Volume I Part 33 (1/2)

_In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,_ _At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee,_ _Walled round with rocks as an inland island,_ _The ghost of a garden fronts the sea._

”I say,” exclaimed Michael eagerly, ”I never knew Swinburne was a really great poet. And fancy, he's alive now.”

”Alive, and living at Putney,” said Mr. Viner.

”And yet he wrote what you've just said!”

”He wrote that, and many other things too. He wrote:

_Before the beginning of years_ _There came to the making of man_ _Time, with a gift of tears;_ _Grief, with a gla.s.s that ran;_ _Pleasure, with pain for leaven,_ _Summer, with flowers that fell;_ _Remembrance fallen from heaven,_ _And madness risen from h.e.l.l.”_

”Good Lord!” sighed Michael. ”And he's in Putney at this very moment.”

Michael went home clasping close the black volume, and in his room that night, while the gas jet flamed excitably in defiance of rule, he read almost right through the Second Series of Poems and Ballads. It was midnight when he turned down the gas and sank feverishly into bed. For a long while he was saying to himself isolated lines: _'The wet skies harden, the gates are barred on the summer side.' 'The rose-red acacia that mocks the rose.' 'Sleep, and if life was bitter to thee, brother.'

'For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, all waters as the sh.o.r.e.'_

In school on Monday morning Mr. Cray, to Michael's regret, did not allude to the command that his cla.s.s should read 'In a Garden.' Michael was desperately anxious at once to tell him how much he had loved the poem and to remind him of the real t.i.tle, 'A Forsaken Garden.' At last he could bear it no longer and went up flushed with enthusiasm to Mr.

Cray's desk, nominally to enquire into an alleged mistake in his Latin Prose, but actually to inform Mr. Cray of his delight in Swinburne. When the grammatical blunder had been discussed, Michael said with as much nonchalance as he could a.s.sume:

”I read that poem, sir. I think it's ripping.”

”What poem?” repeated Mr. Cray vaguely. ”Oh, yes, 'Enoch Arden.'”

”'Enoch Arden,'” stammered Michael. ”I thought you said 'In a Garden.' I read 'A Forsaken Garden' by Swinburne.”

Mr. Cray put on his most patronizing manner.

”My poor Fane, have you never heard of Enoch Arden? Perhaps you've never even heard of Tennyson?”

”But Swinburne's good, isn't he, sir?”

”Swinburne is very well,” said Mr. Cray. ”Oh, yes, Swinburne will do, if you like rose-jam. But I don't recommend Swinburne for you, Fane.”

Then Mr. Cray addressed his cla.s.s:

”Did you all read 'Enoch Arden'?”

”Yes, sir,” twittered the Upper Fifth.

”Fane, however, with that independence of judgment which distinguishes his Latin Prose from, let us say, the prose of Cicero, preferred to read 'A Forsaken Garden' by one Swinburne.”

The Upper Fifth giggled dutifully.

”Perhaps Fane will recite to us his discovery,” said Mr. Cray, scratching his scurfy head with the gnawed end of a penholder.

Michael blushed resentfully, and walked back to his desk.

”No?” said Mr. Cray with an affectation of great surprise.

Then he and the Upper Fifth, contented with their superiority, began to chew and rend some tough Greek particles which ultimately became digestible enough to be a.s.similated by the Upper Fifth; while Mr. Cray himself purred over his cubs, looking not very unlike a mangy old lioness.