University of Virginia Library

13. XIII.
LITERARY PROSPECTS.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 150. In-line Illustration. Image of two men talking at a desk while another man stands behind them looking uncertain.]

MARTIN found the publisher at
his desk; but, perceiving that
he was engaged, he was about
to withdraw, when that representative
of fate, giving him
a careless nod, observed that
he would be at leisure in a moment,
and requested him to
wait. So the young author,
but little encouraged by the
coolness of his reception, which certainly, he thought, augured no
good to the Beggar of Bagdad, stepped aside, placed his wet umbrella
in the corner, and warmed his fingers by the stove. From
this position, affecting an air of unconcern, — while in reality his
mind was quivering, like a jarred pendulum, betwixt his uncle and
his Romance, — he witnessed a little scene which proved somewhat
interesting. The publisher was dealing with a brother
author. Their conversation was concerning a manuscript which
lay open on the desk; and the author — a seedy individual, with
a droning voice, and a mouth stained with tobacco — was laboring
to convince the other that the work he offered him was the

most remarkable production of the age. Nothing like it had
been attempted by an American writer. Its excellences distinguished
every page. There was not a dull or superfluous paragraph,
from first to last. In short, it was a work of extraordinary
genius, and would make the fortunes of both author and
publisher. Notwithstanding all these recommendations, the bookseller
— who must have been exceedingly stupid, not to see the
merits of so wonderful a composition — insisted on declining the
author's proposals.

“I understand, then, that you do not wish to publish the
work,” observed the latter, with a look in which resentment, pity,
disappointment and disgust, were blended

“That is my decision, sir.”

“I think you will regret it. You must have formed some
prejudice which biases your judgment, or you would not —”

“Good-morning, sir.”

“You desire me, then, to take the manuscript away?” whined
the author, intruding his tobacco-stained mouth before the publisher's
face. “I think, if you would only consider —”

“I have considered and decided,” said the publisher, turning
away to avoid his breath.

Thereupon the author, with compressed lips, rolled up his manuscript
in an awkward bundle, and slowly and reluctantly withdrew.

“A disagreeable day,” observed the publisher, with a smile, as
his visitor disappeared.

Martin said it was, very disagreeable; his heart beating violently,
as he approached, and rested his hand upon the back of a
vacant chair.

“I think you are the young man who left a manuscript with

me, last week?” queried the publisher, with an uncertain look.
“Ah, yes! I remember. I knew I had seen you before.”

He arose, opened a safe in the corner of the room, and took out
the Beggar of Bagdad; while Martin, overwhelmed with a consciousness
of his insignificance in the bookseller's eyes, awaited,
with a fainting heart, the result of the interview.

“This is it, I believe — `The Beggar of Bagdad.'”

“Yes, sir,” said Martin, with an effort. “Have you had time
to examine it?”

Discouraged by the aspect of affairs, he almost hoped for a negative
reply. But, improbable as the circumstance may appear
to those who have had similar dealings with the trade, the manuscript
had received prompt attention.

“Our reader went over part of it — some forty pages, or so, I
think he said,” replied the publisher.

Martin observed, with affected pleasantry, that he must have
been deeply interested to be able to read so far.

“He expressed himself much pleased,” said the publisher.

“Indeed!” cried Martin, his soul brightening with sudden
hope.

“He was of opinion, however, that the romance would hardly
suit our purpose,” resumed the bookseller, with stately politeness.
“I am consequently under the necessity of returning it to you.
Thank you, sir,” extending the manuscript to its author.

The hope which had flamed up in Martin's breast was utterly
extinguished. A deathly blackness followed, as he received the
package, and began to arrange the ends of the wrapper, in a peculiarly
careful and ingenious manner, with his unconscious fingers.
His heart was in his throat, and it was some seconds before he
could speak.

“I suppose,” he said, at length, “that the style in many places
may have been found a little loose.”

“On the contrary, the style was considered rather too fine.”

“Too fine! How can that be?”

“At the present time,” was the reply, “high-wrought fictions
are not in very great demand. The popular taste is for simple,
natural pictures of life.”

“Am I to infer,” asked Martin, “that my style is considered
unnatural and extravagant?”

