"I've just been informed on respectable authority, that Walt Whitman is the new Socrates," he said laughingly. "I felt rather stunned at the moment but I've got over it now. Oh, this deliciously mad London! what a gigantic Colney Hatch it is for the crazed folk of the world to air their follies in! That any reasonable Englishmen with such names as Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, and Shelley, to keep the glory of their country warm, should for one moment consider Walt Whitman a poet! Ye gods! Where are your thunderbolts!"
"He's an American, isn't he?" asked Errington.
"He is, my dear boy! An American whom the sensible portion of America rejects. We, therefore,—out of opposition,—take him up. His chief recommendation is that he writes blatantly concerning commonplaces,—regardless of music or rhythm. Here's a bit of him concerning the taming of oxen. He says the tamer lives in a
"'Placid pastoral region.
There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds to break them,—
Some are such beautiful animals, so lofty looking,—some are buff-colored, some mottled, one has a white line running along his back, some are brindled,
Some have wide flaring horns (a good sign!) look you! the bright hides
See the two with stars on their foreheads—see the round bodies and broad backs
How straight and square they stand on their legs—'"
"Stop, stop!" cried Lorimer, putting his hands to his ears. "This is a practical joke, Beau! No one would call that jargon poetry!"
"Oh! wouldn't they though!" exclaimed Lovelace. "Let some critic of reputation once start the idea, and you'll have the good London folk who won't bother to read him for themselves, declaring him as fine as Shakespeare. The dear English muttons! fine Southdowns! fleecy baa-lambs! once let the Press-bell tinkle loudly enough across the fields of literature, and they'll follow, bleating sweetly in any direction! The sharpest heads in our big metropolis are those who know this, and who act accordingly."
"Then why don't you act accordingly?" asked Errington, with a faint smile.
"Oh, I? I can't! I never asked a favor from the Press in my life—but its little bell has tinkled for me all the same, and a few of the muttons follow, but not all. Are you off?" this, as they rose to take their leave. "Well, Errington, old fellow," and he shook hands warmly, "a pleasant journey to you, and a happy return home! My best regards to your wife. Lorimer, have you settled whether you'll go with me to Italy? I start the day after to-morrow."
Lorimer hesitated—then said, "All right! My mother's delighted at the idea,—yes, Beau! we'll come. Only I hope we shan't bore you."
"Bore me! you know me better than that," and he accompanied them out of the smoking-room into the hall, while Errington, a little surprised at this sudden arrangement, observed—