"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.




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