of them who care at all about the 
 matter — to use the piteous words of the late Poet- 
 Laureate, " take it for a weed." A weed in these 
 times is anything that is very common. It may be 
 
232 POETS ALL. 
 
 never so good, but once let the new flower get so 
 cheap that " common people " can afford to wear a 
 second-rate specimen, and its beauty will count for 
 very little. But the young poet was sanguine — youth 
 that is not sanguine is good for very little — therefore 
 he saw no limit to the profitable transmuting of 
 verse into prose. Moreover, he slyly determined that 
 his prose should still be poetry. If songs without 
 words are such a success, why not poetry without 
 rhyme or metre ? He was so far right that rhyme 
 and metre without sense, if they cannot make prose 
 are equally incapable of true poetry. 
 
 But if the effect on the '' new writer " of the five 
 guineas was great, it was as nothing to the emotions 
 experienced by the receiver of the magazine. Maggie, 
 who had but few acquaintances in the literary world, 
 at first wondered who could have taken the trouble 
 to send it. She was sufficiently a novice to be pre- 
 pared to find any article charming to which her 
 notice was directed. She soon saw the blue pencil 
 mark on the first page of the article entitled " An 
 old Mill." She had not read through the second 
 page before she had arrived at the personality of the 
 author. More than this, she was soon aware that 
 the "new writer'* loved her. How she discovered 
 this last was a mystery, unless indeed the pages may 
 
A GLIMPSE OF FAME. 233 
 
 have acted in some way as a medium. She had got 
 to feel quite foolish before she came to the last page 
 of the article, which was indeed rather a common- 
 place one. " Such a deathless flower," she thought, 
 as she closed the book and lay back in her chair to 
 conjure up the pretty scene before her mind's eye, 
 " in place of that perishable one that I gave him." 
 At the thought she blushed redder than any rose. 
 
 It came to pass at this time that almost everybody 
 was pleased. The Squire was relieved that Maggie 
 was not going to marry any one. Tom Lovibond 
 was delighted to see a chance of retaining the Squire's 
 friendship without tying himself for life to his 
 daughter, whom he adored. Mr. Collins was happy 
 in the double heaven of having his first article 
 accepted, and his first love not yet " declined with 
 thanks." Maofofie felt satisfied that she would never 
 marry any one — not she. If quite everybody could 
 be quite happy it would be a good world. I am 
 afraid that too many are jealous of the happiness of 
 others — even though they do not w^ant it themselves 
 — for this to be possible. To prevent things from 
 getting altogether too monotonous, about this time 
 the relations between Mr. McCawmee Jones and 
 Mr. Corthee got a little strained. There is hardly 
 any one who will allow a person whom he imagines 
 
234 POETS ALL. 
 
 he is serving to keep kicking him, and if constantly 
 performed in public a good deal of self-control is 
 required in him who undergoes the operation. In 
 fact the Poet had been a little ruder than usual — 
 he could not have been much ruder — and had also 
 allowed himself to administer flagellations outside 
 the comparative privacy of the recognized swishing- 
 room. 
 
 There has recently been a good deal of talk about 
 a '* universal language/' and no doubt there is a 
 taking sound about it. What a truly grand thing- 
 it would be if all the many-coloured nations of the 
 earth were able to understand one another, except 
 in the rather frequent cases where there would be 
 nothing to understand, or only such things as had 
 better remain uncomprehended. I am myself of 
 opinion that the larger portion of the human race 
 which lives by disseminating the manufactures of an 
 advanced civilization among those who can be con- 
 vinced that they require them, would be the chief 
 gainers by the carrying out of the new scheme, and 
 if this is so they had better set to work and invent 
 a language — if they have not already done so — for 
 themselves. I should like also to point out that 
 even those who are most convinced of the advantages 
 that a " universal language " would confer are by no 
 
A GLIMPSE OF FAME. 235 
 
 means agreed as to which would be the best language 
 for the purpose. Welshmen, Germans, Chinese, and 
 others who have been brought up in the enjoyment 
 of a mellifluous and easily-written motlier-tongue 
 would naturally object to making barbarous French 
 or English the general medium of communication. 
 Perhaps it is the fact that nobody objects to a 
 '* universal language " as long as he has not — at an 
 age when he may have lost all taste for philological 
 studies — to learn a new language himself. As this 
 would mean that everybody desires that his own 
 language— perhaps even his own dialect — should be 
 the chosen one, it will be seen that there is at the 
 outset a considerable divergence of opinion. 
 
 Very often, when sages and philosophers have been 
 disputing about some question for ages, a babe or 
 comparative suckling has hit upon a solution w^hich 
 they in their excitement have overlooked. This 
 appears to have been the case with the " universal 
 language." In reality a substitute for all this sug- 
 gested philology has been in existence from the 
 remotest ages. It has the advantage of requiring no 
 dictionary and no grammar, and of being independent 
 of colleges and " professors " ; while it is as readily 
 comprehended, and, I may add, communicated, by 
 the deaf and dumb as by others. Of course, like 
 
236 POETS ALL, 
 
 every other good thing, it has its drawback, and 
 there are some effeminate people in this effeminate 
 age who persist in saying that it is lacking in delicacy 
 and refinement. Possibly there are a few millions 
 on whom these would be completely thrown away. 
 
 The "universal language," which will not in our 
 day be superseded, is a strong boot, with a foot in 
 it, and impelled by a vigorous leg. Its unsparing 
 use gained for the great Bismarck the empire and 
 his fame, and by it Englishmen, to whom the- very 
 meaning of philology is unknown, are to-day making 
 colonies in every quarter of the world. In the every- 
 day affairs of life equally with great national questions 
 it exerts an overpowering influence, and the one 
 drawback is that those who comprehend it best 
 object most strongly to its employment. For this 
 reason it is perhaps wise not to venture on the use 
 of the " universal language," unless — as was the case 
 with Bismarck — your boot is a very stiff one. The 
 Poet was fond — as we all are — of speaking in a 
 language in which he fancied himself a proficient. 
 
 The Critic, who was a bit of a philologist, under- 
 stood the language as well as anybody, and had 
 lately been having a good deal of metaphorical " boot." 
 He began to enter into the feelings of larbas when 
 he threatened to cease placing sacrifices on the altars 
 
A GLIMPSE OF FAME. 237 
 
 he had erected to Jupiter, since little or no profit 
 was derived from the transaction. larbas no doubt 
 had a turn for satire which Jove may have relished 
 or not, but he was at a disadvantage compared with 
 Mr. Jones in that it was almost impossible in those 
 days to start a new religion to spite a deity that had 
 spurned you. There are very few who can do this 
 now, but Mr. Jones thought he was one of the few. 
 If he was incapable he felt that it was not for want 
 of practice. He made up his mind one night when 
 he had been rubbed very much the wrong way to 
 make no more sacrifices at Mr. Corthee's altar, or 
 even to accept his benefactions — the Poet occasion- 
 ally chucked him an invitation to dinner — any more. 
 The announcement of Mi*. Collins's new book (though 
 the manuscript had occasioned a little friction be- 
 tween old Mr. Wadhams and the Critic) appeared to 
 be a favourable opportunity for the erecting of a new 
 altar. 
 
238 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE KING IS DEAD. 
 
 There is no doubt that the unfortunate Poet's 
 peculiarities laid him open to any enemy who had 
 once been a friend, and had enjo^^ed the privileges 
 of intimacy which make it so easy to turn an old 
 ally into a laughing-stock. It is to be feared that 
 modern minor poets — my hero, who is going to 
 blossom into a minor poet so soon, is of course an 
 exception — belong as a rule to the vast army whom 
 no irresistible impulse from within forces to take up 
 the pen. This fact is doubtless to be deplored, and 
 yet very agreeable writers may have started without 
 anything to say and ended by finding a good deal. 
 Not to go too far, it is surely a mistake to start on 
 your journey with your basket crammed with flowers 
 you have bought, a little faded perhaps, at the shop, 
 and so be unable to find room for the fresher ones 
 you may meet with by the wayside. Of course the 
 
THE KING 18 DEAD. 
 
 man who has only a basket to begin with — which 
 may be considered equivalent to the binding of a 
 book— may come in at evening without any flowers 
 at all. A great deal depends on the country through 
 which your road passes, and there are plenty of 
 people who travel from Dan to Beersheba and find 
 all barren — -as might very possibly be the case with 
 me ; but then I won't travel that road. Still, it 
 seems that only an entire absence of humour could 
 account for any one's beginning to write a book 
 without having anything to say. As soon might 
 we expect to find a painter starting on a sketching 
 tour without any paints. Of the latter we might 
 safely prophesy that he would not be hung on 
 the line. Oddly enough, the same failure cannot 
 confidently be predicted for the former. 
 
