"I am come to see how you are spending your holiday," he said.
"Not, I hope, in thought? No, that is well: while you draw you
will not feel lonely. You see, I mistrust you still, though you
have borne up wonderfully so far. I have brought you a book for
evening solace," and he laid on the table a new publication--a poem:
one of those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to the
fortunate public of those days--the golden age of modern literature.
Alas! the readers of our era are less favoured. But courage! I
will not pause either to accuse or repine. I know poetry is not
dead, nor genius lost; nor has Mammon gained power over either, to
bind or slay: they will both assert their existence, their
presence, their liberty and strength again one day. Powerful
angels, safe in heaven! they smile when sordid souls triumph, and
feeble ones weep over their destruction. Poetry destroyed? Genius
banished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prompt you to the
thought. No; they not only live, but reign and redeem: and without
their divine influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell--the
hell of your own meanness.
While I was eagerly glancing at the bright pages of "Marmion" (for
"Marmion" it was), St. John stooped to examine my drawing. His tall
figure sprang erect again with a start: he said nothing. I looked
up at him: he shunned my eye. I knew his thoughts well, and could
read his heart plainly; at the moment I felt calmer and cooler than
he: I had then temporarily the advantage of him, and I conceived an
inclination to do him some good, if I could.
"With all his firmness and self-control," thought I, "he tasks
himself too far: locks every feeling and pang within--expresses,
confesses, imparts nothing. I am sure it would benefit him to talk
a little about this sweet Rosamond, whom he thinks he ought not to
marry: I will make him talk."
I said first, "Take a chair, Mr. Rivers." But he answered, as he
always did, that he could not stay. "Very well," I responded,
mentally, "stand if you like; but you shall not go just yet, I am
determined: solitude is at least as bad for you as it is for me.
I'll try if I cannot discover the secret spring of your confidence,
and find an aperture in that marble breast through which I can shed
one drop of the balm of sympathy."
"Is this portrait like?" I asked bluntly.