None but an author knows an author's cares,
Or fancy's fondness for the child she bears:
Committed once into the public arms,
The baby seems to smile with added charms:
Like something precious ventured far from shore,
'Tis valued for the danger's sake the more.
Cowper.
Polydore Riches, as we have said, was much disturbed by the matrimonial
escapade of his old pupil. But his profession, his own experience, and
his age, had taught him resignation. It was his favourite theory that
things seemed evil only because they were but half seen. Could man
discern the whole train of events of which an apparent calamity was
part, he would find that what was thought a misfortune was really a
blessing. But the eye of reason was as short-sighted as that of the
body. There were many things beyond its ken. And, as the most powerful
telescopes failed to penetrate beyond a certain distance, and served but
to make the vastness of the universe more incomprehensible, so the
severest logic only availed to show the limits of the human
understanding, and to inspire it with reverent humility for things
beyond its bounds. This true and grateful optimism enabled the chaplain
to overcome the sharpness of sorrow, and to maintain that unruffled
quietude of mind which is the happy mean between apathy and
over-susceptibility. Yet, as has been more than once hinted, he was not
unacquainted with grief.
He had been into London one day to visit Helen, and also to try to find
some of his old college companions, when he met with what was for him a
little adventure. It probably led his thoughts into the course shown in
a conversation which he held with Mr. Peach the same evening.
"You have several old friends of mine here, Mr. Peach," Polydore said,
surveying the row of tall folios which formed his host's library. "Now
this is one to whom I was always very partial." And he took down Sir
Thomas Browne. "Open this worthy knight where you will, you will be
pretty sure to find some intellectual pabulum."
"I love his genial and warm-hearted humour," said the old clerk.
"I have turned to the Physician's Faith," continued Riches. "I light
upon the section beginning--'I never could divide myself from any man
upon the difference of an opinion, or be angry with his judgment for not
agreeing with me in that, from which within a few days I should dissent
myself.'"
"The whole passage overflows with charity and good sense," said Peach,
rubbing his hands.
"And a few leaves further on--there is a paper at the place--is the
remark,--'It is we that are blind, not fortune: because our eye is too
dim to discover the mystery of her effects, we foolishly paint her
blind, and hoodwink the providence of the Almighty.'"
Cornelius became rather fidgety, for he saw that the paper which Mr.
Riches had mentioned lay upon the open page, and was covered with
writing.
"You write yourself, my friend," observed Mr. Riches. "Will you allow
me...?"
"No," answered his host, casting down his eyes. "That is, I do not
write. I may sometimes jot down a thought, if a bit of paper is at hand.
I cannot bear to defile the margins of my books."
"Mischievous vanity of readers," said the chaplain. "But, Mr. Peach, I
like these remarks very much. Did you never print? Confess. You have
caught Sir Thomas's spirit exactly." Cornelius coloured a little.
"No," said he. "Never. I have nothing to confess."
Polydore lighted his pipe, and sat down by the side of the chimney, just
out of the glare of the fire. Miss Peach had retired, and the old
bachelors were alone. They smoked in silence for a considerable time.
"There was a time," at length the host murmured, "when I thought I
should like to print. It was when I was courting my Mabel. I fancied it
would be so pleasant to present her with a volume of my own inditing.
She would be proud of me. She would hear me spoken of, and would say in
her heart--he belongs to me. But there was another side to the medal,
something whispered me, and I had not the courage. The early ambition
passed away."
"Well," said Polydore, "I was this morning singularly reminded that I
had been one of the irritable race."
The old clerk's face beamed radiant among the circumambient fumes.
"You, my dear sir!" he exclaimed, and then begged pardon for the
expression of surprise.
"'Tis many years ago," the chaplain said. "I had not left my university
at the time. I had nearly forgotten it. Yet it was a delightful dream."
"What was your offspring?" Cornelius asked.
"A tale," was the answer. "A little story. Simple enough, but intended
to promote some opinions, of which, in my youth, I was a zealous
advocate. I fear I had not then learned the lesson of those first words
of Sir Thomas Browne."
"I own," said Peach, "that I do not relish argumentative fiction."