 It sounds absurd — as do a great many things 
 heard for the first time — but there is no doubt that 
 if everybody had a sense of humour there would 
 be an end to all fun. As it is there is no great 
 amount remaining, and a goodly portion of what is 
 left is due to the self-importance and solemnity of 
 a number of people- — to whom we can never feel 
 sufficiently grateful — who cannot tell when you are 
 laughing at them. Now Mr. Jones had always 
 found it impossible to keep from laughing — inward 
 
240 POETS ALL. 
 
 laughter, of course, as laughing outright would have 
 gone near to killing the goose whose egg if not 
 golden had yet a certain value — to see the Poet 
 working early and late (for no one could be more 
 industrious) at his hashes and r^cJiauffSs of old poets, 
 of whose existence he fondly hoped very few people 
 were aware. Long practice had given him the 
 knack of metres, and his compositions were always 
 rhythmical and pleasing. It was only on examination 
 — and this fact had enabled Mr. Jones to " run him " 
 so successfully — that an occasional reader discovered 
 that there was nothing in the verses at all. To 
 Eton men they recalled the '' nonsense verses " 
 which they had been accustomed to compose when 
 in the Lower School. Mr. Corthee's high and 
 mighty air had given Mr. Jones many a merry 
 moment at times when circumstances did not greatly 
 excite, except in the case of a Mark Tapley, to 
 joviality. These happy moments he had enjoyed 
 none the less that to share his sensations with 
 another would have been to spoil trade. Joy is not 
 always a twin, and I have never heard that misers 
 were incapable of appreciating the stores which they 
 yet did not allow to gladden the eyes of any other 
 human being. It was something of a relief, too, to 
 have done with the tiresome pretence of admiring 
 
THE KING IS DEAD. 241 
 
 that in which he saw nothing to admire. There are 
 moments when even the most thorough humbug 
 sighs — he does not often get much farther — to be 
 genuine. 
 
 It is not my purpose to relate very exactly the 
 way in which Mr. Jones, having once made up his 
 mind, proceeded to let down the Poet. There are 
 plenty of people already who are sufficiently well 
 versed in the useful art of dropping a friend. This 
 must occasionally be done even by the most steadfast 
 of men. We are all liable to change, and you or 
 your friend may change so much and so rapidly that 
 it becomes necessary for one or other to retire from 
 the firm. I am comforted when it is the other who 
 first grows weary of the partnership. Mr. Jones was 
 much too skilful to act with startling abruptness. 
 He began by adulterating the praise (which gradually 
 became fainter) with little doubts and innuendoes 
 which his position of anonymous critic gave him 
 every opportunity of inserting. It was not indeed 
 the first time that he had been obliged to repudiate 
 an article of his own manufacture. His procedure 
 was perfectly comprehended of the cognoscenti, some of 
 whom may even have suffered the same thing at the 
 hands of some other performer. These latter lost 
 no time in following the golden rule, '' to do as you 
 
 R 
 
242 POETS ALL. 
 
 are done by." They copied Mr. Jones's action as, if 
 they were sheep going through a gap, till, shortly, 
 Mr. Corthee found himself being looked on quite 
 coldly. He had never had any personal popularity 
 to lose, having felt so secure of his position that it 
 had not seemed worth his while to affect friendship 
 with more than two or three. Perhaps for this 
 reason the *' Immortals " found the less difficulty in 
 convincing themselves of his exceptional mortality. 
 After the first whimper or two the whole pack 
 opened on him speedily. A review or two, into 
 whose pages he was imported — like a nine-pin, or an 
 Aunt Sally — for the purpose of being knocked down, 
 and of which no one appeared to be able to guess the 
 authorship, put a finish to his career, and one 
 morning the " Poet of the ages " — as he had been so 
 recently termed — awoke to find himself, poetically 
 speaking, a dead corpse. Perhaps he was more 
 unfortunate than Othello, in that his " occupation " 
 remained. He became more laborious than ever, 
 and the less people cared for his work, the more 
 care and polish did he bestow on it. It was almost 
 a pathetic sight — or would have been if any 
 spectators had been admitted — to behold him pain- 
 fully putting the finishing touches, by the light of 
 the midnight lamp, to poems never destined to see 
 
THE KING IS DEAD. 243 
 
 the light of day. But indeed his work had always 
 smelt of the candle. Of such writers it need only 
 be said that some candles smell better than others. 
 
 But the necessity for praising some one was innate 
 in Mr. Jones's breast, and, having finished with his 
 late ally, he proceeded to transfer his bland and 
 unctuous worship to Mr. CoUins's little book, which 
 indeed appeared to merit his encomiums. The new 
 poet — how delightful to be told by the anonymous 
 bestower of immortality that one is " the new poet " 
 — took the praise thankfully, and without any 
 suspicion of the motives which had in the first place 
 made him its recipient. He actually — the fact is 
 worth recording — made a little money by his book. 
 It ran rapidly through two editions — not very large 
 ones — and was now going rather slowly through the 
 third, when the young author was surprised to find, 
 from an invitation to dinner which lay one morning 
 on his breakfast table, that the Squire and his 
 daughter were in London. 
 
 Maggie, of course, had been the first person to 
 receive a copy of the new poet's "works," inscribed 
 " with the author s compliments." She commenced 
 the perusal of this second missive with feelings that 
 surprised her, although she had discovered from the 
 first one that she was not insensible. This time the 
 
244 POETS ALL. 
 
 book was almost certainly sentient, and to read it was 
 to talk to the author. To talk to him too as she had 
 never talked to him before, and in a way that she 
 would never before have dreamt that he was capable of 
 appreciating. Her brief and unpromising experience 
 of authors — in the flesh — had not entirely destroyed 
 all reverence for the few who do well what she was 
 unable to persuade herself that she could do at all. 
 We should* be exceedingly thankful that a love for 
 the occupations and amusements of country life — not 
 to mention the more exciting town life — with steam - 
 yachts, race-horses, cricket, and a few other matters 
 of absorbing interest, have made it impossible for 
 everybody to write. Although a poet of old was 
 reported to write his poems '' standing on one foot,'' 
 there are no doubt positions which militate against 
 the practice of writing, to say nothing of composing. 
 Only exceptional individuals could write anything 
 which should be worth reading, or even legible, during 
 the qualms of sea-sickness, or while engaged in the 
 pursuit of the fox. Indeed the want of any regular 
 occupation may be looked on as one of the chief 
 incentives to the writing not only of poems. No 
 doubt boredom has contributed more than its fair 
 quota to the ranks of literary aspirants, and it must 
 be allowed that the writings of a man who, like 
 
THE KING IS DEAD. 245 
 
 Solomon, has been prodigiously bored, are not seldom 
 found to be instructive as well as amusing. 
 
 Maggie bad been in possession of the charmed 
 book but a few days, during which time she read 
 ^nd re-read it to the neglect of other and perhaps 
 healthier occupations, when she began gently — as her 
 way was — to tease her father into going to London. 
 Certainly it was the season, of which a part was 
 generally spent in town ; but this year it had been 
 somehow decided that they should go elsewhere. 
 The good Squire had no greater pleasure in life than 
 to please his daughter, and after wondering for a 
 while that Mag^sfie should be so anxious to transfer 
 herself to the smoky city which she was always so 
 eager to leave after a few days, he consented as a 
 matter of course. He had a little house in the 
 
 neighbourhood of Square, which he sometimes 
 
 let, but which was, fortunately for Maggie's comfort, 
 unoccupied, and for this they started a few days after 
 her wishes became known. No sooner had they 
 settled down after their migration than the Squire 
 was informed that he ought to give a dinner-party. 
 
 "A dinner-party!" he exclaimed — no suggestion 
 of Maggie's ever moved him to anything approaching 
 vexation. '' Who on earth am I to give a dinner- 
 party to, I should like to know^ ? I know nobody I 
 
246 POETS ALL. 
 
 should care to ask, or who if asked would care to 
 come. Certainly old Leatherhead is in town" — 
 Leatherhead was the county member — '" but it is 
 his place, I should think, to ask me. Not that I 
 want him to though." 
 
 " You might ask our old friends, Mr. Corthee and 
 Mr. Jones," said Maggie shyly. 
 
 "I did not know you were so smitten with them," 
 said the Squire, raising his eyebrows. " Even so, 
 two people won't make a dinner-party. It would be 
 quite enough to ask them to lunch, or, if you are so 
 anxious to have them, to afternoon tea. Can t say I 
 care much about them myself." 
 
 Maggie moved to the fire-place, and turning her 
 back on her father, placed her elbows on the mantel- 
 piece and her chin in her hands. If she had looked 
 at herself in the mirror, which she was careful to 
 avoid doing, she would have seen that her cheeks 
 were turning to a bright rosy red. The Squire of 
 course could see nothing ; so that perhaps no one was 
 aware that Maggie was blushing. 
 
 '' You might ask Mr. Collins," she said, without 
 raising her eyes. " It might be a good thing for him 
 to meet people." 
 
 " Hum ! " said the Squire. " I should be pleased, 
 of course — a very decent young chap. I don't suppose. 
 
THE KING IS DEAD. . 247 
 
 though, that he has a dress suit. If he has he only 
 makes three. And how he is to get any good from 
 meeting those others I can't imagine. More likely 
 to get sneered at for his pains." 
 
 Perhaps it was rather disingenuous of Maggie to 
 commence by suggesting the Poet and the Critic, 
 both of whom she rather disliked. She had, too, a 
 conviction — had it been supplied to her by the 
 new book ? — that neither wished well to Mr. Collins. 
 But can a young woman always be ingenuous ? It 
 must be remembered that Maggie was not in the 
 least aware of whither she was tending. Poets — she 
 had uot as yet come across many of them — were not 
 in her estimation to be treated like ordinary beings. 
 They were very different from village school-masters. 
 
 The Squire began to rack his brains to remember 
 a few Daneshire people whom he could invite to the 
 proposed feast. Having failed in this effort, a bright 
 idea dawned upon him. 
 