“Rather too much so for our purpose. You deal a good deal
in the marvellous — to which your style is well adapted, I have
no doubt; but it would hardly be for our interest to publish a
work of the kind. I presume, however, that you will readily find
a publisher to your liking.”

“One thing I would like to know,” cried Martin, energetically.
“Has the romance any merit at all?”

“I should judge so, sir. Our reader spoke favorably of the
writer's poetic talent, which, with experience, might, he thought,
be made available. He found considerable ingenuity displayed in
the plot of the story, and decided that, should the author come
down to real life, he would be quite successful.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Martin, bowing very low.

“Not at all,” replied his friend the publisher, turning to his
papers in a manner to discourage further conversation.

Martin bowed again, and set out to depart; but paused at the
door, and came back.

“Excuse me; but you spoke of other publishers. Have you
any one in your mind who would — who would be likely to want
such a manuscript? Excuse me for troubling you.”

The publisher said it was no trouble, and readily directed

Martin to the shop of a brother publisher; upon which the grateful
author humbly took his leave. He had reached the street and
felt the cold rain smite his face, before discovering that he had
left Mr. Toplink's umbrella behind him, — a circumstance which
occasioned him much humiliation and shame. Having returned
on that base errand, he set out once more to traverse the rainy
streets, with the umbrella over his head, and the Beggar of Bagdad
under his arm.

Martin had experienced heart-sickness before, but never so
heavy an attack of that disease as now. The interview with his
uncle, calling up so many unhappy associations of his past life,
had rendered him peculiarly susceptible to depressing influences;
and the stroke of disappointment had fallen on a feeble and
defenceless head. Shattered and shaken, he staggered forth,
without purpose, as without hope. In the city, which now appeared
a mere chaos of meaningless confusion to his sick eyes, all
things looked ghastly and strange. Dull, dead, sallow vapors of
despair shrouded his senses, coloring every object, and muffling
every sound. Only one idea assumed anything like distinctness
in his brain. Overwhelmed with a conviction of the utter worthlessness
of his romance, and disgusted at the thought of offering it
to another publisher, as he had for a moment feebly resolved to do,
he more than half made up his mind to walk to the nearest dock,
and fling it as far as he could into the water. But no — it was
not worth the trouble; he would throw it under the wheels of the
first omnibus. That he could not do, however, without exposing
his mortification to the crowd. Already he seemed to be a subject
of idle curiosity. Boys grinned at him, as if they knew all
about his rejected manuscript. Omnibus-drivers, cased in shining
oil-cloth, beckoned to him, with jeers, from their exposed and

drizzly heights; and one shouted “Beggar of Bagdad!” as
distinctly as ever Martin had heard anything in his life. Men
in the street appeared to be talking about him; and clerks, looking
out of shop-windows and laughing, were certainly acquainted
with all the circumstances of his case, and found them highly
amusing. To drop the burden of his shame, therefore, before the
eyes of such, was out of the question, and his thoughts reverted
momentarily to the dock theory; but, remembering what his uncle
had said about his rashness and folly, he concluded to carry the
romance home, and deliberately invent some shrewd device for its
destruction.

Had he been quite alone in the world, and could his disgrace
have been kept a secret guest in his own bosom, Martin felt that
he might have faced ill fortune stoutly. But now a derisive
throng of people he knew arose before him, incredulous and mocking.
Mrs. Wormlett's boarding-house would henceforth delight
in reminiscences of the disappointed author. Mr. Wormlett
would jerk his head, and prolong his wise countenance, whenever
the subject was mentioned, and preach profoundest homilies thereupon.
Miss Tomes would pity, and Mr. Toplink would tell the
story good-naturedly, in mysterious whispers, behind Martin's
back, and go into convulsions of laughter. Cheesy would lose
faith in him, and Mrs. Lydia Dabney would say, on hearing of
the affair, that it was just as she expected, — she could have told
you so before. And Martin's uncle, — would it be possible to conceal
the disgrace from him?

