“And I, for one.”
(_Old Play._)
“But about she,” resumed the man of prose, “what’s her name? You never
told me that yet.” A faint flush crossed the interesting features
of the youth; could it be that her name was unpoetical, and did not
consort with his ideas of the harmony of nature? He spoke reluctantly
and indistinctly; “Her name,” he faintly gasped, “is Sukie.”
A long, low whistle was the only reply; thrusting his hands deep in
his pockets, the elder speaker turned away, while the unhappy youth,
whose delicate nerves were cruelly shaken by his friend’s ridicule,
grasped the railing near to him to steady his tottering feet. Distant
sounds of melody from the Cliff at this moment reached their ears, and
while his unfeeling comrade wandered in the direction of the Music, the
distressed poet hastily sought the Bridge, to give his pent-up feelings
vent, unnoticed by the passers-by.
The Sun was setting as he reached the spot, and the still surface of
the waters below, as he crossed on to the Bridge, calmed his perturbed
spirit, and sadly leaning his elbows on the rail, he pondered. What
visions filled that noble soul, as, with features that would have
beamed with intelligence, had they only possessed an expression at all,
and a frown that only needed dignity to be appalling, he fixed upon
the sluggish tide those fine though bloodshot eyes?
Visions of his early days; scenes from the happy time of pinafores,
treacle, and innocence; through the long vista of the past came
floating spectres of long-forgotten spelling-books, slates scrawled
thick with dreary sums, that seldom came out at all, and never came
out right; tingling and somewhat painful sensations returned to his
knuckles and the roots of his hair; he was a boy once more.
“Now, young man there!” so broke a voice upon the air, “tak whether o’
the two roads thou likes, but thou can’t stop in’t middle!” The words
fell idly on his ears, or served but to suggest new trains of reverie;
“Roads, aye, roads,” he whispered low, and then louder, as the glorious
idea burst upon him, “Aye, and am I not the Colossus of Rhodes?” he
raised his manly form erect at the thought, and planted his feet with a
firmer stride.
... Was it but a delusion of his heated brain? or stern reality?
slowly, slowly yawned the bridge beneath him, and now his footing is
already grown unsteady, and now the dignity of his attitude is gone: he
recks not, come what may; is he not a Colossus?
... The stride of a Colossus is possibly equal to any emergency; the
elasticity of fustian is limited: it was at this critical juncture that
“the force of nature could no further go,” and therefore deserted him,
while the force of gravity began to operate in its stead.
In other words, he fell.
And the “Hilda” went slowly on its way, and knew not that it passed a
poet under the Bridge, and guessed not whose were those two feet, that
disappeared through the eddying waters, kicking with spasmodic energy;
and men pulled into a boat a dripping, panting form, that resembled a
drowned rat rather than a Poet; and spoke to it without awe, and even
said, “young feller,” and something about “greenhorn,” and laughed;
what knew they of Poetry?
Turn we to other scenes: a long, low room, with high-backed settees,
and a sanded floor: a knot of men drinking and gossiping: a general
prevalence of tobacco; a powerful conviction that spirits existed
somewhere: and she, the fair Sukie herself, gliding airily through the
scene, and bearing in those lily hands--what? Some garland doubtless,
wreathed of the most fragrant flowers that grow? Some cherished volume,
morocco-bound and golden-clasped, the works immortal of the bard of
eld, whereon she loveth oft to ponder? Possibly, “The Poems of William
Smith,” that idol of her affections, in two volumes quarto, published
some years agone, whereof one copy only has as yet been sold, and that
he bought himself--to give to Sukie. Which of these is it that the
beauteous maiden carries with such tender care? Alas none: it is but
those two “goes of arf-and-arf, warm without,” which have just been
ordered by the guests in the tap-room.
In a small parlour hard by, unknown, untended, though his Sukie was so
near, wet, moody, and dishevelled, sat the youth: the fire had been
kindled at his desire, and before it he was now drying himself, but as
“the cheery blaze, Blithe harbinger of wintry days,” to use his own
powerful description, consisted at present of a feeble, spluttering
faggot, whose only effect was to half-choke him with its smoke, he may
be pardoned for not feeling, more keenly than he does, that “... fire
of Soul, When gazing on the kindling coal, A Britain feels that, spite
of fone, He wots his native hearth his own!” we again employ his own
thrilling words on the subject.
The waiter, unconscious that a Poet sat before him, was talking
confidingly; he dwelt on various themes, and still the youth sat
heedless, but when at last he spoke of Sukie, those dull eyes flashed
with fire, and cast upon the speaker a wild glance of scornful
defiance, that was unfortunately wasted, as its object was stirring
the fire at the moment and failed to notice it. “Say, oh say those
words again!” he gasped. “I surely heard thee not aright!” The waiter
looked astonished, but obligingly repeated his remark, “I were merely
a saying, sir, that she’s an uncommon clever girl, and as how I were
’oping some day to hacquire her Hart, if so be that----” He said no
more, for the Poet, with a groan of anguish, had rushed distractedly
from the room.