natius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but
admire him for it.

Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he
felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his
soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no
doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could
do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the
river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They
seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks,
their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama
of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake
themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to
express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some
London paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure
what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic moment had
touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward
bravely.

Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober
inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He
was not so old--thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just
at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and
impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him.
He tried weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy
was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a
melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple
joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men
would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway
the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds.
The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic
school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he
would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from
the notice which his book would get. "Mr. Chandler has the gift of easy
and graceful verse."... "wistful sadness pervades these poems."... "The
Celtic note." It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps
it would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname:
Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would
speak to Gallaher about it.

He pursued his revery so