CHAPTER I.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIV, Issue 1982, 21 March 1885, Page 1 (Supplement)

CHAPTER I.

It was a drrary tiny in August. The rain ff 11 in heavy sweeping marines all tho morning, nnd the storm-laden wind moaned diflm.illy across the Coilingwood flat, bowing the thick willows that marked tho course of the not far distant Ynrra, and tho weird looking gum trees that could hardly be seen through the mist oi cloud and rain in StuJley Park acroHH tho river. Nature seemed to htvvo assumed her moat melancholy mood, tho few pedestrians whom ill-fortune had compelled to be out of doors, toiled through tho mud in grim desporation, tho cab horses hung their ears in abject misery, and even the very goats, who arc usually cijual to any fortune, had foreborne to nibble the scanty herbage of the open paddock rf, and with coats stark and ntaring with wet, phcltered themselves under tho eaves of houses, westerly walla and fences, upturned carts, or, thrice fortunate, any verandah to which they could gain access. Taken at the best, the part of Collingwood Flat where our story opens is not, nor probably ever will be, a very inviting locality, [t is, or rather was, at that period, at the very verge of the residential portion of that thickly populated district, although the rows of hulf furnished cottages, the limo-stained 11 odd lots," the piles of new timber, and the general air of lumber and brickbattiness, proclaimed that the growing necessity for homes for persons of limited means was forcing the 01 ty still farther northward in the direction of the river, and if its unsavory tanneries and fellmongeries, establishments which, however useful, are conducive neither to the health nor comfort of a thickly populated neighbourhood. But the poor— not the very poor, for they live elsowhere — must havo dwellings, and even tho tainted atmosphere in tho vicinity of a boiling down works is preferable to the fetid equator of the back Blums of the great and wealthy city of Melbourne. It was, as has been said, a 1 dreary and dismal day enough in all conscience in this half-urban, half-suburban locality that wet autumn day, and yet la one spot at least there was amidst the general gloom, an aspect, almost of cheerfulness, in a terrace of small cottages, resplendent in all the glory of bright red and white bricks, and new paint and varnish. Theso cottages were of rather a more pretentious character than their general surroundings, inasmuch as they had fenced in gardens, or whiob might in courtesy be deemed ouoh, in front, knockers on the doors, and other marks and tokens of gentility, tho lowest stratum of such, it might be, bat still gentility. That is to say, on the outside. Inside it was different. There they were no bettor off than their neighbors. Not bo well off in fact, for the genteel passage or lobby cut off about a quarter of the already restricted rooms, while the garden and verandah were imposed in front to the loss of the needful yard in the rear. Availing ourselves of our privilege as writer and reader, let us enter one of them, number 5 for choice, without knocking, or invitation. What do we find ? A front room of nine or ten feet square at most, sparely, very sparely, and commonly, furnished. In fact, the only furniture is a strip of matting on the floor, a table and writing-desk, and couplo of choirs. Seated at tho table under tho window is a young man of twenty-three or twenty-four. He is busily engaged writing, and judging from tho pile of manuscript before him, seems to have been so employed for some bourn. Presently ha raises bis held from hiu tawk, gazes abstractedly through the window, and then, as if impressed with a new idea, turns his chair half round from the table, takes up what he has written, and feverishly commences to read it. The gloom deepens on his face as. he rapidly turns over slip after slip of his work, until, having finished, he crumples the manuscript in his hand, and Binks with his head on the ohair back, in an attitude of despair. "It's all of no use," ho moans, "no use. The ideas will not come. They are all right and I am wrong. I shall never, never be a I writer. And yet, I think— lf I could only get a show. But no, no, no, I can see it myself. Commonplace language, siokly sentiment, wishy-washy description, turgid bombastical rant, rubbish, rubbish. And I, who fancied myself a second Dickens, or a Thackeray, or a Trollope at least— l ? why I'm not even a — Bah 1 what's the use of my comparing myself with anyone. Why, the merest pigmy of them all is a giant by my side. I, because a few friends as idiotio as myself, have admired my fooliah productions, to imagine that I could win my spurs on the battle-field of literature. Oh fool 1 oh blind 1 And yet, and yet, there is something in me, I know, I feel there is. Oh, if they would only read my writings. But no, they do not. Alasl alasl they will not," and he aunk his head still lower, and sobbed despair- '• Why, Charlie, what's tho matter ? " said a low, sweet female voice behind him. " What has happened to make my poor boy ory ? Come, come, this will never do. You must cheer up, Charlie darling, for as tho auld song saya, • Charlie it my darling, 1 you know," and the soft Bootoh acoent, and the affection of light levity in which the words were spoken invested them with a world,of tender pathos. It waß the visit of an angel, of two angels, for the fair young oreature, his wife, who had stolen so noiselessly on him, brought with her also his only daughter, a winßome little thing of a year or so old, the pride of his heart, the delight of his eyes. Softly and caressingly she laid her arm round his bowed form, and in low and gentle, yet assured tones, Bhe continued, although her blue eyes were suffusod with tears, and even as she Bpoke, the sun, breaking through a sudden rift in the clouds, darted a ray of light through the window, which shone full on her golden hair, investing it as if with the nimbus of a Baint, while, to use the quaint phraßeology of Bunyan, her faco for a little while becamo even like unto tho face of the One of shining ones. " Hurely, it cannot be my Charlie, my own brave, gay, light-hoarted Charlie, who is giving way like this?" "Brave, gay, light-hearted? Yes, I was onco," replied the young fellow, bitterly yet sadly, " Yes, 1 was brave, and gay, and lighthearted, and light-headed too, for that matter, until that terrible day when I, with so many others, was, without the slightest warning, for no fault of my own, but to suit the caprice, or it may be, worse, the purposes, of my political masters, I was thrown out of the employment whioh I had every right and reason to look upon as permanent, but brave, and gay, and light-hearted no longer. No, the last few months of enforced idleness has thoroughly disposed of all that." " Of yaiuty, of light-heurtedneai, peihapn," she Haul, in tho samo low tone, " but not of bravery; no, no, I cannot, will not, belteve

