der any possible circumstances, be brought to
admit to himself that the society of a poet was a little tiresome, he
might perhaps have acknowledged it in the present instance. The
good-natured young man was quite content for the present to sink and
even to forget his own grievance in presence of the grievances of his
new acquaintance. His own trouble seemed to him but small in comparison.
What, after all, was the misprizing of the political services of an
individual in the face of a malign or stupid lack of appreciation, which
might deprive the world and all time of the outcome of a poet's genius?
Heron began now to infer that his new friend was poor, and the
conviction made him more and more devotedly sympathetic. He was already
dimly revolving in his mind a project for the publication of Blanchet's
poems at the risk or expense of a few private friends, of whom he was to
be the foremost. Some persons have a genius, a heaven-bestowed faculty,
for the transfer of their own responsibilities and cares to other minds
and shoulders. Already two sympathetic friends of a few hours' standing
are separately taking thought about the publication of Mr. Blanchet's
poems without risk or loss to Mr. Blanchet. Still, it must be owned that
Mr. Blanchet's company was growing a little of a strain on the attention
of his present host. Blanchet knew absolutely nothing of politics or
passing events of any kind in the outer world, and did not affect or
pretend to care anything about them. Indeed, had he been a man of large
and liberal information in contemporary history, he would in all
probability have concealed his treasures of knowledge, and affected an
absolute and complacent ignorance. Outside the realms of what he called
art, Mr. Blanchet thought it utterly beneath him to know anything; and
within his own realm he knew so much, and bore down with such a terrible
dogmatism, that the ordinary listener sank oppressed beneath it. Warmed
and animated by his own discourse, the poet poured out the streams of
his dogmatic eloquence over the patient Heron, who strained every nerve
in the effort to appreciate, and in the honest desire to acquire,
exalted information.

At last the talk came to an end, and even Blanchet got somehow the idea
that it was time to be going away. Victor accompanied him as far as the
doorway, and they stood for a moment looking into the silent street.

"You haven't far to go, I hope?"

"No, not far; not exactly far,"