CHAPTER III.
ALTERATION.
My heart hath turned aside
From its early dreams;
To me their course has been
Like mountain streams.
Bright and pure they left
Their place of birth;
Soon on every wave
Came taints of earth.
Weeds grew upon the banks,
And, as the waters swept,
A bad or useless part
Of all they kept.
Till it reached the plain below,
An altered thing
Bearing gloomy trace,—
Of its wandering.
Walter again pursued his way, lost in a very mixed reverie; sometimes writhing under an idea of degradation, in thus making a trade of his talents; and then, again, somewhat consoled by the pride of art; for how many felicitous and stinging epigrams arose in his mind! "It is," thought he, "a political warfare that I am carrying on, and ridicule is as good a weapon as any other."
Lost in meditated satire, he arrived at the shop of Mr. Lintot. It was larger, cleaner, and lighter, than the one that he had just left, and a strong smell of roast meat came from the regions below. He was not kept waiting an instant: "Mr. Lintot is expecting you," said the shopboy, who looked just fresh from the country; and he was shewn into his room. It was wonderfully airy for that part of town; and two nicely clean windows, with flowerpots on the sill, looked into a garden: at one of these was seated Mr. Lintot. Like all cockneys, he had rural tastes; and he always intended, when he had made a certain sum, that he would buy a small farm, and live in the country. He never, however, even to himself specified what the sum was to be.
Mr. Lintot was a large, and rather good-looking man—what would be called comfortable-looking, in his appearance. He had a large arm-chair, and his very substantial raiment did not appear at all likely to inconvenience him by any restraining tightness. He obviously liked being at his ease: as to meaning, his face had as little as a face could positively have. It was not till animated by some discussion, based upon the multiplication-table, that you saw how keen and shrewd those large, dull, gray eyes could become. His welcome to his visitor was more than friendly—it was paternal: he shook him by both hands, and asked so anxiously how the air of London agreed with him.
"Terrible fog, sir!—terrible fog! You did not write your pastoral poems here? Very pretty they are: I wish every body had my taste for green fields and sheep, poetry would sell then!"
"One portion of my volume, at all events, finds favour with you?" said Walter, very much encouraged by his reception.
"The whole, sir—the whole! It is a charming volume: the love verses, too,—pity that people don't care about love; no body's in love now-a-days!"
"But what do you say to the satires?" asked the author, not quite so elated.
"Dangerous things, sir—dangerous things!" exclaimed Mr. Lintot, drawing a deep breath of air from the open window: "do you know, sir, Curl published a lampoon on Lord Hervey the other day, who said that he would have horsewhipped him if he could have found his way into the city. Only think, sir, of horsewhipping a publisher!" and Mr. Lintot grew pale with excess of horror.
"To think of only horsewhipping one," muttered Walter to himself; and then added aloud, "but there is nothing personal in my satire."
"So much the worse!" exclaimed Mr. Lintot: "what is the use of denouncing a vice?—denounce the individual! What wo man thanks you for a compliment addressed to the sex in general? No, no, pay one to herself! And the same with sneers; always take care that your sneer suits some well-known individual; all his friends will have such pleasure in applying it; and you know, sir, our object is to give as much satisfaction as we can to the public."
"And now, do you think," asked Walter, "that the volume I left with you is likely to give satisfaction?"
"It is a charming book—very charming book! and I see that you are a clever young man. You were punctual to your appointment: punctuality is the first of virtues, and a sign of pretty behaviour in a young man. I foresee that you will succeed!"
"But about my volume of poems?" interrupted its author.
"Why, sir, it is hard to say," replied the cautious publisher: "poetry is not worth much at present; indeed, I never heard that it was. Homer begged his bread: you will excuse my little joke!"
"I am to understand, then," replied Maynard, " that it does not suit you?" "Never draw a hasty conclusion," answered Mr. Lintot; "I mean to do my best for you!"
"Do you mean to publish my poems?" cried Walter.
"Why, you see, sir, the times are bad, and I am no speculator. I have a wife and family, and a man with a wife and family must be just before he is generous. Besides, my two youngest children have just had the hooping-cough, and they must have a little country air: all these things are expensive. I appeal to your feelings, sir, whether you would drive a hard bargain with a man in my situation?"
"I leave it entirely to yourself," replied Maynard, despondingly.
"Sir, I will run the risk of publishing your volume. Paper and printing are terrible things; I wish books could do without them: but I will venture. I heard you highly spoken of yesterday: we will share what profits there are, and your list of subscribers will insure us against loss."
It did far more, by the by, to say nothing of Sir Jasper Meredith's secret guarantee.
"And now business being over," said Lintot, "will you dine with me? I am a plain man, only a joint and a pudding, which is just ready: I like to encourage young men in being punctual."
Walter declined the invitation, precisely because he wanted a dinner. He was, also, conscious that he had made a very bad bargain; but how could he chaffer and dispute about things so precious as the contents of those pages which were the very outpourings of his heart? There were recorded dreams glorious with the future, and feelings soft and musical with the past. He fancied Ethel Churchill's soft blue eyes filled with tears, as she turned the haunted leaves of which she had been the inspiration, and he was consoled for every mortification. He walked along those crowded streets alive but to one delicious hope; and amid poverty, labour, and discouragement, still steeped to the lip in poetry.
The fanciful fables of fairy land are but allegories of the young poet's mind when the sweet spell is upon him. Some slight thing calls up the visionary world, and all the outward and actual is for the time forgotten. It is a fever ethereal and lovely; but, like all other fevers, leaving behind weakness and exhaustion. I believe there is nothing that causes so strong a sensation of physical fatigue as the exercise of the imagination. The pulses beat too rapidly; and how cold, how depressed, is the reaction!