CHAPTER XXI.
Oh, what a waste of feeling and of thought
Have been the imprints on my roll of life!
What worthless hours! to what use have I turned
The golden gifts which are my hope and pride!
My power of song, unto how base a use
Has it been put! with its pure ore I made
An idol, living only on the breath
Of idol worshippers. Alas! that ever
Praise should have been what praise has been to me—
The opiate of the mind!
The rosy shadows of evening had deepened into purple, and a soft, faint obscurity wrapped all surrounding objects; but Walter Maynard still hung over the scroll, on which he had at last begun to write. Composition, like every thing else, feels the influence of time. At first, all is poetry with the young poet; his heart is full of emotions eagerly struggling for utterance; every thing suggests the exercise of his own sweet art. A leaf, a flower, the star far off in the serene midnight, a look, a word, are enough for a poem. Gradually this profusion exhausts itself, the mind grows less fanciful, and poetry is rather a power than a passion. Feelings have hardened into thoughts, and the sensations of others are no longer almost as if they had been matter of experience. The world has become real, and we have become real along with it. Our own knowledge is now the material where with we work; and we have gathered a stock of recollections, bitter and pleasant, which now furnish the subjects that we once created: but these do not come at the moment's notice, like our former fantasies: we must be in the mood; and such mood comes but seldom to our worn and saddened spirits. Still, the "vision and the faculty divine" are never quite extinguished; the spiritual fire rises when all around is night, and the sad and tender emotion finds its old accustomed resource in music.
Such was now the case with Walter. The softening influence of the quiet garden, and the dreamy evening, had gradually subdued him. Scenes, long since forgotten, had been peopling his solitude with one still cherished image paramount over all; one young fair face, whose sweet eyes seemed to look upon him reproachfully: but his own words best shew the weary spirit now disquieted within him,—
Faint and more faint amid the world of dreams,
That which once my all, thy image seems,
Pale as a star that in the morning gleams.
Long time that sweet face was my guiding star,
Bringing me visions of the fair and far,
Remote from this world's toil and this world's jar.
Around it was an atmosphere of light,
Deep with the tranquil loveliness of night,
Subdued and shadowy, yet serenely bright.
Like to a spirit did it dwell apart,
Hushed in the sweetest silence of my heart,
Lifting me to the heaven from whence thou art.
Too soon the day broke on that haunted hour,
Loosing its spell, and weakening its power,
All that had been imagination's dower.
The noontide quenched that once enchanted ray;
Care, labour, sorrow, gathered on the day;
Toil was upon my steps, dust on my way.
They melted down to earth my upward wings;
I half forgot the higher, better things—
The hope which yet again thy image brings.
Would I were worthier of thee! I am fain,
Amid my life of bitterness and pain,
To dream once more my early dreams again.
Walter was disturbed by a low rap at the door. It was so indistinct and hesitating, that, at first, he thought himself mistaken; a second summons, however, led him to rise and open to his visitor. It was the very person that he foreboded—Mr. Curl. The gentleman stood for a moment, watching him close the door very reluctantly; and then took refuge, rather than a seat, in the window, having most ingeniously contrived to place two chairs, as a sort of barrier, between himself and his host. Walter resumed his place, and each kept silence for a few moments: a silence broken by Walter himself.
"I am afraid," said he.
"Afraid of what?" exclaimed Curl, looking round with an air of alarm.
Maynard subdued a smile, and continued,— "I am afraid I have been, a little too bitter about Sir Robert. Let me read to you one or two passages that I think would bear softening."
Curl's face lighted up; a gleam of satisfaction kindled his keen eyes. "No, no!" cried he, "never soften down any thing; least of all, what you say of a political opponent. As to reading your pamphlet, I never let my authors read to me. What they say is no business of mine; I only sell books: I neither have them read to me, nor do I read them. But give me your papers; the press is waiting."
"Really, Mr. Curl," said Maynard, hesitating, "there is so much that I wish to add"
"Very foolish," replied the publisher, "to add any thing; keep it for the next time. Why should you do more for me than I ask? so give me the papers."
"They are not quite ready," answered Maynard.
"Not ready!" cried Curl.
"But you shall have them by six o'clock to-morrow," interrupted Walter; "you could not begin printing before. The fact is, I was worried and out of spirits this morning."
"The very time, of all others, to write," ejaculated his visitor; "being out of humour, which is what is usually called out of spirits—being out of humour with the whole world gives such zest to your spleen against individuals."
"I am sick of every thing and every body!" exclaimed Walter.
"Very likely," replied the other, calmly; "so used I when I was young as you, and any thing went wrong with me. Now I know that it is of no use caring much, let what will happen."
"I wish I could think the same," muttered his listener.
"I am very glad you do not," replied Curl: "for then you would be worth nothing."
"That is exactly what I am worth!" exclaimed Walter, colouring. "The truth is, Mr. Curl, I cannot write when I am plagued about trifles; and a tiresome dun this morning put to flight every idea that I had in the world."
"Mr. Maynard," said the bookseller, in a solemn tone, "it is very wrong to run in debt."
"How can I help it?" returned Walter, pettishly.
"Let me advise you," continued the other, with the same solemnity, "never to have any article for which you cannot pay at the time. Expectations are the worst paymasters in the world."
"Well," cried Walter, "since you have taken upon yourself the office of advice, I hope you, also, mean to take that of assistance. Now do, like a good creature, pay me at once for the pamphlet, which, I give you my honour as a gentleman, shall be in your hands by six o'clock to-morrow."
"Sir," said Curl, "what you ask is against my principles; you are in the second stage of authorship."
"What do you mean?" asked his auditor.
"I never object," was the answer, "to advancing money to the young writer commencing business; it encourages him, shews him what he may do; and, moreover, he is far the most anxious of the two to see himself in print. But when he publishes and succeeds, he fancies all money will be made as easily as he made the first; he begins to think much of his trouble, and has used up his first stock of ideas. Then I decline advancing money, because it is only want that makes him work. You are in the second stage!"
Walter coloured a yet deeper crimson; he was half inclined to throw papers and publisher out of the window, which was temptingly open. A moment passed, and he was pale as before: he felt that he had neither right nor cause for complaint, his own folly was alone to blame. "Well," said he, with a forced smile, "I, as a writer of moral essays and pamphlets for the 'good of my country,' ought not to object to principles; they certainly do turn a sentence admirably: but let us talk of something else. I am thinking of writing a comedy: 'The Lavinia,' of whom I predict great things, would turn every body's head as the coquette."
"The more like real life," replied Curl. "I always observe people's heads are turned, as they call it, by something that approaches as nearly to nothing as possible; but I have two other visits to pay, and must wish you good evening."
"Good evening," said Walter; and, bowing to his visitor, rose to open the door.
Curl hesitated on the threshold; then, suddenly turning round, he approached the table. "Mr. Maynard," said he, in a tone of voice very different to his usual hard and abrupt manner, "I do not see why I should keep to my principles any more than others. It is a weakness to like any body; but I like you—you are of a different order to those with whom I generally come in contact. You are going all wrong; you are pale and feverish; mind and body cannot stand the hard exercise to which you put them both: don't kill yourself: you'll like life better the longer you live. There's the money for the pamphlet: I know you will let me have it soon. Go to bed to-night."
The sound of the gold rang upon the table; but before the echo ceased, Curl was gone.