 " I will go this afternoon," he said, " to the 
 * Immortals.' They were very civil to me last year. 
 I dare say I can find a few men there whom I know. 
 Now you see what you've let yourself in for. You'll 
 have to entertain a lot of young fellows — for I can't 
 — and I wish you well through it." 
 
 Maggie laughed, as well she might. She had not 
 
248 POETS ALL. 
 
 yet had much cause to distrust her powers of enter- 
 taining " young fellows," and indeed — so modest was 
 she — had been more than once surprised at the ease 
 with whirdi it was done. It seemed sufficient to 
 smile and look pleasant. 
 
 The St^uire went forth on his voyage of discovery. 
 " Bother the little puss," he was saying to himself as 
 he walked up the dingy steps, and was admitted 
 through the narrow portal into the sacred precincts 
 of the '' Immortals." The dilapidated hall-porter — 
 there was no hall — arrayed in a worn and frayed 
 livery of sky-blue, informed him that Mr. Jones was 
 within, and a youth was summoned to show the way 
 to the smoking-room. The place, to the Squire's 
 eye, looked nearer dissolution, and so perhaps to 
 Immortality, than on his last visit. The walls of the 
 narrow passage that ran from the front door to the 
 foot of the stairs were thickly lined with coats of 
 every make and material, intended no doubt to exag- 
 gerate and display, or in some few cases to hide the 
 peculiarities of their owners. All sorts of outer 
 coverings were there, from the many-caped and 
 voluminous mantle which might have served a 
 poetical cabman, down to the merest and lightest 
 apology for an overcoat. The hats too were of every 
 shape and fashion, from the velvet billycock of the 
 
THE KING IS DEAD. 249 
 
 poet, who felt that his hat should not be as other 
 men s, to the curly-brimmed top hat of one who had 
 not yet received the encouragement which would 
 justify him in cutting himself adrift from other than 
 " Immortal " society. Hebe, in the form of a foolish 
 scullion, was removing from the dining-room dishes 
 and glasses, presumably with remnants of the modetn 
 substitutes — in appearance not very appetizing — for 
 nectar and ambrosia. 
 
 High up in the attics was situated the smoking- 
 room, and here Mr. Jones was at last run to ground. 
 He was alone, except for a brandy-and-soda, and half 
 asleep in an arm-chair when aroused by the entrance 
 of the visitor. His face had been wearing a hipped 
 and discontented expression — as of a middle-aged 
 Tithonus — which was changed for a look of pleasure 
 as he recognized the Squire. 
 
 "You, Mr. Ellis? of all people," he exclaimed, 
 rising quickly and extending his plump hand. "M^lio 
 would have dreamt of seeing you in town ? I am 
 truly delighted. And how is Miss Ellis ? " 
 
 A greeting evidently so genuine in its friendliness 
 had the natural effect of making the Squire in his 
 turn feel more friendly than he had intended. He 
 had scarce sfot his cig^ar well alis^ht before he had 
 broached the subject of Maggie's dinner-party. The 
 
250 POETS ALL. 
 
 Critic at once accepted the invitation with quite 
 evident eagerness. " By George ! " he was thinking, 
 " I should rather imagine I would go. If it hadn't 
 been for that idiot of a Poet there is no saying what 
 might not have happened. She was awfully nice to 
 me. I wonder if I am quite forgotten." He was 
 unmindful of the fact that until the Squire's unex- 
 pected appearance Maggie had been lately consigned 
 to oblivion. 
 
 Mr. Jones set himself at once to provide the re- 
 quired guests, who, if respectable, he was determined 
 should neither be too handsome nor too brilliant. He 
 was at first a little perplexed by the Squire's disin- 
 clination to have " any more of those poets." 
 
 " But we are all poets here," Mr. Jones had said, 
 ^' or very nearly so." 
 
 " Then," the Squire replied, "I must go elsewhere." 
 
 The matter was compromised later in the afternoon 
 by the acceptance of some young men of whom the 
 'Critic was able to affirm that to the best of his 
 knowledge they had not written anything, and had 
 certainly published nothing. They were, he explained, 
 in statu pu^illari — mere hewers of eulogy, and drawers 
 of admiration. The Squire was taken with their 
 manners, which were as yet unaffected ; and Mr. 
 Jones was satisfied in that they were neither clever 
 
THE KING IS DEAD. 251 
 
 nor good-looking — in fact, one of them had a decided 
 squint. They appeared, as they doubtless felt, sur- 
 prised at receiving an invitation to dinner from a 
 stranger after a few minutes' conversation in a club 
 smoking-room, but their awe of the Critic — as one 
 whose services they intended one day to utilize — 
 induced them civilly to accept. 
 
 The Squire returned home in capital spirits. He 
 was always happy v/hen he had done anything that 
 he thought would please Maggie. 
 
 He was received with a kiss which, to his surprise, 
 was no warmer than usual, when he related the 
 success of his mission, and his daughter seemed to 
 have forgotten all about the dinner-party, as to 
 which she could not be induced to say a word. The 
 Squire stared and wondered, but had all his life 
 been too unobservant of such matters to be able 
 to explain her sudden coolness. He went to bed 
 feeling, as he put it, that he had made an old fool 
 of himself. 
 
 " Bother the little puss !'' he muttered to himself 
 as he went up-stairs. " I can't make head or tail of 
 her." 
 
 In course of post a rather cool note of accept- 
 ance arrived from his quondam school-master. The 
 Squire had expected something more grateful and 
 
252 POETS ALL. 
 
 gushing, but he held his peace as Maggie seemed 
 perfectly satisfied. Mr. Corthee politely declined. 
 He would have liked much to meet his cousin again, 
 but had no wish to do so in the company of Mr. 
 Jones, whom he had got to hate with a vehemence 
 which would have been useful to his art, which 
 had for the most part to get on without any such 
 impulse. Maggie's " image," however, had' never 
 ceased to be present with him. But for the ridicu- 
 lous scene in the garden, when the striped knicker- 
 bockers of his then friend and critic had appeared 
 at the opposite door, there was no saying how far 
 his "passion" might have carried him. He had 
 since seen, of course, that such a sudden declaration 
 would have been absurd, and must have resulted in 
 a refusal. He had intended to pay another visit to 
 Daneshire, on the " kill or cure " principle, but 
 had never yet found the necessary courage. A 
 second sio*ht of the one who at first sioht took one 
 
 o o 
 
 captive, frequently, no doubt, acts as a release. You 
 are in a different humour, or, more probably, she is ; 
 or that legacy from your, or her, aunt was not forth- 
 coming ; or her eyes are not quite so bright as you 
 fancied them, or — well, you see the folly of it. It 
 is odd that it is never the impossibility of these 
 things that one sees. It was exceedingly doubtful, 
 
THE KING LS DEAD. 253 
 
 however, whether, in the exceptional case of Maggie, 
 a second visit would not have the effect of causing 
 the captive to fall into still more hopeless captivity. 
 This probability was not overlooked by the Poet, 
 who at the present crisis in his fortunes was anxious 
 to avail himself of any promising material for his 
 mill. He had done his best to make the first 
 occasion of their meeting useful in his profession, 
 and had indeed worked up the description of his 
 imaginary torments in language which even Dante 
 would have found it difficult to improve on. He 
 was faintly aware that he had made a mistake in 
 leaving out Maggie. He would see what he could 
 do with her when he met her again. In the 
 meantime he cursed his cowardice in leaving her to 
 " that fellow Jones." 
 
254 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE CRITIC IS MAGNANIMOUS. 
 
 The day of the Squire's dinner-party duly 
 arrived, and the ex-school-master was the first of 
 the guests to put in an appearance. Though he 
 had answered the Squire's note so coolly, he had 
 been ever since its receipt in a state of feverish joy 
 and anticipation quite becoming to a poet. Absence 
 had certainly not had on him the healing effect with 
 which it is so often credited — but it is the women 
 perhaps to whom it ministers. Besides his antici- 
 pated meeting with Maggie he had another reason 
 for happiness which would have caused his not very 
 hopeful landlady, had she been aware of it, to dis- 
 card him for ever. In the Standard of that morning 
 had appeared a long and appreciative review of his 
 book, to the new poet's intense surprise. So lavish, 
 indeed, was the praise, that Mr. Collins, who for a 
 poet had yet quite a fair amount of modesty, felt 
 
THE CRITIC LS MAGNANIMOUS. 255 
 
 shocked. Who was he to be placed on a pedestal 
 high above all others? He was unaware, in his 
 innocence, that these promotions are often made from 
 motives which have very little to do with either 
 rhyme or reason, and that the promoted one is not 
 infrequently deposed even more suddenly than he 
 was exalted. It must be his merit, he thought, 
 which had made him, as he considered it, famous. 
 Doubtless there were worthy men on the look-out 
 for genius — he blushed at the word — and all that 
 was said of the jealous and unkind ways of critics 
 must be untrue. 
 