There were two persons, however, of whom Martin thought
more anxiously, in connection with the affair, than of all the
world beside. One was the charming Sophronia Dabney, who
had appeared struck with admiration for his talents, and expressed

an enthusiastic interest in The Beggar of Bagdad. Could he
endure the chagrin of appearing a mere pretentious simpleton in
her eyes? Perspiration started from his brow at the thought of
such humiliation; and he seriously contemplated making his
escape from Boston without seeing her again. But there was
Alice — what would become of her? Martin groaned as he
recalled to mind her sweet innocence, her helplessness, her attachment
to and dependence upon him. Crushed in spirit, deserted
by fortune, with no honest means within his reach, what could he
do, but tear away her clinging arms from his neck, and leave her
to her fate? One melancholy source of consolation, however, he
had in thinking of her. Let the worst happen, there were, he
thanked Heaven, asylums of charity open to such as she; and,
should he be driven to the bitterest extremes of want, there would
still be comfort, if not happiness, in store for her.

Revolving these things in his mind, Martin reached the boarding-house.
He walked rapidly up stairs, in order that no one
might see the manuscript under his arm, entered his cheerless
room, and shut the door. Alice, quiet and patient, was waiting
for him there, with a shawl wrapped round her delicate shoulders,
to defend her from the cold.

“Are you here, my poor child?” he asked.

“O, yes! I thought you would come soon,” she replied, her
pale face lighting up with pleasure. “I find my way here now,
without any one to lead me. But what is the matter?” she
added, with an overshadowing of the face.

“What should be the matter with me?” cried Martin, as cheerfully
as he could.

“I don't know; but I feel it — something; I can't tell what.”
Alice began to shiver, and tears ran down her cheeks. “What

have they been doing to you? You are not my brother Martin
to-day.”

“Will you disown me because I have been unfortunate?” murmured
the young man, getting down by her side, and placing his
arm affectionately around her.

Embracing him almost wildly, and clinging to him still, when
he would have gently put her arms away from his humid garments,
she could only call him her dear, dear brother, and sob
upon his neck. A warming ray of solace stole into his heart; its
frozen channels began to thaw and melt; and, after a fierce
struggle with his rising emotions, the pride of manly strength gave
way, and he wept with her without restraint.

“Would n't they buy your romance?” Alice asked, at length,
very softly, playing fondly with his thick locks of hair the while.

“No, my child,” replied Martin, with tearful humor. “The
Beggar of Bagdad is sent begging in earnest. Here is the
immortal manuscript, — which, let me tell you, barely escaped
being thrown into the dock, as I came up.”

“O, I am so sorry! — so sorry!” said Alice, holding his head
to her breast.

“Never mind,” said her companion, struggling gently to get
away. “I 'll tell you what we 'll do. We 'll take down the fireboard,
place the romance carefully in the grate, touch a match
to it, and have a pleasant little auto-da-fé. You can warm your
little fingers by it, Alice.”

“No! no! You must n't burn it up. You worked so hard to
write it! Why don't you try to sell it somewhere else? Somebody
will buy it, I am sure.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because you have got genius, have n't you?”

“Do you believe it?” asked Martin, comforted by the simple
faith of the child he loved. “Did anybody ever tell you so?”

“O, no! it came to me,” said Alice; “I was thinking of it
just now. The word genius — I don't know that I ever thought
what it meant before — seemed whispered in my ear. I have
seen you on the mountain again, too.”

“On the mountain? — with my cross?”

“You had stopped to build a house. O, what a beautiful house
it was! It had snow-white pillars in front; and you had leaned
your cross against one of them, and left it.”

“What did I do then?”

“You made me laugh,” said Alice, smiling at the recollection;
“you were so proud of your fine house! You dressed yourself in
long scarlet robes, and walked around the garden and through the
rooms, which were all full of the most wonderful things; and,
finally, I saw you trying to stand on your head on the roof.”

“Rather ridiculous, I must confess!” said Martin. “I am not
at all surprised that you laughed.”

“But the funniest thing was, when a big giant put his head
right out of the side of the mountain, — his head was almost as
large as the house itself, — and began to blow at you with his
comical mouth. The first thing, the roof came off, and down you
went with it to the ground; so hard, I thought you would have
been killed. Then the giant blew away the walls, which turned
out to be pasteboard, instead of marble; else you would have
been crushed by the ruins. Next the pillars went down, and your
cross fell against you so heavily that it carried you with it to the
ground. After the house was all blown to pieces, the giant began
to blow at you; and your scarlet robes all went into rags, and
you yourself came near going off a precipice.”

