Part 40 (1/2)

Warrington burst into a roar of laughter. ”Why, young goose,” he yelled out--”of all the miserable weak rubbish I ever tried, Ariadne in Naxos is the most mawkish and disgusting. The Prize Poem is so pompous and feeble, that I'm positively surprised, sir, it didn't get the medal. You don't suppose that you are a serious poet, do you, and are going to cut out Milton and Aeschylus? Are you setting up to be a Pindar, you absurd little tom-t.i.t, and fancy you have the strength and pinion which the Theban eagle bear, sailing with supreme dominion through the azure fields of air? No, my boy, I think you can write a magazine article, and turn a pretty copy of verses; that's what I think of you.”

”By Jove!” said Pen, bouncing up and stamping his foot, ”I'll show you that I am a better man than you think for.”

Warrington only laughed the more, and blew twenty-four puffs rapidly out of his pipe by way of reply to Pen.

An opportunity for showing his skill presented itself before very long. That eminent publisher, Mr. Bacon (formerly Bacon and Bungay) of Paternoster Row, besides being the proprietor of the legal Review, in which Mr. Warrington wrote, and of other periodicals of note and gravity, used to present to the world every year a beautiful gilt volume called the Spring Annual, edited by the Lady Violet Lebas, and numbering amongst its contributors not only the most eminent, but the most fas.h.i.+onable, poets of our time. Young Lord Dodo's poems first appeared in this miscellany--the Honourable Percy Popjoy, whose chivalrous ballads have obtained him such a reputation--Bedwin Sands's Eastern Ghazuls, and many more of the works of our young n.o.bles, were fast given to the world in the Spring Annual, which has since shared the fate of other vernal blossoms, and perished out of the world. The book was daintily ill.u.s.trated with pictures of reigning beauties, or other prints of a tender and voluptuous character; and, as these plates were prepared long beforehand, requiring much time in engraving, it was the eminent poets who had to write to the plates, and not the painters who ill.u.s.trated the poems.

One day, just when this volume was on the eve of publication, it chanced that Mr. Warrington called in Paternoster Row to talk with Mr. Hack, Mr.

Bacon's reader and general manager of publications--for Mr. Bacon, not having the least taste in poetry or in literature of any kind, wisely employed the services of a professional gentleman. Warrington, then, going into Mr. Hack's room on business of his own, found that gentleman with a bundle of proof plates and sheets of the Spring Annual before him, and glanced at some of them.

Percy Popjoy had written some verses to ill.u.s.trate one of the pictures, which was called The Church Porch. A Spanish damsel was hastening to church with a large prayer-book; a youth in a cloak was hidden in a niche watching this young woman. The picture was pretty: but the great genius of Percy Popjoy had deserted him, for he had made the most execrable verses which ever were perpetrated by a young n.o.bleman.

Warrington burst out laughing as he read the poem: and Mr. Hack laughed too but with rather a rueful face.--”It won't do,” he said, ”the public won't stand it. Bungay's people are going to bring out a very good book, and have set up Miss Bunyan against Lady Violet. We have most t.i.tles to be sure--but the verses are too bad. Lady Violet herself owns it; she's busy with her own poem; what's to be done? We can't lose the plate. The governor gave sixty pounds for it.”

”I know a fellow who would do some verses, I think,” said Warrington.

”Let me take the plate home in my pocket: and send to my chambers in the morning for the verses. You'll pay well, of course.”

”Of course,” said Mr. Hack; and Warrington, having despatched his own business, went home to Mr. Pen, plate in hand.

”Now, boy, here's a chance for you. Turn me off a copy of verses to this.”

”What's this? A Church Porch--A lady entering it, and a youth out of a wine-shop window ogling her.--What the deuce am I to do with it?”

”Try,” said Warrington. ”Earn your livelihood for once, you who long so to do it.”

”Well, I will try,” said Pen.

”And I'll go out to dinner,” said Warrington, and left Mr. Pen in a brown study.

When Warrington came home that night, at a very late hour, the verses were done. ”There they are,” said Pen. ”I've screwed 'em out at last. I think they'll do.”

”I think, they will,” said Warrington, after reading them; they ran as follows:--

The Church Porch

Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Sometimes I hover, And at the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout And noise and humming They've stopp'd the chiming bell, I hear the organ's swell She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast.

She comes--she's here--she's past.

May Heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint, Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly.

I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait And see through Heaven's gate Angels within it.

”Have you got any more, young fellow?” asked Warrington. ”We must make them give you a couple of guineas a page; and if the verses are liked, why, you'll get an entree into Bacon's magazines, and may turn a decent penny.”

Pen examined his portfolio and found another ballad which he thought might figure with advantage in the Spring Annual, and consigning these two precious doc.u.ments to Warrington, the pair walked from the Temple to the famous haunt of the Muses and their masters, Paternoster Row.