"Neither, perhaps, should I now," continued Polydore. "But youth is
ardent in proselytism. I dreamt over my manuscript for nights and
nights. It was so true, and so interesting. I was certain it could not
fail; and others thought so too. The little book would be ushered into
the world in a manner more favourable than I had dared to hope. Imagine,
my dear sir, the sort of intoxication with which I revised the proofs.
What Gibbon calls 'the awful interval of printing' was to me a season of
impatient delight. I was rushing into celebrity. And so the book
appeared--by Polydore Riches. I was not yet in orders. Moreover, it was
noticed by critics, on the whole, kindly. I took for granted it was
selling rapidly, and prepared my emendations for a second edition. Judge
then of my feelings, when, at the end of a twelvemonth, I learned that I
might have spared my pains."
"What was the reason?" said Cornelius.
"I can tell you best by this," Polydore replied. "After a little idle
repining, and some tacit abuse of the public mind, I laid my poor child
by. I read it again in a dozen years, and I discovered a hundred defects
of which I was ignorant before. No doubt the public discerned them at
the first glance. I did not wonder at my disappointment."
Here again silence reigned for some time in the cosy parlour. It was
broken by Mr. Peach.
"You said, my dear sir, that you were reminded of those days this
morning."
"Yes," answered the chaplain. "I never could pass an open book-stall
without scrutinizing the wares. It has always been one of my habits. If
I were in a hurry, I should make a circuit through the side streets,
instead of proceeding direct along Holborn, so irresistible is the
temptation. Well, this morning I was wending my way by that great
thoroughfare, and duly pausing at each successive treasure-house, when
at one of them I detected an old friend. With trembling fingers, I drew
the volume from between an 'Entick's Dictionary' and a 'Peregrine
Pickle,' and opened it. 'By Polydore Riches.' A kind of mist came over
me as I read."
"Indeed," said Mr. Peach, "it was an interesting meeting. You found
yourself, as one may say, face to face with your youth."
"Exactly so. It was like shaking hands with the Riches of twenty-two.
Well, the whim seized me to purchase the book, and also to ascertain the
lowest value put upon it. So I went into the shop, and inquired the
price. The owner ran the leaves backwards and forwards through his
fingers, looked at the outside, and--but I need not trouble you with our
bargaining. I bought it."
"Ah," exclaimed Cornelius, "might I beg leave to become acquainted with
it?"
"You shall see the little book, if you wish, my dear sir," answered
Polydore. "But listen. I do not now quite concur in the judgment of the
public. I look at my offspring with parental partiality, and am fond to
believe it was hardly used. And, besides, I hug the memory of my
publishing days. I revel in the recollection of that one enthusiasm. And
I have it all to myself. My book is forgotten. No one knows it now but
myself. Would you desire to read it, my dear sir?"
Cornelius never repeated his wish. But, some time afterwards, when he
had a day of leisure, he repaired to the Reading-room of the British
Museum, and took down the volume of the Catalogue containing the letter
R. His conscience pricked him as he did so, and if any one had then
touched his elbow, or twitched his coat, he would have blushed like poor
Mercy Page at Madron Well. Glancing furtively from side to side, he
turned over the leaves to the page he wanted, and drew his finger down
the column of names. But there was no Riches rejoicing in the Christian
name of Polydore. Mr. Peach closed the tome with a feeling of relief,
saying to himself,--"So, my excellent friend's book did not even find
its way into this great repository. Well, I am glad I have not
trespassed upon his secret."
The self-criticism in which the chaplain indulged was, perhaps, affected
by the circumstances of his own history. He had strung his argument upon
a story of requited but unfortunate love, and had found the tale nearly
realized in his attachment to Rose Griffith. Before he was acquainted
with the passion, he thought the public were right: when he had lost the
mistress of his affections, he thought they were wrong. He confounded
his fiction with his fact, and wove them together into a retrospective
romance, the scenery of which he was reluctant to divulge.
The incident of finding his half-forgotten volume, diverted Polydore's
attention from the anxieties of the moment: and we have thought the
reader might not be displeased with a similar interval of repose. We
must now return to the other personages of our history.