“The house was my romance, I suppose,” said Martin.

“I saw you clinging to some shrubs; then an old man, with
long white hair, and a bright, loving face, came to you, and told
you that the giant had been permitted to blow your house to
pieces, because it was not built high enough on the mountain;
because it was built, too, of very poor and light materials; and
because, if the house had stood as you wished, you would have
lived in it, and grown proud and selfish, and built other houses
around it, instead of going further up, where there were better
materials, and purer breezes, and more beautiful spots. You took
his advice, and went back into a part of the house which the
giant could not blow away with all his blowing, and spent the
night there. In the morning your wounds were healed, and I
saw you set out again to climb the mountain, stronger and happier
than ever. And all at once your cross became a flag-staff,
with two beautiful streamers, and you stood waving it from a
bright peak away up in the sunshine; while a great company of
people, seeing you from below, rushed up towards you, shouting
and clapping their hands, till all the mountain rung.”

The effect of this singular narrative upon Martin was wonderful.
Whether Alice was a mere dreamer of wild dreams, or
whether, in compensation for her outward blindness, she possessed
a real power of spiritual sight, he could not determine. But to
him, either by chance or otherwise, all her visions possessed a
deep significance. And this one brought him hope, and courage,
and strength. His soul, like a stranded bark, was lifted by it as
by a tide, and upborne on its golden waves.

“O, Alice!” said he, “you give me so much joy! You have
taught me a lesson of fortitude and faith. I am a man now,
whereas I was a child.”

“Yes, you are a man,” returned Alice, burying her face in his
locks, and weeping joyfully; “and you have such a great and
noble work before you! I see it — I see it plainly!”

“And I will do that work,” added Martin, in deep, earnest
tones, his bosom throbbing and expanding in the floods of light
which seemed poured down upon it from a higher sphere. “I
have power, — I am full of it now, — I overflow with it.
Shall I not, then, stand up and smile at the storm, awaiting with
serene faith and trust the hour when the sun will shine? These
aspirations, and this sense of something great and good within me,
which in my better moments I always feel, are not given in vain.
I will be patient, and cheerful, and strong. I will labor and
wait. I will climb the mountain, and set my standard high, high
upon the summit!”

Martin was a new being. Down into the sea of oblivion sunk
the old castle the inexperienced youth had upreared on the shallow
foundations of his romance. Its faded banners and desolated
halls swept out of sight; and in its place uprose another, of
grander proportions, and far more gorgeous than the first had
been, its golden gates flung wide to receive its rightful owner.

“I will write a great book, Alice!” said he, after contemplating
this new picture for a brief space. “The world shall know
me yet. I will know myself. What a weak thing The Beggar
of Bagdad is, compared with what I will do some day! In the
mean time, however,” he went on, with a slight change of voice
and manner, “I must do something to live. In the first place, I
will sell my romance for what I can get. There are some good
things in it, I do believe; and, if I can print it under a fictitious
name, and make a little money by it, I shall be satisfied.
Another thing, Alice, I will do. Here is Mr. Toplink's favorite

newspaper, the Streamer of the Free, which advertises to pay
large sums for original contributions, — `romances, tales, stories
of adventure, historical, biographical and humorous sketches,
scientific articles, essays, poetry, and so forth.' Its proprietors
must be liberal men. I will call on them to-morrow.”

With these new schemes in view, Martin took leave of Alice,
and went forth again into the storm. Treading all the past
beneath his feet, he seemed to walk sublimely on its ruins, and
extend his hopeful hands to heaven with shouts of joy. But his
spirit's exaltation could not endure long. He came down, at
length, to find himself in the low, wet streets, with Mr. Toplink's
umbrella over his head, and the Beggar of Bagdad under his
arm. He sought out the publisher to whom he had been recommended,
and modestly introduced the romance to his notice. The
difference between his deportment on this occasion, and the
ambitious bearing with which, a few days before, he had applied
to another on the same business, indicated that he had in the
mean time seen experience.