 He had just time to exchange greetings with 
 Maggie and her father when Mr. Jones was ushered 
 in. He looked so different from the |_Mr. Jones of 
 the red knickerbockers that Mr. Collins did not 
 recognize him in the least ; nor on his side had the 
 Critic the slightest recollection of the young man 
 whom he had met for a few minutes in the village 
 school. On the Squire's introducing them, Mr. 
 Jones of course became aware that he was in the 
 presence of his most recent creation. He looked on 
 the young man with some pride, and as a tailor may 
 survey the client whom he considers he has made 
 — as no doubt very often happens — by his skill. 
 He at once took on the genial, fatherly manner 
 
256 POETS ALL, 
 
 which he reserved for Ins new clients. Most of 
 these, while they resented the patronizing air, were 
 aware of the service which had evoked it. In fact 
 Mr. Jones was not accustomed to hide his light 
 under a bushel. It was never very Long before the 
 astonished deity was informed of the personality 
 of the head- worshipper — the author, so to speak, of 
 the new religion. Mr. Collins, however, was puzzled 
 at Mr. Jones's air of proprietorship. " He means 
 well, no doubt," he was thinking ; '' but what a bore 
 the fellow is." The Critic was beaming on him like 
 the good uncle in a play. He had intended by his 
 review merely to give the finishing blow to Mr. 
 Corthee, but he would not refuse the credit of 
 having performed a kind action at the same time. 
 So this was the young school-master he had met at 
 Beddington. A slight feeling of uneasiness came 
 over him as he recalled the look the school-master 
 had given him as he entered the school . He had 
 afterwards thought it absurd to put this down to 
 jealousy, but here was the young man again, and it 
 was impossible to say how often Maggie and he 
 might not have met lately. He talked for a few 
 minutes to his latest creation. " You will do now," 
 were his words as he moved away. 
 
 He was strengthened in his idea that Maggie and 
 
THE CRITIC IS MAGNANIMOUS. 257 
 
 young Collins must have met frequently by the 
 assurance with which the latter came forward on the 
 announcement of dinner with the offer of his arm. 
 Here was a change indeed ! Charles Collins was 
 not in the least conscious of any presumption, of 
 which he was one of the last to be willingly guilty. 
 But he simply could not keep away. Mr. Jones 
 could not perceive any reluctance in Maggie to her 
 escort, and it would have been hard to see what she 
 certainly was very far from feeling. Mr. Jones con- 
 tented himself, since he could get no better, with 
 taking the seat on her other hand. No sooner had 
 dinner commenced than Maggie and her other neigh- 
 bour began to converse. Mr. Jones listened with all 
 his ears, and was rewarded by the discovery that the 
 conversation was very commonplace indeed. Unfor- 
 tunately he had not the clue which might have 
 enabled him to read between the lines. When 
 Maggie asked in a low voice, " How do you like 
 London ? " she meant — though she knew it not — 
 " Have you forgotten Beddington ? What a time it 
 seems since you left it ! " When he replied that he 
 liked London — how he hated it a week ago ! — he 
 meant, " I love it now that I am sitting beside you." 
 To the young man's poetic sense the contact, the 
 touch of the gauzy white dress was simply enthralling. 
 
258 POETS ALL. 
 
 Mr. Jones was quite as near on the other side — 
 even closer, as he bulged more over his chair — but 
 he felt nothing, and may possibly have been sur- 
 prised and vexed at the discovery. As he found, 
 from the few words that reached him, that they had 
 not met since the young school-master left Bed- 
 dington, he was puzzled to account for the evident 
 understanding between them. They were for the 
 most part silent. So also was Mr. Jones, but his 
 time was well occupied in discussing the excellent 
 dinner. Maggie and Mr. Collins, though they were 
 so silent, did not apparently require earthly food. 
 Mr. Jones began to think the dinner a bore, for indeed 
 to a man of his sort no silence can ever be very 
 golden. Even to other people it must be the silence 
 of the girl you love and who is sitting near you. 
 Of course there are people, not very old ones either, 
 who prefer their dinner — when it is a good one — to 
 all else. When at last Maggie repented of what she 
 considered her rudeness, and turned guiltily to talk 
 to the Critic, the latter chose to feel annoyed by and 
 ignore her conversation. 
 
 " I might have saved my labour," he was thinking. 
 " Confound the fellow, I have given him a leg up and 
 no mistake.'' But his disgust was not of long con- 
 tinuance. Maggie persisted in her efforts to soothe 
 
THE CRITIC IS MAGNANIMOUS. 259 
 
 him — she was not without an inkling of the state of 
 affairs — and a good dinner, combined with a certain 
 amount of deference paid one by a charming girl, 
 will work wonders. By degrees he began to smile to 
 himself. When Mao^me left the room he had never 
 seemed in a more genial mood. '' I'll be good- 
 natured and help him/' he was saying to himself. 
 He turned the conversation to the new book, and so 
 praised it to the skies that the Squire began to 
 think his ex-school-master the c^reatest grenius under 
 heaven. The young man listened in a state of con- 
 fused wonder. Could this be so ? Was it all true, 
 and true of him ? If any doubts of the Critic's 
 sincerity troubled him, they were put aside as we put 
 aside all opinions — especially our own — with which 
 it is convenient to disagree. As the young literary- 
 men-to-be who were present chimed in with wishes 
 for success that they felt sure were deserved, he longed 
 to make the round of the table and shake hands with 
 his new and fervent admirers. 
 
 Mr. Jones took leave rather early, and walked 
 home alone, not feeling particularly jovial, but 
 having accepted the inevitable. " That ass the Poet " 
 would be out of it too. He decided he did not 
 really want a wife. What should he do with a wife ? 
 Maggie would object to appearing in the photo- 
 
260 POETS ALL. 
 
 grapliers' windows. How could he give up his ckib ? 
 It would be a burning shame to leave Maggie alone, 
 and go off to a club. Sour grapes, no doubt, but 
 the fox really thought them sour. Maggie's manner 
 too was a little provincial. She would want him to 
 hunt ; no more of that, thank you. He wondered 
 how young Collins would like it. Altogether there 
 were sufficient reasons for generosity. As he took 
 out his latch-key he was able to contemplate the 
 possibility of uttering, at no very distant date, the 
 time-honoured formula, '' Bless you, my children." 
 
261 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 LONG LIVE THE KING. 
 
 No Radical wire-puller could have worked harder 
 to secure the election to Parliament of an incapable 
 windbag than did Mr. Jones to obtain recognition 
 for the newest and only poet. In doing so he was 
 — as is generally found to be the case — actuated by 
 mixed motives. Of these, as the best are seldom 
 without alloy, the worst are seldom altogether mean. 
 No doubt the chief motive — without which indeed 
 the others might not have come into operation — was 
 to spite Mr. Corthee. He was also anxious to prove 
 — if only to himself — that he was unhurt by Maggie's 
 evident preference for the new lion. But besides 
 these he was moved by a really genuine wish to be 
 of service to a lover, even if not yet accepted, of 
 whose position he almost persuaded himself he was 
 not envious. The frequency with which the prac- 
 tised critic had elevated to the front rank unfortunate 
 
262 POETS ALL. 
 
 poets (whom he had shortly discovered reasons for 
 deposing) made the operation easier to him than 
 would have been the shelling of the proverbial peas. 
 The enormous number of reviews and notices that 
 appeared almost simultaneously was as remarkable 
 as the similarity of the terms in which they were 
 indited. Indeed any voracious reader who should 
 have been so fortunate as to make acquaintance 
 with them all would have been of opinion that if 
 there was — as appeared to be the case — but one 
 poetical creed, so also was there but one prophet of 
 the new religion. Notices of *'the new poet" for 
 that season took the place of gigantic gooseberries, 
 and of toads — whose rocky places of sepulture penny- 
 a-liners seemed to have lost the knack of discover- 
 ing. In fact a good many people got bored. Not 
 however before they had been worried into buying 
 the new book, which soon became the fashion. Per- 
 haps to be over-praised is as demoralizing as to 
 be undervalued. There is the sure and inevitable 
 reaction when the very people who were loudest in 
 singing your praises are the first to proclaim that 
 tliey have been imposed on. So they have been 
 perhaps — and by themselves. 
 
 It may be doubted whether Mn Collins was suffi- 
 ciently worldly-wise to see the advisability of taking 
 
LONG LIVE THE KING. 263 
 
 pigs to market before they fell in value, but the 
 reaction would not be yet, and in the meantime he 
 rode gaily on the top of the wave. He saw a good 
 deal of Maggie in these days. Whether the Squire 
 had an idea that poets differed from common people, 
 in that they were incapable of feeling the passion of 
 which they chiefly discoursed, is uncertain. He was 
 wrong if he supposed that his old proUg6 had any 
 insuperable objection to being further introduced to 
 feelings of which his writings proved him to be not 
 without some knowledge. But the lovers did. not 
 approach one another as rapidly as might have been 
 expected from the strength of the first attraction. 
 There are positions — or larks seem to think so — in 
 which it is pleasing to hover motionless with ex- 
 tended wings. It is doubtful whether any rapture 
 to be experienced afterwards will surpass or equal 
 the first timid, bashful admittance of the new joy. 
 At first, and while one at least may be in ignorance 
 of the full meaning of the new sensations, there is 
 an approach towards heaven which mortals not often 
 rise to. Hover on poised wings while ye may, ye 
 lovers ; the nest to which you will descend is on the 
 ground. 
 
