VII
A new boarder had joined the circle about Mrs. Pedagog's breakfast-table.He had what the Idiot called a three-ply name--which was RichardHenderson Warren--and he was by profession a poet. Whether it was thisthat made it necessary for him to board or not, the rewards of the musebeing rather slender, was known only to himself, and he showed nodisposition to enlighten his fellow-boarders on the subject. His successas a poet Mrs. Pedagog found it hard to gauge; for while the postman leftalmost daily numerous letters, the envelopes of which showed that theycame from the various periodicals of the day, it was never exactly clearwhether or not the missives contained remittances or rejectedmanuscripts, though the fact that Mr. Warren was the only boarder in thehouse who had requested to have a waste-basket added to the furniture ofhis room seemed to indicate that they contained the latter. To thisrequest Mrs. Pedagog had gladly acceded, because she had a notion thattherein at some time or another would be found a clew to the newboarder's past history--or possibly some evidence of such duplicityas the good lady suspected he might be guilty of. She had read that Byronwas profligate, and that Poe was addicted to drink, and she was impressedwith the idea that poets generally were bad men, and she regarded thewaste-basket as a possible means of protecting herself against any suchidiosyncrasies of her new-found genius as would operate to herdisadvantage if not looked after in time.
This waste-basket she made it her daily duty to empty, and in the privacyof her own room. Half-finished "ballads, songs, and snatches" she perusedbefore consigning them to the flames or to the large jute bag in thecellar, for which the ragman called two or three times a year. Once Mrs.Pedagog's heart almost stopped beating when she found at the bottom ofthe basket a printed slip beginning, "_The Editor regrets that theenclosed lines are unavailable_," and closing with about thirteenreasons, any one or all of which might have been the main cause of thepoet's disappointment. Had it not been for the kindly clause in theprinted slip that insinuated in graceful terms that this rejection didnot imply a lack of literary merit in the contribution itself, the goodlady, knowing well that there was even less money to be made fromrejected than from accepted poetry, would have been inclined to requestthe poet to vacate the premises. The very next day, however, she was gladshe had not requested the resignation of the poet from the laureateshipof her house; for the same basket gave forth another printed slip fromanother editor, begging the poet to accept the enclosed check, withthanks for his contribution, and asking him to deposit it as soon aspracticable--which was pleasing enough, since it implied that the poetwas the possessor of a bank account.
Now Mrs. Pedagog was consumed with curiosity to know for how large a sumthe check called--which desire was gratified a few days later, when theinspired boarder paid his week's bill with three one-dollar bills and acheck, signed by a well-known publisher, for two dollars.
THE INSPIRED BOARDER PAID HIS BILL]
By the boarders themselves the poet was regarded with much interest.The School-Master had read one or two of his effusions in the FiresideCorner of the journal he received weekly from his home up in NewEngland--effusions which showed no little merit, as well as indicatingthat Mr. Warren wrote for a literary syndicate; Mr. Whitechoker had knownof him as the young man who was to have written a Christmas carol for hisSunday-school a year before, and who had finished and presented themanuscript shortly after New-Year's day; while to the Idiot, Mr. Warren'sname was familiar as that of a frequent contributor to the funny papersof the day.
"I was very much amused by your poem in the last number of the_Observer_, Mr. Warren," said the Idiot, as they sat down to breakfasttogether.
"Were you, indeed?" returned Mr. Warren. "I am sorry to hear that, for itwas intended to be a serious effort."
"Of course it was, Mr. Warren, and so it appeared," said theSchool-Master, with an indignant glance at the Idiot. "It was a verydignified and stately bit of work, and I must congratulate you upon it."
"I didn't mean to give offence," said the Idiot. "I've read so much ofyours that was purely humorous that I believe I'd laugh at a dirge if youshould write one; but I really thought your lines in the _Observer_ werea burlesque. You had the same thought that Rossetti expresses in 'TheWoodspurge':
'The wind flapped loose, the wind was still, Shaken out dead from tree to hill; I had walked on at the wind's will, I sat now, for the wind was still.'
That's Rossetti, if you remember. Slightly suggestive of 'Blow Ye Windsof the Morning! Blow! Blow! Blow!' but more or less pleasing."
"I recall the poem you speak of," said Warren, with dignity; "but thetrue poet, sir--and I hope I have some claim to be considered assuch--never so far forgets himself as to burlesque his masters."
