20 HOPE. 



sent abroad into the world; but it had gone forth, like its 

 author, unfriended, ill drest, patron wanting, paper and printing 

 paltry. Its reception was accordant; if H had thrown a 

 stone out of his garret window, the passing multitude (at least 

 if it had fallen harmless as his poem) could only have trodden 

 on or over it the same. Yet was he still sanguine and would 

 still believe that his neglected work, stone-like, as he proudly 

 fancied, in solid merit, might one day serve for a pedestal 

 whereon his laurelled statue might be planted. But few are 

 the pedestals formed of a single stone. To complete his, he 

 must, he thought, lay one upon another; so lighted to his 

 labour by the flicker of hope's torch and the flare of tallow 

 candle, he went on working (blockhead as he was !) through 

 many a fireless winter's night at another ponderous block of 

 literature a second epic poem. 



It was the afternoon of a sultry first of August; " magazine 

 day" just over, the hireling had got a respite from his daily 

 drudgery. He had employed it on the favourite labour of his 

 brain ; but that was ended, his epic was actually completed, even 

 to the last word of the last line of the last fair copy, which was 

 about to be exchanged for notes and notice. 



The poet wiped his pen with an air of complacency, then 

 wiped his thin face, threw himself back in his rush-bottomed 

 chair, and with half-closed eyes still bent upon his manuscript, 

 his bulky embodiment of thought, indulged in a delicious 

 reverie. For once, all conspired to encourage the poet's day- 

 dream, when it was suddenly broken by the unlooked-for 

 entrance of his tea. The black kettle was placed on the red 

 rusted hob, and a quarter of a pound of salt butter, fresh from 

 the shop, was deposited plateless (but, mind ye, not paperless) 

 on the table. Scarcely were his fretted nerves composed, and 

 the stair relieved from the servant's heavy tread, when from 

 some point unseen arose the voice of an abominable Fly. Buz 

 buz buz louder than buz was ever heard before. The poet 

 looked towards the small window of his sky-parlour. But no 

 Fly was there. H next rose and examined the dark corners 



