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Haverstock led him up to a lean, staring youth with goggle eyes who, she said, had promised to read several of his poems to the guests and to open a discussion on Marriage. The goggle-eyed poet informed John that Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Shelley and Browning were comic old gentlemen who entirely misunderstood the nature and function of poetry. He had founded a new school of poetry.
Haverstock said to Miss Bushe by way of explanation or possibly as a means of providing them with conversation. "I've always wanted to go to Ireland," said Miss Bushe, taking his arm and allowing him to lead her to the dining-room. "Well, why don't you go?" he asked. All evening people had been telling him that they had always wanted to go to Ireland, but had somehow omitted to do so.
Haverstock led John to a girl who was sitting at the back of the room, and introduced him to her. Miss Bushe was the daughter of the editor of the Daily Groan, and Mrs. Haverstock desired that John would take her into supper. "Mr. MacDermott is Irish he has only just arrived from Ireland," Mrs.
Smithson felt that the liege lady of his life, the woman he meant to marry willy nilly, would be the belle of the race-course. Nor was he disappointed. Everybody in London had heard of Lady Lesbia Haselden. Her photograph was in all the West-End windows, was enshrined in the albums of South Kensington and Clapham, Maida Vale and Haverstock Hill.
Most of the guests were already assembled when they entered the drawing-room where Mr. and Mrs. Haverstock bade them welcome. Hinde introduced John to them, mentioning that he had only lately arrived from Ireland. Mrs. Haverstock smiled and hoped he would often come to see them, and Mr. Haverstock looked pontifical and said, "Ah, yes. Poor Ireland! Poor Ireland! Tragic! Tragic!"
"It was there you lived with your father, was it not?" "Yes, and my church is to be called the Dr. Amhurst Memorial Church." "And do you propose to live at Haverstock?" "I was thinking of that." "Wouldn't it be just a little dull?" "Yes, I suppose it is, but it seems to me a suitable place where two young women may meditate on what they are going to do with their lives."
Pickwick's lodgings must have been, for, in the upper part, there are no houses opposite for Mrs. Raddle to call at it must have been a long drive for the party. I assume they must have made for Kentish Town, and toiled up Haverstock Hill at a walk, for the coach was heavily laden enough. Pleasant Hampstead!
"I don't know. I've settled on only one thing. I intend to build a little stone and tile church, very quaint and old-fashioned, if I get the right kind of architect to draw a plan for it, and this church is to be situated in Haverstock." "Where's Haverstock?" "It is a village near the Hudson River, on the plain that stretches toward the Catskills."
The long sinuous backbone of the borough, beginning as Haverstock Hill, continuing as Rosslyn Hill, and running through High Street and Heath Street to the Heath, is tree-shaded almost all its length. The streets on either side show vistas of irregular red brick, softened and toned down by the greenery of trees; every road is an avenue.
It is true that no Greek could have understood or professor refrained from pointing out Never mind; what is Greek for if not to be shouted on Haverstock Hill in the dawn? Moreover, Durrant never listened to Sophocles, nor Jacob to Aeschylus. They were boastful, triumphant; it seemed to both that they had read every book in the world; known every sin, passion, and joy.
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