"Well, I don't know what to call it, then, when a poet takes the samethought that has previously been used by his masters and makes a funnypoem--"
"But," returned the Poet, warmly, "it was not a funny poem."
"It made me laugh," retorted the Idiot, "and that is more than half theprofessedly funny poems we get nowadays can do. Therefore I say it was afunny poem, and I don't see how you can deny that it was a burlesque ofRossetti."
"Well, I do deny it _in toto_."
"I don't know anything about denying it _in toto_," rejoined the Idiot,"but I'd deny it in print if I were you. I know plenty of people whothink it was a burlesque, and I overheard one man say--he is a Rossetticrank--that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for writing it."
"There is no use of discussing the matter further," said the Poet. "I aminnocent of any such intent as you have ascribed to me, and if people sayI have burlesqued Rossetti they say what is not true."
"Did you ever read that little poem of Swinburne's called 'The Boy at theGate'?" asked the Idiot, to change the subject.
"I have no recollection of it," said the Poet, shortly.
"The name sounds familiar," put in Mr. Whitechoker, anxious not to beleft out of a literary discussion.
"I have read it, but I forget just how it goes," vouchsafed theSchool-Master, forgetting for a moment the Robert Elsmere episode and itslesson.
"It goes something like this," said the Idiot:
"Sombre and sere the slim sycamore sighs; Lushly the lithe leaves lie low o'er the land; Whistles the wind with its whisperings wise, Grewsomely gloomy and garishly grand. So doth the sycamore solemnly stand, Wearily watching in wondering wait; So it has stood for six centuries, and Still it is waiting the boy at the gate."
"No; I never read the poem," said Mr. Whitechoker, "but I'd know it wasSwinburne in a minute. He has such a command of alliterative language."
"Yes," said the Poet, with an uneasy glance at the Idiot. "It isSwinburnian; but what was the poem about?"
"'The boy at the gate,'" said the Idiot. "The idea was that the sycamorewas standing there for centuries waiting for the boy who never turns up."
"It really is a beautiful thought," put in Mr. Whitechoker. "It is, Ipresume, an allegory to contrast faithful devotion and constancy withunfaithfulness and fickleness. Such thoughts occur only to the whollygifted. It is only to the poetic temperament that the conception of sucha thought can come coupled with the ability to voice it in fitting terms.There is a grandeur about the lines the Idiot has quoted that betrays themaster-mind."
"Very true," said the School-Master, "and I take this opportunity to saythat I am most agreeably surprised in the Idiot. It is no small thingeven to be able to repeat a poet's lines so carefully, and with so greatlucidity, and so accurately, as I can testify that he has just done."
"Don't be too pleased, Mr. Pedagog," said the Idiot, dryly. "I onlywanted to show Mr. Warren that you and Mr. Whitechoker, mines ofinformation though you are, have not as yet worked up a corner onknowledge to the exclusion of the rest of us." And with these words theIdiot left the table.
"He is a queer fellow," said the School-Master. "He is full of pretenceand hollowness, but he is sometimes almost brilliant."
"What you say is very true
," said Mr. Whitechoker. "I think he has justescaped being a smart man. I wish we could take him in hand, Mr. Pedagog,and make him more of a fellow than he is."
Later in the day the Poet met the Idiot on the stairs. "I say," he said,"I've looked all through Swinburne, and I can't find that poem."
"I know you can't," returned the Idiot, "because it isn't there.Swinburne never wrote it. It was a little thing of my own. I was onlytrying to get a rise out of Mr. Pedagog and his Reverence with it. Youhave frequently appeared impressed by the undoubtedly impressive mannerof these two gentlemen. I wanted to show you what their opinions wereworth."
"I KNOW YOU CAN'T, BECAUSE IT ISN'T THERE"]
"Thank you," returned the Poet, with a smile. "Don't you want to gointo partnership with me and write for the funny papers? It would bea splendid thing for me--your ideas are so original."
"And I can see fun in everything, too," said the Idiot, thoughtfully.
"Yes," returned the Poet. "Even in my serious poems."
Which remark made the Idiot blush a little, but he soon recovered hiscomposure and made a firm friend of the Poet.
The first fruits of the partnership have not yet appeared, however.
As for Messrs. Whitechoker and Pedagog, when they learned how they hadbeen deceived, they were so indignant that they did not speak to theIdiot for a week.