 But the time came when the Squire got tired to 
 death of London, and when even the reflected glory 
 
264 POETS ALL. 
 
 of haviiu;' a poet about the house, who had once 
 been his village school- master, did not compensate 
 for the loss of country air. He began to feel that 
 he would gladly give up all these delights to be 
 leaning once more over the door of the pig-sty at 
 the Home Farm, scratching with his stick the backs 
 of those lovely little Berkshires, who would by this 
 time have grown out of all knowledge. Even if 
 he was not to be allowed to go home, it was abso- 
 lutely necessary, he felt, that he should go to some 
 place a little more like the country than was London 
 in the season. 
 
 Possibly Maggie was answerable for the choice — 
 instead of a return to Beddington — of a watering- 
 place not so remote from the great city but that it 
 would be easy for a friend, should he wish to do so, 
 to run down on Saturday and stay till Monday. 
 The S([uire made no objection, though had the 
 matter been left to him, he might have wished to 
 go further afield. I have my doubts whether he 
 was quite as innocent as he appeared to be of the 
 point to which affairs were tending. At this time 
 I imagine that he was a little dazzled with all the 
 honour and glory that the reviews were piling upon 
 his young friend. He knew little of literary society, 
 or of the causes — frequently quite independent of 
 
LONG LIVE THE KING. 265 
 
 literary merit or the reverse — which elevate to or 
 depose from the pinnacles of Fame. He must 
 surely have seen something, though it is the custom 
 of the British father to shut his eyes to these 
 things. It mattered little, for if he thought about 
 the matter at all, it was probably to decide not to 
 think about it — at present. 
 
 He was not one of those who like thinking, or who 
 — except in very exceptional cases — see any good at 
 all in the habit. Thinking about an evil — yet he 
 would not call it an evil — which you cannot possibly 
 prevent is the most foolish tliinking of any. He 
 only knew that he had never refused Maggie any- 
 thing, and that he was not going to begin now. 
 What he should do at Gaybeach, where there were 
 no amusements at all, he could not imagine. Perhaps 
 when they arrived there he would have to think. 
 He preferred to take things as they came. The 
 selection by an immortal of a consort from among 
 the daughters of men was no doubt of old considered 
 as flattering as it generally proved dangerous to the 
 object. If his daughter intended offering herself a 
 willing sacrifice there would be little chance that 
 any attempt of his would dissuade her, and the less 
 that the attempt would never be made. He would 
 make up his mind — as those dreadful old stoics used 
 
266 POETS ALL. 
 
 to accept these little matters — to the deprivation. 
 Yet it was hard — it would be hard — to lose his pet. 
 Perhaps he may be pardoned — he was getting into 
 years — for thinking that in the end it would be 
 harder for the pet. Yet Maggie after all might elect 
 to stay with him. Even so there are pets — pet 
 lambs, for example — which are taken away against 
 their wills. He began to wonder that he had pever 
 thought of this before. He was not a man — he 
 supposed — to be affected by sufferings which did 
 not touch him or his. We are indeed accustomed 
 to take with equanimity — if not altogether without 
 interest — the tragedies that effect the lives of others. 
 So it happened that, on their way to Gay beach, the 
 Squire and his daughter found themselves at Vic- 
 toria Station with — owing to having missed a train, 
 which also was owing to Maggie's dilatoriness over 
 her packing — two hours to spare. 
 
 Thouojh waitinsf at the crowded station was tedious 
 work, the Squire could not help thinking that it was 
 probably far livelier than any adventures he would 
 encounter at the seaside. But what on earth was 
 to be done ? Maggie and he had partaken of a 
 hurried lunch before leaving, but rather than stand 
 about doing nothing for two hours, he would lunch 
 again. When he suggested their doing so, Maggie 
 
LONG LIVE THE KING. 267 
 
 at first rebelled, but taking pity afterwards on her 
 father she went with him into the empty dining-room, 
 having first vowed that she would not be tempted 
 to eat anything. And indeed the temptations, to one 
 who was not in the least hungry, were not very 
 overpowering. The meats, sodden with perpetual 
 stewings, were more provocative of dyspepsia than 
 appetite, and even the Squire's knife and fork were 
 soon idle. Just as he was in the act of laying them 
 down, Maggie and he were aware of some animal 
 that ran hastily across the room and took, as it were, 
 refuge under the table at which they were seated. 
 There was a pattering as of little hoofs on the un- 
 carpeted floor. The Squire stooped to look under 
 the table ; as he did so the waiter rushed up with 
 his napkin under his arm, and the carver threw down 
 his knife and fork, and came hurriedly from behind 
 his bar. They were joined by the cook, who rushed, 
 in a breathless state of excitement, from the inner 
 regions, and the three together stooped down in the 
 corner of the room adjoining the Squire's table. 
 After a rather prolonged scuffle, during which sounds 
 were heard as of a child in distress, the tliree retired 
 triumphantly, bearing aloft in procession the prettiest 
 little white pig, with just one little brown spot over 
 one of his little pink eyes. He looked as clean as a 
 
268 POETS ALL. 
 
 new pin. It was a strange pet, thought the Squire, 
 yet doubtless he could be trained into a very learned 
 and intelligent one. Just as the pet was disappearing 
 with his bearers through the open door, from whence 
 he had scampered forth so hopefully, to the Squire's 
 surprise the little pig uplift his voice and wept. Was 
 it imagination, or did the little pink eye glance in 
 Maofoie's direction in mute and, alas ! ineffectual 
 appeal ? " Is this to happen," the look seemed to 
 ask, " in a Christian country ? " 
 
 The Squire would have thought no more of the 
 occurrence had not the necessity of killing time 
 brought him once more into the dining-room about 
 an hour afterwards. While he stood by the door 
 looking up at the clock, which admonished him that 
 his train would soon be leaving, the cook brought in 
 a new dish — two or three diners had just made their 
 appearance — and the carver came forward, flourishing 
 his knife, and removed the cover. The Squire 
 glanced, with the critical eye of one who had dined 
 already, to see what fare had been provided for the 
 new-comers. Seated on the dish, in a posture of 
 repose, smoking hot, with a lemon in his mouth, and 
 surrounded by a sea of gravy, was the little white 
 pig with one brown spot over his left eye. He looked 
 round, but Maggie was not in sight. '' Iphigenia," 
 
LONG LIVE THE KINO. 269 
 
 lie muttered, " was nothing to this/' It was strange 
 how he was affected by the incident. At least he 
 determined that he would not act the part of the 
 cruel waiter, or the still more cruel carver. As long 
 as Maggie chose to stay with him she should not be 
 sacrificed to anybody. 
 
270 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MAGGIE IS WITNESS TO A LOVE SCENE. 
 
 When the Squire and his daughter arrived at 
 Gaybeach, the former found the place even duller 
 than he had anticipated, but he had made up his 
 mind not to grumble. He attached himself to 
 Maggie more like an elderly lover than a mere 
 father, and it was impossible that she could avoid 
 being touched by a show of affection of which she 
 may have comprehended the motive. " If you are 
 going to leave me," it meant, "it shall not be because 
 you do not know how much I wish you to stay." 
 The energy that he manifested in the pursuit of 
 amusement had the effect of very quickly bringing 
 them to the end of all possible excursions on the 
 land-side. Even his desire to please Maggie could 
 not overcome his hatred of the sea. 
 
 One Saturday afternoon he hired a dog-cart and 
 drove Maggie over to Bishom, an amphibious village 
 
MAGGIE IS WITNESS TO A LOVE SCENE. 271 
 
 on a creek a few miles off, whicli he had been told 
 was worth seeing. In front of the old inn where 
 they put up was a common with the usual geese. 
 On the edge of the common a schooner was being 
 built, the process being partly carried on beneath the 
 spreading boughs of an enormous oak. A number 
 of farm-labourers were, very deliberately — as their 
 nature is — unloading coal from a smack. In front 
 of the inn ran a clear stream bordered with water- 
 cresses. The stream turned a water-mill before 
 joining the brackish waters of the creek. No doubt 
 this would be one of the last mills to cling to the 
 use of the generally superseded mill-stones. In a 
 few years parsons will have to forego the well-worn 
 texts in which mention of these occur, and to discard 
 some ancient sermons when they come to the top of 
 the " tub," but what moral prophets and others will 
 be able to draw from American imported steel-rollers 
 is hard to say. To the right of the water-mill was 
 a farm-yard with the usual buildings, through the 
 gaps in which appeared glimpses of water instead of 
 green fields. The eye everywhere came on some- 
 thing unexpected. In the misty distance could be 
 seen the low land which bordered the creek, and the 
 little trees which looked like men walking at the 
 edge of the water. Behind the old inn was an older 
 
272 POETS ALL. 
 
 church among tall elms. It had a quaint brick 
 porch, which will doubtless be '' restored " one day. 
 Inside — though the Squire was unaware of the fact 
 — was buried a daughter of Canute, whose figure, 
 as represented on her tombstone, was of somewhat 
 remarkable shape, and of no very striking beauty. 
 Possibly it was by the shore of this creek that 
 Canute rebuked the legendary flatteries of his 
 courtiers. So slowly did the tide come in that the 
 courtiers — to say nothing of the royal moralist — 
 must have had occasion for the exercise of consider- 
 able patience. 
 