“What is the character of your work? Ah, yes; a romance,”
said the publisher, in a patronizing manner, puckering his face up
with smiles. “The Beggar of Bagdad — a very taking title.
You wish to have it published, I presume? To be sure. A very
interesting work, I have no doubt.”

So saying, he turned over the sheets, and shook out a letter,
which fell upon the floor.

“Ah, excuse me; no harm done, I hope.”

“None at all,” replied Martin, stooping quickly to pick up the
letter.

He colored slightly on recognizing Mrs. Lydia Dabney's
thimble-stamp on the big wafer, and her elaborate hand-writing on

the back. It was, in effect, his lost letter of introduction to Mr.
Simeon Wormlett.

“A very delightful story, I am sure,” resumed the publisher,
running his eye over the chapter-headings: `How the Seven
Robbers were outwitted; and what became of the supposed
Idiot who outwitted them.' That must be a capital chapter!
What is this? `The Adventures of Alphiddi, and the Pursuit of
the Robbers.' A good subject — very interesting, without doubt.
`Lillifoo and her Suite are saved by a Timely Warning, and
the Beggar is rewarded.' `Lillifoo hears more of the Mysterious
Music, and questions the Disguised Alphiddi.' `How
the Garden-wall was climbed, and the Guards deceived by
an Ingenious Artifice.' `Lillifoo troubled, her Sire suspicious,
and the Beggar exultant!' Capital!” said the publisher,
shuffling the manuscripts together, and returning them to
their wrapper. “I wish I was able to take hold of the work; I
presume to say it would be for our mutual advantage. But I
have so many projects on foot for the next six months, that I am
under the disagreeable necessity of declining it.”

And, with a profusion of bows and smiles, he returned the package
to the bewildered Martin.

“Perhaps, if you should read it,” suggested the latter, anxiously,
“you would decide to retain it, and print it at as early a
day as possible.”

The publisher was sorry to say that such an arrangement was
out of the question; and Martin was politely bowed out of the
store. After that, three booksellers were successively visited by
the persevering young author. The first treated him contemptuously,
and answered his questions in monosyllabic gutturals, without
deigning to look at him. The second complained of having

“overpublished,” and, like the other, declined even to take the
trouble of examining the manuscript. The third was a melancholy
individual, who kept an obscure establishment in Cornhill.
He did n't know whether he wished to publish anything at that
time or not. He observed, with a whine, that all new books
involved great pecuniary risks, and that he had lately lost a good
deal of money on several works of decided merit. However, if
Martin persisted, he would “look over” the romance, and decide
upon it in the course of a few days. Martin, impatient, discouraged,
and not a little disgusted with the whole affair, did persist,
and The Beggar of Bagdad was stowed away in the bookseller's
desk.

“It would be a great accommodation,” then said Martin, with
a mighty effort, “if you could advance me a few dollars on the
manuscript.”

“That an't our way of doing business,” returned the publisher,
gloomily. “At any rate, I could n't do anything of the kind until
I have read a chapter or so. I advanced ten dollars on a manuscript
once, because the author wanted the money, and recommended
his work so strongly that I thought it must have merit of
some kind. Well, the manuscript is in my desk now; and, as
for the ten dollars —”

“Never mind,” cried the impatient Martin. “I am not particular.
Will you be able to decide about the manuscript on
Saturday?”

“Well, — say Monday,” drawled the other. “I 'll try to have
it read by that time.”

So, more than ever disgusted with the business of finding a
publisher, Martin took his leave, and went out into the rain
rejoicing. The Beggar of Bagdad was off his hands; and, happy

in the sense of freedom attendant on that circumstance, he little
cared whether he ever saw or heard from it again.

