A DIALOGUE, WHICH MIGHT BE DULL IF IT WERE LONGER.
THREE days after the arrival of St. John, I escaped from the crowd of
impertinents, seized a volume of Cowley, and, in a fit of mingled poetry
and melancholy, strolled idly into the park. I came to the margin of the
stream, and to the very spot on which I had stood with my uncle on the
evening when he had first excited my emulation to scholastic rather than
manual contention with my brother; I seated myself by the water-side,
and, feeling indisposed to read, leaned my cheek upon my hand, and
surrendered my thoughts as prisoners to the reflections which I could
not resist.
I continued I know not how long in my meditation, till I was roused by a
gentle touch upon my shoulder; I looked up, and saw St. John.
“Pardon me, Count,” said he, smiling, “I should not have disturbed
your reflections had not your neglect of an old friend emboldened me
to address you upon his behalf.” And St. John pointed to the volume of
Cowley which he had taken up without my perceiving it.
“Well,” added he, seating himself on the turf beside me, “in my younger
days, poetry and I were better friends than we are now. And if I had
had Cowley as a companion, I should not have parted with him as you have
done, even for my own reflections.”
“You admire him then?” said I.
“Why, that is too general a question. I admire what is fine in him, as
in every one else, but I do not love him the better for his points and
his conceits. He reminds me of what Cardinal Pallavicino said of Seneca,
that he ‘perfumes his conceits with civet and ambergris.’ However,
Count, I have opened upon a beautiful motto for you:--
“‘Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft winds above me flying,
With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying;
Nor be myself too mute.’
“What say you to that wish? If you have a germ of poetry in you such
verse ought to bring it into flower.”
“Ay,” answered I, though not exactly in accordance with the truth;
“but I have not that germ. I destroyed it four years ago. Reading the
dedications of poets cured me of the love for poetry. What a pity that
the Divine Inspiration should have for its oracles such mean souls!”
“Yes, and how industrious the good gentlemen are in debasing themselves!
Their ingenuity is never half so much shown in a simile as in a
compliment; I know nothing in nature more melancholy than the discovery
of any meanness in a great man. There is so little to redeem the dry
mass of follies and errors from which the materials of this life are
composed, that anything to love or to reverence becomes, as it were, the
sabbath for the mind. It is better to feel, as we grow older, how the
respite is abridged, and how the few objects left to our admiration
are abased. What a foe not only to life, but to all that dignifies and
ennobles it, is Time! Our affections and our pleasures resemble those
fabulous trees described by Saint Oderic: the fruits which they bring
forth are no sooner ripened into maturity than they are transformed into
birds and fly away. But these reflections cannot yet be familiar to
you. Let us return to Cowley. Do you feel any sympathy with his prose
writings? For some minds they have a great attraction.”
“They have for mine,” answered I: “but then I am naturally a dreamer;
and a contemplative egotist is always to me a mirror in which I behold
myself.”
“The world,” answered St. John, with a melancholy smile, “will soon
dissolve, or forever confirm, your humour for dreaming; in either case,
Cowley will not be less a favourite. But you must, like me, have long
toiled in the heat and travail of business, or of pleasure, which is
more wearisome still, in order fully to sympathize with those beautiful
panegyrics upon solitude which make perhaps the finest passages in
Cowley. I have often thought that he whom God hath gifted with a love
of retirement possesses, as it were, an extra sense. And among what our
poet so eloquently calls ‘the vast and noble scenes of Nature,’ we find
the balm for the wounds we have sustained among the ‘pitiful shifts of
policy;’ for the attachment to solitude is the surest preservative from
the ills of life: and I know not if the Romans ever instilled, under
allegory, a sublimer truth than when they inculcated the belief that
those inspired by Feronia, the goddess of woods and forests, could walk
barefoot and uninjured over burning coals.”
At this part of our conference, the bell swinging hoarsely through
the long avenues, and over the silent water, summoned us to the grand
occupation of civilized life; we rose and walked slowly towards the
house.
“Does not,” said I, “this regular routine of petty occurrence, this
periodical solemnity of trifles, weary and disgust you? For my part,
I almost long for the old days of knight-errantry, and would rather be
knocked on the head by a giant, or carried through the air by a flying
griffin, than live in this circle of dull regularities,--the brute at
the mill.”
“You may live even in these days,” answered St. John, “without too tame
a regularity. Women and politics furnish ample food for adventure, and
you must not judge of all life by country life.”
“Nor of all conversation,” said I, with a look which implied a
compliment, “by the insipid idlers who fill our saloons. Behold them
now, gathered by the oriel window, yonder; precious distillers of
talk,--sentinels of society with certain set phrases as watchwords,
which they never exceed; sages, who follow Face’s advice to Dapper,--
“‘Hum thrice, and buzz as often.’”