 As the Squire and his daughter were standing 
 with their backs to the creek, looking across the 
 common at the church and the tall elms which 
 might have been a hundred miles inland, a man 
 came out of the farm-yard with a yoke on his 
 shoulders, which supported on each side a full pail of 
 milk. The farm-labourer was dressed like a sailor, 
 in high sea-boots and blue jersey. With his blue 
 eyes and red beard he might have been — perhaps 
 was — a descendant of Canute. After the fashion of 
 sailors on shore he seemed to think that land 
 business could not be done in too leisurely a manner. 
 He sat down, without unhooking his pails or taking 
 the yoke from his shoulders, on a big log of timber 
 
MAGGIE IS WITNESS TO A LOVE SCENE. 273 
 
 which appeared to have been diverted from its 
 original shipbuilding purpose in order that it iiyght 
 make a rustic seat for the neighbourhood, and looked 
 dreamily across the creek. It seemed almost as if 
 he was waiting for the cream to rise, but there was 
 perhaps more method in his laziness than is generally 
 the case. He had not been seated for more than ten 
 minutes or so with his large red hands still clasping 
 the handles of the pails which stood one on each side 
 of his knees, when the door of one of the cottages 
 on the other side of the brook opened slowly, and a 
 young woman with a tin can in her hand came out. 
 She sauntered slowly towards the log of timber — 
 all the while as if she was in reality going some 
 other way — and seating herself at the end opposite 
 to that which was occupied by the amphibious- 
 looking milkman, began to twist her can about in the 
 sun. She too looked straight across the creek, but 
 it is doubtful whether she saw anything. Her com- 
 panion — about live yards off — stole one look at her 
 (of which she was perfectly cognizant) and then 
 resumed contemplation — perhaps not very genuine — 
 of his enforced substitute for the ocean. The Squire 
 looked at Maggie with a smile on his lips. Maggie 
 was wistfully regarding the couple on the log. It 
 was as if they had chosen their places with a view 
 
274 POETS ALL. 
 
 to " see-saw," and were waiting for some one to come 
 and balance the log. Maggie was thinking that if 
 this was " courting," it was carried on in a way which 
 erred on the side of quietness. It is hard to look on 
 at a game badly played, and at which we consider 
 we should be capable of shining, without feeUng a 
 wish to enter the arena and improve on the perform- 
 ance. If Maggie, the Squire was thinking, was only 
 wooed in this calm fashion, there would be no great 
 harm done. He had no fear that Maggie would be 
 won without the importation of a little more energy. 
 And yet, truth to say, the red-bearded man's pro- 
 cedure bore no slight resemblance to the way in 
 which he had done his own wooing. After a minute 
 or two, during which the possible descendant of 
 Canute made no more advance than the log on 
 which he was sitting, the young woman suddenly 
 moved a little nearer and held out her can. Probably 
 it was in this way that the little game was always 
 played. In fact the spectators had an impression as 
 of previous rehearsals. The milkman of course put 
 out his left hand to take the can, and this movement 
 apparently imposed on tlie young woman the neces- 
 sity of coming a little nearer. Then — and the per- 
 fecting of this manoeuvre must have taken consider- 
 able practice — his right arm stole round her waist. 
 
MAGGIE IS WITNESS TO A LOVE SCENE. 275 
 
 he drew her nearer still, stooped over and kissed 
 her, while with his left hand he dipped the little can 
 into the pail that stood on his far side. The little 
 idyll was getting vastly more interesting. Maggie 
 blushed — I wonder why — as the young woman took 
 back her full can without any perceptible attempt at 
 wriggling her waist out of the clasp of the young 
 milkman's arm, and set it down on the other side of 
 her. Fot a few minutes they sat perfectly still, and 
 then the red moustache and beard came down upon 
 the young Avomans face again. When they were at 
 last taken off she moved a little away, gave her head 
 a toss and a shake, settled her hair, put aside the 
 young man's arm — which else might have grown 
 there — rose slowly, took up her can, and went home 
 across the brook. When she had been gone two or 
 three minutes the sailor wiped his mouth with the 
 back of his hand, rose with his pails — he had never 
 parted from the latter ; a warning perhaps of what 
 the young woman (who had parted so readily with 
 her can) might one day expect — and went his way. 
 
 On their return to Gaybeach it seemed natural 
 that the Squire and Maggie should see Mr. Collins 
 standing at the door of their house, and looking 
 anxiously down the street. Probably from having 
 had his wits sharpened and his memory awakened 
 
276 POETS ALL. 
 
 by the little scene at the creek, the Squire watched 
 the young man closely as he came forward to greet 
 them. He came to the conclusion that there was 
 nothing especially noticeable, but this comforted 
 him but slightly, since to the young woman at the 
 creek the greeting would probably have appeared 
 unduly obstreperous. He blamed himself, too late, 
 for having been so weak as to give what he remem- 
 bered was quite a cordial invitation. But, indeed, 
 the men who are most in the habit of giving cordial 
 invitations — in order temporarily to get rid of you — 
 are the very people who most sincerely repent of 
 their weakness when the time arrives for meeting 
 the promissory note. Unless the visitor had formed 
 the plan for his own happiness with which he was 
 credited by the Squire, would he have made his 
 appearance so soon ? Maggie was almost certainly 
 the attraction. ''Unless,'' thought Mr. ElHs, "he 
 has come down tj see me ; " but after a look at his 
 daughter he decided that even the young men of the 
 present generation were not quite so silly as that. 
 He had never given Mr. Collins credit for being 
 sillier than the majority. It was seldom that 
 he gave a thought to Maggie's looks — praise of a 
 daughter's beauty is almost of the kind which is said 
 to be no recommendation — but it was impossible to 
 
MAGOTE IS WITNESS TO A LOVE SCENE. 277 
 
 avoid seeing that she was charming, and, except for 
 the present crisis, he had no desire she should be 
 otherwise. For" this once she might surely have 
 been content to appear a little less lovely. Charlie, 
 too — no doubt it would soon be " Charlie " — some- 
 thing had improved him. He had always been 
 handsome, but now — well, there was a good deal in 
 his looks that most girls would admire, and if his 
 looks had been less in his favour there was the 
 fellow's mind — confound his mind ! Maorme was not, 
 of course, like '* most girls." Even as the Squire 
 tried to lay this flattering unction to his soul, he was 
 aware of a suspicion that there was one point in 
 which the most superior of young women differed 
 not greatly from her inferiors. 
 
278 
 
 CHAPTER XXVT. 
 
 A SEASIDE WALK. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and after putting in an 
 exemplary appearance at the little church, crammed 
 unpleasantly with residents and visitors, there was 
 the afternoon to be got through. To people who have 
 the fine old English objection to amusing themselves 
 on Sundays this time is perhaps — with the exception 
 occasionally of the evening — the dullest portion of 
 the week. The Squire, after his unaccustomed early 
 dinner, would have liked to go to sleep. He went 
 as near it as he dared when he declined the walk 
 which was the only obvious alternative. It is not 
 too much to say that Maggie really wished for his 
 company. To be alone with Mr. Collins was rather 
 more than she felt prepared for. She had arrived at 
 feeling very happy in his society, but preferred as 
 yet that the pleasure should be shared by a third 
 party. Three was better, or safer company, she felt, 
 
A SEASIDE WALK. 279 
 
 than two. She blushed when the young man asked 
 her shyly if she would walk with him. He was 
 careful — or thought he was — not to alarm her with 
 any preknowledge of what he had made up his 
 mind should occur before their return. But a hint 
 or two could not but peep out from the blue eyes 
 that were sparkling with no anticipation of defeat. In 
 fact he would have been more than mortal if the 
 praises with which he had recently been exalted 
 had not had the effect of removing any feeling 
 of humility with which he might once have been 
 troubled. He felt tolerably secure of his ow^n 
 future, and the offer to share it with another 
 savoured in his opinion more of generosity than 
 presumption. 
 
 There are occasions when the blessedness of s^ivincr 
 is not greater than that of receiving, because they 
 are one and the same. A short time ago a country 
 squire had seemed to him a great personage, and 
 his daughter unapproachable by one who had been 
 a village school-master. Squires, and their daughters, 
 might still be the same, but he had changed. 
 Rather his merits had been discovered — which was 
 the same thing. Recognition raises a man more 
 than a legacy or a baronetcy — greatly more than 
 a knighthood. Squires are of the earth earthy. 
 