His mind now turned upon the subject of a contribution for the
Streamer of the Free. He decided on furnishing a poem. His
imagination became excited, and straightway the storm was forgotten.
The thundering omnibuses, the muddy streets, the wet
pavements, pedestrians, umbrellas and rain, vanished from his
consciousness. Up into the pure, bright regions of the ideal
soared his soul; and there, among its own creations, shadowy
shapes of beauty, mystic groves, exquisite flowers of fancy, golden
streams of love, and azure hills draped in shining haze of the
unreal, it trod sweet measures, like a dancing-girl, and floated
round in happy gyrations of rhyme. For a time all this richness
of imagery remained unfixed, fluctuating, intangible; but at length
a few poetical affinities separated themselves from the misty chaos,
brightened into distinctness, and began to assume symmetric form
and order. Then commenced the labor of constructing a fit garb
of verse to clothe the living thought; and Martin, pacing up and
down the dreary streets, and around by the desolate Common, unconscious
of cold rain and raw east wind, whispering, muttering,
and rolling his eyes in fine frenzy to the roof of Mr. Toplink's
umbrella, might have been taken by almost any observer for a
sublime lunatic — as perhaps he was.

The ringing of the one-o'clock bells all round the city brought
him down from those ideal regions; and, relapsing into a disagreeable
consciousness of time and space, he looked about him in
some surprise, wondering into what part of the town he had
strayed. Presently he recognized a way-mark, hurried down the
nearest street, and made all haste to reach Mr. Toplink's place
of business, where he had promised to meet that young gentleman

at dinner-time, with the borrowed umbrella. He found him standing
in the door, with his coat-collar turned up about his ears,
waiting; and the two walked to Portland-street together.

Mr. Toplink was very talkative; but, with the measures of his
poem undulating in his brain, Martin could only say “yes” and
“no” to his conversation, in a mechanical and absent-minded
way. Mr. Toplink, who had learned something of the business his
friend was to transact that morning, manifested a keen curiosity
to know the result. Martin evaded his questions; but that young
gentleman, observing his singular demeanor, and building conjectures
thereupon, shrewdly inferred that The Beggar of Bagdad was
a failure. Full of the subject, he hurried to the table, chuckling,
and, with many significant winks and whispers, revealed, darkly,
for the entertainment of Mr. Wormlett and his guests, — who, he
hoped, would not be prejudiced by anything he might say, — the
true reason why Mr. Merrivale had no appetite for dinner.

Martin, shut up in his room with Alice, who would not go
down without him, was happily unconscious of the remarks made
concerning his literary abilities and prospects. His mind was
completely absorbed in his poem. With Alice sitting peaceful
and contented by his side, he wrote out with a pencil the lines he
had already composed, revised and polished them, and read them
aloud repeatedly, to criticize the rhythm, and to judge of their
effect upon the child. She was completely charmed with their
music. Perhaps her love and sympathy for their author rendered
her keenly susceptible to beauties the world would never see, — as
is so often the case with authors' friends. Or, the fact that the
lines were descriptive of the grand autumnal scenery, in the midst
of which she had enjoyed Martin's presence and conversation so
much during the past few days, may have inspired the deep interest

she felt. It is possible, again, that what he said about calling
the poem “Alice,” out of a tender regard for her, was the
principal source of the enjoyment she derived from hearing it
read. She declared, however, that, independently of all such
associations, the poem was the sweetest she had ever heard, and
the conscious author was but too happy to believe she spoke the
truth.

“Sit down, Mr. Toplink,” said he, gleefully, as that gentleman
came up from a long sitting at the dinner-table. “I owe you an
apology. You thought me very abrupt and impolite, as we came
along together; but you did not guess what was going on inside
my brain. Here is the whole story written out, — if you would
like to hear it.”

“Certainly I would,” cried Mr. Toplink, in the most friendly
manner, reclining on one of the beds, and picking his teeth. “I
was sure you had some great project in your head. Did you
know you kept muttering to yourself, all the way up?” he asked,
showing his gums with a good-natured grin.

“Did I?” laughed Martin.

“And your eyes looked as though they saw things in China.
But let 's hear what it 's all about.”

“Listen, then,” said Martin.

He cleared his throat, and, with the child nestling fondly to
his side, read, in deep, measured, musical tones, the poem of

When Martin finished, the child's eyes were filled with tears,
and closer still she nestled to his side, sighing and smiling. Mr.
Toplink expressed his appreciation in a different way.

