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Taylor, and that the success of his first volume of poems depended, to a certain extent, upon this interview. This ended all opposition on the part of Clare. He allowed himself to be dragged, like a lamb, into Mr. Gilchrist's house, which, though it was but a grocer's shop on the ground-floor, seemed to him a most magnificent dwelling.
If Providence had been on the side of guilt, the circumstances could not have been more favourable for the deception I afterwards played. No one was in the hall, no one was with Mr. Orr to note that it was I instead of James who executed Mr. Gilchrist's commission. But I was thinking of no deception then.
Whatever the cause, it was not till to-day the full determination came to brave the obloquy of a full confession; but when it did come I did not pause till I reached Mr. Gilchrist's house and was ushered into his presence.
Gilchrist's house, the host was as much to blame as the guest; the former encouraging Clare's weakness for the purpose of overcoming his extreme shyness and getting at the desired autobiographical information. By the time this was extracted, the poet had taken decidedly too much wine, and when a young lady in the room sat down to the piano and sang 'Auld Robin Gray, he began crying.
"By God, if I could only get that Ronny McKinnon under my bonny blue hanger," said Gilchrist, the ganger that had the soft side for Mirren Stuart. "One good prog wid pay for this night's daftness," growled his leader, and again came Gilchrist's voice "Was I tae ken McKinnon was ootside Finlay Stuart's and a dozen o' ye in the kitchen."
Entering his hut, his mind seemed wandering; he muttered incoherent words, and crept to his bed, from which he did not arise for months to come. There was little intercommunication at this time between Stamford, Helpston, and London. Mr. Gilchrist's literary friends scarcely knew of the serious turn his illness had taken, and as for Clare, his name was scarcely ever mentioned.
Gilchrist's house, was, on the whole, in the tone in which a parvenu might speak of a pauper.
In this same difficult medium of women's voices is "The Fountain," a surpassingly beautiful work, graceful and silvery as a cascade. It reminds one, not by its manner at all, but by its success, of that supreme achievement, Wagner's song of the "Rhinemaidens." The piano accompaniment to Gilchrist's chorus aids the general picture.
And so it has come to pass that the "Original Stories" are remembered chiefly on account of their illustrations. The drawings contributed by Blake were more in number than were required, and only six were printed. A copy of one of those rejected is given in Gilchrist's Life of the artist. None of them rank with his best work.
Come along, and I will personally conduct you." "No names, please!" said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's door. A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome when he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces of mediaeval domestic architecture within.
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