280 POETS ALL. 
 
 Some sorts of fame were earthy enough too, no 
 doubt, but the sort to which he aspired, and to 
 which his way seemed cleared, was as much above 
 worldly riches or position as heaven is above the 
 earth. It would also he hoped bring, if not riches, 
 a modest competence with it. This, he felt, would 
 be delightful. To have the satisfaction of soaring in 
 spirit high above money-grubbers, and yet to obtain 
 the goal of their grimy and uninteresting toil, would 
 be indeed to make the best — as some bishops are 
 said to do — of both worlds. But he was thinking 
 little about money. To do him justice he would 
 have taken Maggie without a penny, and — so foolish 
 was he — without having himself the prospect of 
 earning one. And let people say what they like 
 about prudence and all that, he is a poor lover — I 
 grant him a very common one — who can be deterred 
 from daring anything by a vision of patched clothes 
 or hashed mutton — the latter a dish that well-cooked 
 is far from despicable — or who does not remember 
 that, should the worst come to the worst, there are 
 palatial mansions (pending the establishment of 
 compulsory old-age pensions) in which poor lovers 
 whom age has overtaken will have ample time for 
 meditating over, if not for repenting of, their folly. 
 As the two started for their walk the Squire 
 
A SEASIDE WALK. 281 
 
 watched them from the doorstep with a wistful 
 look on his face such as we have seen on that of the 
 faithful dog whose owner had just ordered him, 
 rather roughly, to "go home." We are unable to 
 tell the exact depth of even an educated dog's 
 feelinofs, but there is no doubt that some of them 
 feel any slight very acutely. The Squire had the 
 additional pain of knowing that he had himself to 
 thank for the desertion which he was deploring. Or 
 was it a pleasure to know that he was paining him- 
 self for Maggie's sake ? Certain it is that he was 
 in some way comforted, for, though he turned back 
 to the house with a sigh, it was not a ver}^ deep 
 one, and as he settled down to the perusal of The 
 Field, there were no signs on his face of the anguish 
 which should be the portion of loving parents who 
 sacrifice their daughters. After a while he strolled 
 out into the villao^e — for it was nothiniJ: more. 
 Passing one of the little houses which had been 
 vacated by its owner for " the season," he caught a 
 glimpse through the hedge of a little party — pre- 
 sumably not of ultra-sabbatarian views — which did 
 not appear to be troubled with enmii. On a bench 
 placed in the shade of a trellised cottage were com- 
 fortably seated a youthful couple, the parents, no 
 doubt, of the three children who were disporting 
 
282 POETS ALL. 
 
 themselves on the lawn. The not very careworn 
 progenitors were regarding, not entirely without 
 interest, the gambols of their offspring. But the 
 figure on which the Squire's eyes rested longest was 
 that of a tall, very thin, and extremely melancholy- 
 looking old gentleman — almost certainly the grand- 
 father or great-grandfather — who was throwing him- 
 self into what seemed dangerous contortions for the 
 children's amusement. The feat which they most 
 loudly ajDplauded, and the repetition of which they 
 demanded over and over again, w^as the taking of 
 three, or even four tennis-balls in his gaunt hand, and 
 jerking them together into the air from behind his 
 back, whence they fell in unexpected places and 
 frequently on the delighted children's heads. As the 
 Squire gazed at the venerable and ghostly juggler, 
 whom he expected every moment to see fall to pieces, 
 he wondered if a time would come when Maggie and 
 " Charlie " would sit calmly in the shade of the 
 house — his house — while he went through a per- 
 formance as amusing — and dangerous — as that of 
 which he was now a spectator. Well, even if it was 
 to be so, so long as it gave Maggie pleasure what 
 would his old joints matter ? No doubt he would 
 have to do something of the sort while Mr. Collins 
 wrote his poetry. Poets, he thought sarcastically, 
 
A SEASIDE WALK. 283 
 
 can only juggle with words. He felt pleased that 
 at all events his prospective son-in-law's forte was 
 not comic verse, and that therefore he would not 
 be likely to be "taken off," as the very laugh- 
 able father-in-law, in the act of going through his 
 performance. 
 
 He tore himself away from the suggestive tableau 
 and passed on into the country. He walked farther 
 than he had intended, and as he re-passed the cot- 
 tage the shades of evening were falling. He looked 
 once more through the hedge. The youthful couple 
 had retired indoors, having probably found it chilly 
 outside ; but the ardour of the children had by no 
 means abated, and the veteran was still unhurt, and, 
 rather wearily as it seemed, was performing his 
 celebrated " four-ball-trick " for perhaps the thou- 
 sandth time. The Squire's features as he passed 
 on — ^this time without stopping — wore a sardonic 
 smile. He was not a humorous man, but we should 
 be thankful that some of us are so happily con- 
 stituted as to be able to appreciate the comedies in 
 which we are, or are likely to be, the chief actors, 
 and so may be considered fairly secure of a never- 
 ending source of enjoyment. 
 
 Maggie and her companion started off — the former 
 stopping once or twice to wave farewell to her father, 
 
284 POETS ALL. 
 
 ^vho was still visible on the doorstep — along the top 
 of the low chalk cliff, hardly worthy of the name, 
 which bounded the bay. They conversed in mono- 
 syllables, and their jejune remarks did not stray 
 beyond the weather, or at all events the view, in 
 which there was nothing in the least remarkable. 
 The calm expanse of ocean without a sail on its 
 flat bosom was not inspiriting, while on the other 
 side the short barley which bordered the path was 
 prematurely whitened by the east wind. Mr. Collins 
 would have been glad to enliven matters, but no 
 subject occurred to him save the one for the intro- 
 duction of which he was rather, to his suriDrise, 
 unprepared. When the ocean and the barley-field 
 had been briefly discussed, a solemn silence reigned, 
 broken only by the occasional cry, it might almost 
 have been the laughter, of a gull. Not a soul was 
 in sight. It was as if heaven and earth had 
 combined — consents cetJier conmthiis — to afford the 
 opportunity which one at least of the two desired. 
 But it appeared to both that the chance would 
 lapse for the want of a few words. Even the greatest 
 derider of the long speeches in which lovers — 
 in fiction — indulge when " popping the question," 
 must admit that soQiething, however brief, in the 
 way of speech — or, in the case of deaf mutes, the 
 
A SEASIDE WALK. 285 
 
 deaf-and-dumb alphabet — must be called in before 
 an understanding can be arrived at. Mr. Collins 
 was by no means the first poet whose words, except 
 on paper, declined to " flow apace." Though not 
 given to objurgation he was mildly cursing his folly 
 in not having prepared and committed to memory 
 a little speech — it need not have been in verse. His 
 l^resent need would have been admirably served by 
 the turning of verse into prose — for the occasion. 
 He felt that if he could seat himself for a few 
 minutes at his desk, he would rise with a really 
 first-class and irresistible declaration. He was not 
 one of those who expect that all good things will be 
 given him, but he would have liked a little elo- 
 quence for once. Every day we see good writers 
 talking very poor stuff, and vice versa ; yet the ex- 
 perience profits nothing. People go on, and will go 
 on for ever, making absurd efforts to shine in spheres 
 for which they are unfitted, long after every one 
 else has admitted their incapacity. Yet perhaps 
 examples of writers who could not find a word in 
 the position in which Mr. Collins now found himself 
 are rare. It would be well for young women to 
 remember that fluency on these occasions is no 
 guarantee of sincerity. He would force himself to 
 speak. Once he actually began to articulate some* 
 
286 POETS ALL. 
 
 thing, but at the sound of his own voice he paused 
 abruptly. Maggie, who had a shrewd idea of his 
 difficulty, and thought he had overcome it, stood 
 still. She blushed ; an expectant blush — how could 
 she help it? Then her eyes laughed— how could 
 they help that either? Soon her lips joined in. 
 The smile, which was almost an answer to the 
 speech which was almost uttered, did not unloose 
 the fountain of Mr. Collins' eloquence, because there 
 was no such stream, but it did more, it rendered it 
 superfluous. His eyes caught the look in hers. In 
 a moment they were both laughing — almost. 
 
 " What a moment to laugh ! " some scandalized 
 reader says, but I am of opinion that a correct 
 version of the proposals of even quite superior 
 people would prove vastly amusing — more especi- 
 ally if it were possible to compare what they 
 had intended to say with the reality. What Mr. 
 Collins really said was " Maggie," but he said it 
 in a tone which she thought left little to be desired. 
 Then he naturally put out his hand to take hers, 
 which was of course a little coy. Then he, very 
 boldly — but there is a time for boldness in these 
 affairs — drew her to him, and then he very properly 
 kissed her. After that he may have thought that 
 a little more eloquence would be an improvement, 
 
A SEASIDE WALK. 287 
 
 and this time he said, "Oh, Maggie." The ''Oh !" 
 meant a good deal ; amongst other things, that Air. 
 GoUins was congratulating himself on having made 
 a grand discovery, which he no doubt considered put 
 that of Columbus into the shade. Even the eloquent 
 silence " on a peak of Darien " was nothing to it. 
 He had lit on an unexpected revelation of boundless 
 happiness, to which the Pacific was a narrow and 
 shallow pool. Moreover, the new bliss was capable, 
 he foresaw, of being discovered again and again. 
 There are not many things which, without being 
 discoveries at all, arouse in our breasts the conviction 
 that we are among the world's greatest explorers. 
 As long as the humblest mariner can hoist his flag 
 on a summit which perhaps has never been sighted 
 from the steam-yacht of the millionaire, I don't think 
 he has very much to grumble at. Then, too, the 
 " Oh ! " — if he had only known it — was a decided step 
 on the road towards becoming a poet. Whether Mr. 
 Collins is to be a true poet or not — and we shall soon 
 know all about this — he could certainly never become 
 one without having uttered that exclamation or its 
 equivalent. No one can overlook the new country 
 without being for the moment, or the hour, or the 
 day, or even perhaps for the month, more or less akin 
 to a poet. Those who have never sighted it, and yet 
 
288 POETS ALL. 
 
 pretend to be poets, are miserable humbugs. Let us 
 hope that these exceptions to the rule of *' Poets all " 
 are not very many. 
 
 Little was said during the walk home with the 
 exception of a few more *' Oh's '' and a *' dearest " or 
 two. On their arrival they found that the Squire 
 had returned from his inspection of the veteran 
 gymnast, and the two lovers walked hand-in-hand 
 into the room in which he had resumed his study 
 of The Field, They stood in front of him looking 
 rather sheepish. He lifted his eyes from his paper, 
 and a very brief glance was sufficient to tell him 
 what had occurred. 
 
