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Adventure Of A Poet

by Robert Fuller Murray

As I was walking down the street

A week ago,

Near Henderson's I chanced to meet

A man I know.

His name is Alexander Bell,

His home, Dundee;

I do not know him quite so well

As he knows me.

He gave my hand a hearty shake,

Discussed the weather,

And then proposed that we should take

A stroll together.

Down College Street we took our way,

And there we met

The beautiful Miss Mary Gray,

That arch coquette,

Who stole last spring my heart away

And has it yet.

That smile with which my bow she greets,

Would it were fonder!

Or else less fond--since she its sweets

On all must squander.

Thus, when I meet her in the streets,

I sadly ponder,

And after her, as she retreats,

My thoughts will wander.

And so I listened with an air

Of inattention,

While Bell described a folding-chair

Of his invention.

And when we reached the Swilcan Burn,

'It looks like rain,'

Said I, 'and we had better turn.'

'Twas all in vain,

For Bell was weather-wise, and knew

The signs aerial;

He bade me note the strip of blue

Above the Imperial,

Also another patch of sky,

South-west by south,

Which meant that we might journey dry

To Eden's mouth.

He was a man with information

On many topics:

He talked about the exploration

Of Poles and Tropics,

The scene in Parliament last night,

Sir William's letter;

'And do you like the electric light,

Or gas-lamps better?'

The strike among the dust-heap pickers

He said was over;

And had I read about the liquors

Just seized at Dover?

Or the unhappy printer lad

At Rothesay drowned?

Or the Italian ironclad

That ran aground?

He told me stories (lately come)

Of good society,

Some slightly tinged with truth, and some

With impropriety.

He spoke of duelling in France,

Then lightly glanced at

Mrs. Mackenzie's monster dance,

Which he had danced at.

So he ran on, till by-and-by

A silence came,

For which I greatly fear that I

Was most to blame.

Then neither of us spoke a word

For quite a minute,

When presently a thought occurred

With promise in it.

'How did you like the Shakespeare play

The students read?'

By this, the Eden like a bay

Before us spread.

Near Eden many softer plots

Of sand there be;

Our feet, like Pharaoh's chariots,

Drave heavily.

And ere an answer I could frame,

He said that Irving

Of his extraordinary fame

Was undeserving,

And for his part he thought more highly

Of Ellen Terry;

Although he knew a girl named Riley

At Broughty Ferry,

Who might be, if she only chose,

As great a star.

She had a part in the tableaux

At the bazaar.

If I had said but little yet,

I now said less,

And smoked a home-made cigarette

In mute distress.

The smoke into his face was blown

By the wind's action,

And this afforded me, I own,

Some satisfaction;

But still his tongue received no check

Till, coming home,

We stood beside the ancient wreck

And watched the foam

Wash in among the timbers, now

Sunk deep in sand,

Though I can well remember how

I used to stand

On windy days and hold my hat,

And idly turn

To read 'Lovise, Frederikstad'

Upon her stern.

Her stern long since was buried quite,

And soon no trace

The absorbing sand will leave in sight

To mark her place.

This reverie was not permitted

To last too long.

Bell's mind had left the stage, and flitted

To fields of song.

And now he spoke of Marmion

And Lewis Morris;

The former he at school had done,

Along with Horace.

His maiden aunts, no longer young,

But learned ladies,

Had lately sent him Songs Unsung,

Epic of Hades,

Gycia, and Gwen. He thought them fine;

Not like that Browning,

Of whom he would not read a line,

He told me, frowning.

Talking of Horace--very clever,

Beyond a doubt,

But what the Satires meant, he never

Yet could make out.

I said I relished Satire Nine

Of the First Book;

But he had skipped to the divine

Eliza Cook.

He took occasion to declare,

In tones devoted,

How much he loved her old Arm-chair,

Which now he quoted.

And other poets he reviewed,

Some two or three,

Till, having touched on Thomas Hood,

He turned to me.

'Have you been stringing any rhymes

Of late?' he said.

I could not lie, but several times

I shook my head.

The last straw to the earth will bow

The o'erloaded camel,

And surely I resembled now

That ill-used mammal.

See how a thankless world regards

The gifted choir

Of minstrels, singers, poets, bards,

Who sweep the lyre.

This is the recompense we meet

In our vocation.

We bear the burden and the heat

Of inspiration;

The beauties of the earth we sing

In glowing numbers,

And to the 'reading public' bring

Post-prandial slumbers;

We save from Mammon's gross dominion

These sordid times . . .

And all this, in the world's opinion,

Is 'stringing rhymes.'

It is as if a man should say,

In accents mild,

'Have you been stringing beads to-day,

My gentle child?'

(Yet even children fond of singing

Will pay off scores,

And I to-day at least am stringing

Not beads but bores.)

And now the sands were left behind,

The Club-house past.

I wondered, Can I hope to find

Escape at last,

Or must I take him home to tea,

And bear his chatter

Until the last train to Dundee

Shall solve the matter?

But while I shuddered at the thought

And planned resistance,

My conquering Alexander caught

Sight in the distance

Of two young ladies, one of whom

Is his ambition;

And so, with somewhat heightened bloom,

He asked permission

To say good-bye to me and follow.

I freely gave it,

And wished him all success. Apollo

Sic me servavit.