thru. Relieve it? I -will not even Hypposc it." " Alas ' ala« t I fear it is too true, and that I, who used to be ho fond of lecturing to other fcllowH on the folly of giving way to trouble, am losing heart myself, and to think that I am little better than a puling coward after all. Oh ! Janet, it in not for myself, but for you, that I should have dragged you downto poverty, to the vcrgo of absolute want " " And jm that all?" interrupted tho young wife. " Who am I, that I should not phare your trouble, your poverty if need be? A plain farmer's daughter. Not but that if I had been the highest lady in the land my placo would still bavo been by my husband's Bide. Come, come, dailing, tell your wife, your little wife who loves you bo. Romember, a trouble shared is a trouble halved. And after all, what is this trouble ? Are those pig-headed editors still obdurnte, still so blind to their own interests that they will not tako your beautiful stories ?" ♦• My beautiful stories," he replied, ecornfully, " are not worth the paper they are written on. No, they will not accept them, they will not even read them. They don't say so, of course, but I know they won't. And they are right. I begin to see it now. Write aa I will, my writings are stuff, insufferable stuff, and deserve " 11 But they are beautiful," she remarked eagerly ; " they are lovely. I think so, and bnby thinks so too, don't you, baby?" she went on addressing that curly haired cherub who was cooing on her shoulder, and at the same time placing her on her father's knee ; "tell me, baby, arn't your papa's stories lovely ?" " Ofely," repeated the cherub. He smiled incredulously. " You think so, of course," ho said, " but" " But they are," she cried excitedly. " Didn't that gentleman— you know — I forget his name — who came to supper one evening, and who wouldn't have any wine, but for whom I had to send out for beer, and who wouldn't oome into the drawing-room, but who sat on the verandah with the window open while I played, because he wanted to smoke, he said — didn't he say they were— oh, I couldn't tell you what, because he used such odd terms, but I know he meant that they were good ?" " Ah," returned Charlie, with a half amused smile, "poor Jack Lovelace, ho'o one true friend among the very few. Yes, I remember, he did say they had go in them, and true grit, and were worth a bushel of the poppycock rot that was sometimes found in the weekly rugs. And I remember, too, dear, how horrified you were when ho said that one of my characters wanted a little more of the spice of the devil in her. Poor Jack," he went on musingly, " he's a good fellow, and would help me if he could ; but then you see, Jennie dear, he's only a Bohemian himself " " A Bohemian, dear ! Why, I never knew he was a foreigner, I thought " " Ha 1 ha 1 my dear, you scarcely understand," laughed Charlie. " A Bohemian, in literary circles, is not necessarily a native of Bohemia. He may be anything in nationality, so long as he is, so to speak, outside of, and yet on the fringe of respectability. The title is an comprehensive in its way as that of gentleman, mere comprehensive in fact, as a gentleman may dine with a duke, but not with a dUßtman, whereas duke or dustman, to the Bohemian it matters not. To day it may be pate dc foie gras and ohampagne at Scott's or the Melbourne Club ; to-morrow a biscuit and half-pint of twopenny beer at a pothouse bar. The Bohemian is equal to either fortune. He is a despiser of small conventionalities, a dweller in tents, so to speak, a kind of civilized Ishmael, not because be need be, but because he prefers freedom and independence to the forms and trammels of society. But he must be clever. He may be an author, ai. aotor, an artist, or aughc else; but be must have talent in his own peculiar walk in life, else he cannot be a Bohemian. Of such is Jack Lovelace— a Bohemian and a freelance of literaturo, free to tilt if he so will anybody's windmills, to prick anybody's bladders. A good fellow and a clever fellow, but without any influence with the big wigs of tho piofesaion. who. knowing his cleverness, use him, and let him go to the deuce when thoy've done with him, as they would throw away a squeezed lemon. A fellow who's just as likely to make a big namo for himself, or somebody else, and then die not worth a penny, as many a man with no brains beyond business shrewdness and the faculty of hoarding is to die a millionaire. Yes, Jack's a good fellow, and one of the very few who, since my dUmis*al, find what he is pleased to call ' stuff' in my work." " You are warm in his praises, Charlie." " I need be. He alone has cheered me on my way. Ho alone has urged me on, has advised me, nay, has helped me, not with money, but with what is more, with a kindly word spoken in due season, with sympathy, with encouragement in the dark hours. He alone, except you, dearest." 11 And why not I, too, soothe and sympathise 1 Why not I, too, say to you as I aay now, still hold fast by the golden anchor of Hope, ltemember, it is always darkest before dawn. What says the poet ? 1 The opal-eyed and many perium'd morn From gloom is born.' " 11 Your words infuse fresh life into me, Janet. I will work, I will hope. I had despaired. Even now, when your sweet-loving words came to cheer me, I had determined to give it up as useless, fruitless, to strive no longer after what seemed to me to be the unattainable. The tempting fields of literature, so far to look at from outside the edge, have indeed been very barren to me. Instead of flowers I have gathered nought but thorns." " But remember, husband mine, that where the thorns are, if they are thorns of the right sort, there, in due season, will the roues bloom." " God bless you, God bloss you, my own sweet wife."