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About this time Thyrsis was making his debut as an author. He had discovered a curious knack in himself, a turn for making verses of a sort which were pleasing to children. They came from some little corner of his consciousness, he scarcely knew how; but there was a paper that was willing to buy them, and to pay him the princely sum of five dollars a week!
Ardsley, and received a reply to the effect that he would not be able to send any more. Mr. Ardsley had sent them because of his interest in the proposed "practical" novel; and now he had learned that the poet had been giving his time to the writing of an impossible play! Thyrsis' predicament was a desperate one, and drove him to a desperate course.
Great, therefore, was his amazement when he opened the letter and read that this publisher was disposed to undertake it, and would be glad to see him and talk over terms. Thyrsis went, speculating on the way as to what strange manner of being this publisher might be.
He had, as Thyrsis found afterwards, got rid of the enthusiastic young man who had inveigled him into "The Hearer of Truth"; and perhaps also he had been reading the ridicule which the critics were pouring out upon that unhappy book. So once more Thyrsis wrote to Darrell a letter of agonized entreaty.
Farewell, oh, farewells manifold, ye Muses, and I, some future day, will sing you yet a sweeter song. The Goatherd. Filled may thy fair mouth be with honey, Thyrsis, and filled with the honeycomb; and the sweet dried fig mayst thou eat of Aegilus, for thou vanquishest the cicala in song! Lo here is thy cup, see, my friend, of how pleasant a savour!
And afterwards, what ghastly wounds in Corydon's soul, that had to be bound up and tended and healed! The pity of it; the shame of it that they should be able to descend to such sordidness! That their love, which they had planned as a noble temple, should turn out an ugly hovel! "Oh Thyrsis!" the girl would cry. "The idea that you should think less of my soul than of an old newspaper!"
Thyrsis replied that he was willing; and to his surprise he learned that the reader was none other than that Prof. Osborne, who in the university had impressed upon him his ignorance of the art of writing. He paid a call at the professor's home, and they had a long talk. There was nothing said about their former interview.
Anyone can see that I have suffered." "Yes, dear," said Thyrsis, "of course. Go on." "Well, one day it was last Friday he came up with a carriage to take us driving. And Delia had a headache, and wanted to rest, and so Harry and I went alone. I I guess I shouldn't have gone, but I didn't realize it.
They were standing on the hill-top, watching the last glimmer of the sinking moon. As the faint perfume of the clover came to them upon the warm evening wind, she sighed, and whispered "Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city noise, not as with thee of yore, Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home!" She paused. "Go on," he said, and she quoted
It plays havoc with me as a rule; and yet sometimes, when I'm not too exhausted, there is a certain joy in watching by the dim candle light the rosy upturned face and the little groping mouth. Oh Thyrsis, he is all mine and yours, and we must make him glad he was borned, mustn't we?" Section 9.
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