 '' H'm/' said the Squire, to whom an old age spent 
 "1 j^gglii^g wi^li tennis-balls did not offer insuperable 
 attractions. 
 
289 ^^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A LAUREATE SPOILED. 
 
 There is an old-fashioned idea that a story should 
 
 end with the acceptance of the hero by the heroine, 
 
 and with the addition of the briefest possible account 
 
 of those less important characters concerning whose 
 
 future the reader may be supposed to feel a little, 
 
 perhaps a very little, curiosity. The rule is surely 
 
 a good one since the voyage is safely ended, and 
 
 the adventures of the trimmest clipper, once she 
 
 has arrived in harbour, are not wont to be very 
 
 entertaining. It is true that ships after a time 
 
 start on another voyage, but each of these causes 
 
 the once trim clipper to get slower and shabbier. 
 
 When she is sooner or later condemned to ply as 
 
 a collier, in which predicament a ship in which 
 
 Captain Cook once voyaged was, not many years ago, 
 
 discovered, she may have many days of usefulness 
 
 before her, but the romance and, alas ! the beauty 
 
 u 
 
290 POETS ALL. 
 
 is gone for ever. Young women differ from ships 
 in that when they have onoe arrived in harbour 
 after a prosperous voyage they — for the most part — 
 rest contented with the experience. Even in the 
 cases where the hero and heroine after arriving in 
 port have to pass through dangers and troubles 
 together, they will find, if they are true to the vows 
 they plighted, that, shared with one we love, dangers 
 and troubles — which none can certainly hope to 
 evade — are diminished by one half, and sometimes — 
 from the sheer pride of encountering them together 
 — actually change into joys. Besides, true lovers — 
 like other people — have but one chance. They take 
 it, and must make the best of it. Peevish complaints 
 to Fortune for the results of a gift for which we 
 once prayed her — oh ! so fervently — are unmanly, 
 and worse still, uninteresting. Now that Maggie 
 and her lover are engaged I have too much con- 
 fidence in them to suppose they will ever be other 
 than thankful, and the Squire may be trusted in time 
 to feel a little gratitude too. 
 
 It is of the less consequence that the new poet, 
 though he obtained the chief desire of his heart, 
 did not succeed in all his hopes. To do so would, 
 even in these prosaic days, be to present a target to 
 the arrows of outrageous Fortune, which she would 
 
A LAUREATE SPOILED. 291 
 
 be unable to resist shooting at, and which from its 
 size would be as hard to miss as a barn door. It is 
 better to cast away some aspiration you value, hoping 
 that it will not be washed up at your feet again. 
 To succeed in one hope, and that the most fondly 
 cherished, should be enough for a man who is not 
 very greedy in this most crowded and disappointing 
 of worlds. Besides, a lover of his art — or what he 
 considers such — is not like other lovers, inasmuch 
 as possession (in the shape of Fame) is not absolutely 
 necessary to its enjoyment. You may be a painter, 
 and yet not desire, still less obtain, the magic letters 
 R.A., and most truly a poet and yet never have 
 published a line. You may have written poems, 
 and half-ashamed hidden them in your desk, or 
 they may be hidden unpenned within your breast. 
 The mere fact of printing them — the mere luck of 
 finding a publisher — does not make you any more a 
 poet. Even if they are printed and unsuccessful, 
 or only successful for a day, the fact does not prove 
 you incapable. He who does not keep himself, or 
 whom others do not keep in the front, is, in these 
 days, soon forgotten. There are so many whose 
 interest it is to forget and be remembered. A true 
 poet is retiring by nature, and averse to the clamorous 
 praises even of his admirers. If he assists — cork- 
 
292 POETS ALL. 
 
 screw-like — in the extraction of these, or is desirous 
 of any but spontaneous honours, he must lose some- 
 thing of his high estate. To be a poet, even if 
 unrecognized, is surely enough — if the minor or 
 minimus poet only knew it. Only a true poet can 
 have the '' Poet's portion," which makes him inde- 
 pendent of critics and publishers. 
 
 There are a great many brooks and very few rivers, 
 and some of the brooks may think they are hardly 
 treated. They started from as full sources, hurried 
 as eagerly down just the same sort of clefts into 
 valleys large enough to support a river ; and there 
 they are only poor little brooks. Who can say what 
 made the difference in their fortunes ? A ledge of 
 rock, perhaps only a stone or two, or the want of 
 help from another rivulet at a critical time ? What 
 does it matter ? It should be a consolation that if 
 all the brooks were rivers there would be no room for 
 dry land. Luckily there are brooks which think — 
 we will suppose for a moment that brooks think — 
 that their lives are the best. Dancing down from 
 stone to stone under the hazel-boughs, sparkling and 
 laughing while the big gloomy river sweeps moodily 
 on through the dirty towns to the sea. 
 
 It is no slight thing to be true, sincere, charitable, 
 to think no evil, to see something good and beautiful 
 
A LAUREATE SPOILED. 293 
 
 where others only spy evil and ugliness, to have an 
 ear that can be pleased by others* verses — yes, and 
 by your own. Any one who thinks much of fame, 
 and more of pelf than of fame, had better turn his 
 attention to prose, for he will have ceased — supposing 
 that he ever was one — to be a poet. Moreover, let 
 no one expect to keep the necessary attributes much 
 beyond youth. The few who do so have to *' hark 
 back " to their youthful experiences, in the descrip- 
 tion of which the acquired art comes in useful. But 
 without these experiences and these memories they 
 would have to retire. The season of love, the spring- 
 time of life, is the season of poetry, and few are so 
 fortunate — or unhappy, who can say ? — as to protract 
 this season into old age. The young and talented 
 envy such — they are very few— their grey beards. 
 
 Charles Collins is not even pointed out as the 
 future Laureate. No one has anything to gain by 
 the demonstration, as he is not a repayer of such coin. 
 Yet he still writes and writes well. Sometimes he 
 even converts poetry into prose ; but other people 
 have already learnt the trick of this. There is 
 nothing now-a-days of which the original patentee 
 is long permitted to reap the sole profits. He soon 
 becomes only a member of a firm. Charles Collins 
 lives happily at Beddington, where he and Maggie 
 
294 POETS ALL. 
 
 are not likely to be separated from the old Squire till 
 the latter leaves them for ever. 
 
 The original Poet — the once well-known Prothero 
 Corthee — has, in the natural course of things, turned 
 critic. At first, when he found himself unap- 
 preciated at home, he decided to cross the Channel, 
 where he had no doubt that the poetic temperament 
 of our neighbours would be enthusiastic in favour 
 of what he still called his " Muse." He was received 
 on his arrival with open arms, but, as he soon 
 discovered, with more idea of ridiculing than of 
 worshipping him. In fact, there were a considerable 
 number of French poets — it is a mistake to imagine 
 that England has a monopoly of unappreciated minor 
 bards — who thought that any spare praise — to say 
 nothing of profit — had better come their way than 
 go to glorify or enrich a son of ^erjide Albion, Mr. 
 Corthee had not been long in Paris striving to 
 ingratiate himself with the McCawmee Joneses of 
 his adopted country before an absurd parody of the 
 poem which he considered would procure him im- 
 mortality appeared in the Figaro. Immortality of 
 this sort he did not desire, and indeed might have 
 had without crossing the Channel. He packed his 
 belongings as speedily as possible, and returned to the 
 land of his birth with the less regret that he had 
 
A LAUREATE SPOILED. 295 
 
 discovered, on declaring his intention of becoming a 
 French citizen, that he would have to serve in the 
 French army. The discovery had an etfect which 
 was not surpassed by the experience of " the roughest 
 passage on record " as he returned. 
 
 There was a good deal to be said in favour of his 
 joining the ranks of the critics. He had " failed in 
 literature," and of art he knew next to nothing. 
 What could he do better than provide that others 
 should fail too ? He has lost his brush, and is 
 naturally jealous of those who are growing or still 
 keep the appendage. Few will complain that inferior 
 or unsuccessful authors should eventuate into critics. 
 It is surely better than that criticism should be 
 written by those who have served no apprenticeship 
 at all. The hedge-carpenter is on occasion preferable 
 to none. 
 
 Mr. Jones, the original critic, has given up criticiz- 
 ing poetry. The minor bards, he said, were too 
 jealous and too touchy. He writes a great deal, 
 and better than ever, since matters of which he is 
 entirely ignorant arise day by day less frequently. 
 He never was a bad fellow at heart, and now as he 
 gets older he is developing into a good one. By the 
 time he is a hundred he will be as perfect as can be 
 expected of a mere mortal, and it seems a pity that 
 
296 POETS ALL. 
 
 the improving process should in so many cases be 
 deferred till the advent of middle age. He takes 
 almost a paternal interest in the Collinses, and is 
 vexed that one whom he never deposed has not done 
 more with his opportunities. As he was godfather 
 to her husband's first book, it is fitting that he 
 should be godfather to Maggie's first boy. Of his 
 duties in the latter position he probably knows 
 almost as much as the majority of godfathers do 
 now-a-days. Maggie and he are close friends, and 
 he has never been known to show the least jealousy 
 of tVie man whom he is still confident that he would 
 have supplanted, if it had not been for the appear- 
 ance of " that bothering white hat of Corthee's " at 
 the garden door. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Richard day 4* ^nSy Limited, London ^' Bungay. 
 
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