“Capital!” he cried, clapping his hands boisterously. “Glorious!
— mag-nif-icent! `Solemn sibyl column' is first-rate.
Deuced good!” exclaimed Mr. Toplink, feeling that he could not
express himself strongly enough. “Now, if you want that to be
appreciated, send it to the Streamer of the Free, and let it lead
the poet's column, where everybody 'll see it. It 's sublime! just
the thing for the Streamer.”

“To tell the truth,” replied Martin, “I have had some thoughts
of inflicting it on the Streamer.”

“Do so, by all means; and don't neglect to italicise `solemn
sibyl column,' which, in my opinion, is the best line in the poem.”

“`Solemn sylvan column' is the correct reading,” said Martin,
biting his lips.

“`Solemn sylvan' — `sylvan' is good,” observed Mr. Toplink,
with a critical air. “But how would it do to alter it to `sibyl'?
`Sibyl' is a splendid word!”

A fine word, Martin acknowledged; but in that place he
thought “sylvan” more appropriate.

“Perhaps so; I only offered it as a suggestion,” said the deferential
Toplink. “There was another magnificent line, which
should be put in capitals, with two exclamation-points after it, for
effect.”

“Do you remember which it is?”

“It 's something about trilled me, thrilled me, chilled me, —
I 've forgotten precisely how it reads.”

“`How she thrilled me, how she chilled me, with the strangeness
of her smiles,'” suggested Martin.

“That 's it,” cried Toplink. “Would n't it make a better
jingle, though, to put in `trilled me,' and leave out the second
`how she'?”

“Perhaps so,” assented Martin, with a sarcastic smile.

“There 's only one or two things I object to, particularly, in
the whole poem,” pursued Mr. Toplink, — “if you will excuse my
boldness.”

“Certainly,” said Martin.

“Then, please to read once more the stanza with the `showy
shoulder shifted' in it.”

“`O'er her snowy shoulder drifted, on the light waves of her
hair,' — is that what you mean?”

Mr. Toplink said that was it; and Martin read the third
stanza, as requested.

“The imagery is gorgeous!” exclaimed the critic, — “perfectly
grand. But there is one defect in the lines, which you will
certainly correct, as soon as I point it out. You have the rhyme
`hair' at the end of the last line, after using it only two lines
above.”

“To be sure; and the repetition is intentional,” replied the
indignant author. “There is a similar repetition in the first
stanza; and I flatter myself that the effect is not bad.”

“O, not by any means!” cried the discomfited critic. “I
quite fancy it, come to hear it a second time. `Burning faintly
with a saintly —' what d' ye call it — `in her rippling hair,' is
good. That is one of your best stanzas.”

To make amends for his blunder, he hastened to furnish Martin
with writing materials, accompanied with a particular request
that, when the poem was neatly copied out for publication, he
might have the pleasure of reading it in manuscript, before it
appeared in the Streamer of the Free. Martin promised him the
gratification; upon which, expressing his firm conviction, that
Quintus Quilldriver, the Streamer's favorite bard, had written
few things that surpassed that composition in “magnificence of
fancy and sublimity of diction,” Mr. Toplink smilingly retired.

“I am glad he is gone,” murmured Alice. “I did n't think
he would talk so about your poem.”

“How would you have had him talk, my child?”

“I don't know but what he said was well enough. But your
Alice was so sweet, you loved her so, and everything was so
beautiful and so sad, — how could he laugh and clap his hands?”

“He did not feel it as you did,” answered Martin.

“That is it. I felt it, because I knew that you must have felt
it all when you wrote it. Is not your Alice a real character?
You loved her, and she died, I am sure.”

“Not at all,” said Martin, patting his companion's cheek.
“It 's all imaginary.”

“But you have loved?” insisted Alice.

“Yes, and I have seen sorrow. If I had not I could never
have written the poem. And, do you know that, in its composition,
I lived a whole life of love and sorrow in the grove with my
lost Alice? It seems as real to me now as any actual experience
I ever had; only infinitely sweeter and purer, just as the soul's
inner life is sweeter and purer than the external life of the body.
Now let me make a clean copy for the Streamer; for,” said
Martin, with a sigh, as he thought of his uncle, “I have got to
go out again in a little while.”