Some time during the forenoon of the following day the unprepossessing
outline of an undersized young man with a short black bristling
moustache, who wore a bowler hat, a pair of smart brown boots, and
trim overcoat of blue melton cloth with a velvet collar, might have
been observed in conference with one of the stalwart custodians of the
portals of a massive building in the purlieus of Bloomsbury. The young
man, who was somewhat pale and rather excited in his manner, bore under
his right arm a brown-paper parcel of not inconsiderable bulk.
“Can’t deal with it ’ere,” said the custodian of the portals, without
any display of amiability that would have incurred the charge of
excessive. “Better take it round to Mr. Tovey. First to the left,
second to the right when you come to the top of the second flight of
stairs.”
In the course of a few minutes the bearer of the brown-paper parcel
had made his way into the presence of Mr. Tovey--a bald-headed and
black-coated gentleman whose mien was one of determined and unalterable
impassiveness.
Mr. Tovey viewed the bearer of the parcel, and particularly the parcel
itself, with a polite disfavour, which, however, did not in any sense
transcend the bounds indicated by an official courtesy.
“The English Museum Authorities,” said Mr. Tovey, as his visitor
took the liberty of depositing the brown-paper parcel upon a table
without seeking permission to do so, “the English Museum Authorities
are not empowered to undertake the care of the written manuscripts or
typescripts of living persons.”
“Yes, but you see,” said the bearer of the parcel anxiously, “but you
see, the poor chap happens to be dying.”
“I am afraid, sir,” said Mr. Tovey, with a sympathy that was very
nicely poised, “that even that unfortunate contingency is not
sufficient to justify the Museum Authorities from breaking through
their fixed rule. That rule is perfectly explicit; it cannot admit the
manuscripts or typescripts of living persons.”
“Are there no exceptions?” said the bearer of the parcel.
“If exceptions there are,” said Mr. Tovey impressively, “and as I
speak there are none I can call to mind, they would only be in favour
of persons of such remarkable distinction that they would form no
precedent.”
“That is all right, then,” said the bearer of the parcel with an air of
relief, “because it happens that this is the work of the greatest poet
in the world.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Tovey with a very well-bred air.
The bearer of the parcel repeated his assertion.
“Is not that a somewhat comprehensive claim to advance on behalf of a
living person?” said Mr. Tovey, enunciating his words very delicately.
“Well, he seems to think so, at any rate,” said the bearer of the
parcel, “and I suppose he ought to know.”
“Would you mind informing me of the name of this accomplished person?”
said Mr. Tovey, with an effective combination of polite interest and
equally polite deprecation.
“His name is to be kept a secret,” said the bearer of the parcel. “He
doesn’t want it to be known.”
“I assume that his poems have been published?” said Mr. Tovey.
“Not yet,” said the bearer of the parcel; “but,” he added, with an
air of weight that was not without its effect, “they are going to be
published by Crumpett and Hawker on the twelfth of January.”
“Curious, curious,” said Mr. Tovey.
However, the announcement itself seemed in some measure to reassure
this very courteous black-coated gentleman, since he requested the
bearer of the parcel to untie the string that he might take a glance at
the manuscript. This the young man proceeded to do; and it must be said
that for one whose proud boast had once been that his self-possession
was invincible, his heart began to beat with a preposterous violence,
as soon as Mr. Tovey came to examine the contents of the parcel.
Jimmy Dodson narrowly scrutinized Mr. Tovey’s impassive countenance as
he ran his fingers through the pages of the manuscript, all stained and
defaced by contact with compositors’ pencils and with printers’ thumbs.
“Rather incoherent, is it not?” said Mr. Tovey mildly, as he turned the
pages over. “Is it not somewhat pagan in tone--that is, as far as there
is a tone--there does not appear to be any very definite conception of
Deity--and rather incoherent--rather incoherent. I am afraid this will
never do.”
The last by now familiar phrase seemed to pierce the heart and brain of
James Dodson.
“I--I suppose, sir,” he said with scared eyes, “you occupying a
responsible position in the English Museum, you would be rather a judge
of poetry?”
“I am not accustomed to make such a claim on my own behalf,” said Mr.
Tovey, in whose well-regulated bosom a sympathetic chord seemed to
have been touched, for at least he seemed to unbend a little and he
seemed to do it very nicely, “but perhaps I am entitled to say that
the Oxbridge Press paid me the compliment of inviting me to edit their
Chaucer, their Spenser, their Keats, their Felicia Hemans, and their
James Russell Lowell. And I have also competed for the Newdigate Prize.”
Jimmy Dodson strangled a groan. He clenched his hands in desperation.
“Well, all I can say is,” he said, breaking out with a violence
which was so unexpected that it somewhat alarmed the courteous and
self-possessed Mr. Tovey, “I don’t care what you’ve done or what
you haven’t done; I don’t care what you think or what you don’t
think, you’ve got there the manuscript of the greatest poem ever
written--ab-so-lute-ly the greatest ever written, mark you--and you’ve
got to have it whether you want it or not. Mind you, I know nothing
about poetry myself--never cared for it--never had time to read it--but
whether you believe it, or whether you don’t, I know I am speaking the
truth. I promised the poor chap who wrote this poem--he has been blind
for weeks and he is dying by inches--that I would carry his manuscript
to the English Museum--and here it is. And now you’ve got it you had
better take care of it--and just see that you do. Good-morning.”
Before the astonished Mr. Tovey could interpose a word of expostulation
and remonstrance, this somewhat ill-favoured and rather vulgar person
who had waxed so vehement all at once had passed from his ken; and he
descended the stairs and passed out of the doors of the building with a
violence of demeanour which not only scandalized the austere custodians
of its portals, but caused them to reprove him as he went by.
Mr. Tovey, when at last his very natural and proper astonishment
had permitted him to realize that this vulgarian had gone away, and
further, that his trimly kept domain had been encumbered with a piece
of brown paper and string and a thousand or so pages of foolscap all
smudged and dishevelled by contact with the printers, he rang his bell.
The summons was heeded by a young middle-aged gentleman who in years
might have been five-and-twenty, but who in manner, demeanour and
cultivated deference to all the things that were, foremost of whom was
Mr. Tovey himself, was of no particular period of life.
“Mr. Toplady,” said Mr. Tovey, with a well-bred concealment of what his
feelings had recently undergone, “I shall be grateful if you will ask
Mr. Bessy to ask Mr. Fairservice to ask Mr. MacFayden to ask Perry to
ask one of the porters to remove this parcel.”
Mr. Toplady bowed, thanked Mr. Tovey and withdrew delicately.
In a little while there came a knock on the door of Mr. Tovey’s domain,
and in response to that gentleman’s invitation, a stalwart son of
labour, six feet six inches high and broad in proportion, clad in a
bright brown uniform with a liberal display of gold braid, entered the
room, and removed the brown paper, the string, and also the manuscript
in a remarkably efficient, solemn, and dignified manner.
A quarter of an hour after his feat had been performed with such
admirable success, this same impressive gold-braided figure knocked
again on Mr. Tovey’s door and entered his domain.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the stalwart, “but what is us to do with that
there parcel?”
Mr. Tovey looked up from his weekly perusal of the _Journal of
Literature_, to which he was a constant and esteemed contributor.
“The parcel?” he said. “What parcel, Wordsworth? Oh, yes, I think I
remember.” And then with a slightly humorous deprecation which had cost
him two-thirds of a lifetime to acquire, “Suppose, Wordsworth, you
light the fires with that parcel--and, Wordsworth, suppose you don’t
make a noise when you close the door.”