the idea of the pedestrian excursion which had already brought him into a very awkward position. The instrument on which the singer accompanied himself was a guitar, and his song was evidently a love-song, though, as it was now drawing near to its close, Kenelm could but imperfectly guess at its general meaning. He heard enough to perceive that its words were at least free from the vulgarity which generally characterizes street ballads, and were yet simple enough to please a very homely audience.
When the singer ended there was no applause; but there was evident sensation among the audience,—a feeling as if something that had given a common enjoyment had ceased. Presently the white Pomeranian dog, who had hitherto kept himself out of sight under the seat of the elm-tree, advanced, with a small metal tray between his teeth, and, after looking round him deliberately, as if to select whom of the audience should be honoured with the commencement of a general subscription, gravely approached Kenelm, stood on his hind legs, stared at him, and presented the tray.
Kenelm dropped a shilling into that depository, and the dog, looking gratified, took his way towards the tea-gardens. Lifting his hat, for he was, in his way, a very polite man, Kenelm approached the singer, and, trusting to the alteration in his dress for not being recognized by a stranger who had only once before encountered him he said,—
“Judging by the little I heard, you sing very well, sir. May I ask who composed the words?”
“They are mine,” replied the singer.
“And the air?”
“Mine too.”
“Accept my compliments. I hope you find these manifestations of genius lucrative?”
The singer, who had not hitherto vouchsafed more than a careless glance at the rustic garb of the questioner, now fixed his eyes full upon Kenelm, and said, with a smile, “Your voice betrays you, sir. We have met before.”
“True; but I did not then notice your guitar, nor, though acquainted with your poetical gifts, suppose that you selected this primitive method of making them publicly known.”
“Nor did I anticipate the pleasure of meeting you again in the character of Hobnail. Hist! let us keep each other’s secret. I am known hereabouts by no other designation than that of the ‘Wandering Minstrel.’”
“It is in the capacity of minstrel that I address you. If it be not an impertinent question, do you know any songs which take the other side of the case?”
“What case? I don’t understand you, sir.”
“The song I heard seemed in praise of that sham called love. Don’t you think you could say something more new and more true, treating that aberration from reason with the contempt it deserves?”
“Not if I am to get my travelling expenses paid.”
“What! the folly is so popular?”
“Does not your own heart tell you so?”
“Not a bit of it,—rather the contrary. Your audience at present seem folks who live by work, and can have little time for such idle phantasies; for, as it is well observed by Ovid, a poet who wrote much on that subject, and professed the most intimate acquaintance with it, ‘Idleness is the parent of love.’ Can’t you sing something in praise of a good dinner? Everybody who works hard has an appetite for food.”
The singer again fixed on Kenelm his inquiring eye, but not detecting a vestige of humour in the grave face he contemplated, was rather puzzled how to reply, and therefore remained silent.
“I perceive,” resumed Kenelm, “that my observations surprise you: the surprise will vanish on reflection. It has been said by another poet, more reflective than Ovid, that ‘the world is governed by love and hunger.’ But hunger certainly has the lion’s share of the government; and if a poet is really to do what he pretends to do,—namely, represent nature,—the greater part of his lays should be addressed to the stomach.” Here, warming with his subject, Kenelm familiarly laid his hand on the musician’s shoulder, and his voice took a tone bordering on enthusiasm. “You will allow that a man in the normal condition of health does not fall in love every day. But in the normal condition of health he is hungry every day. Nay, in those early years when you poets say he is most prone to love, he is so especially disposed to hunger that less than three meals a day can scarcely satisfy his appetite. You may imprison a man for months, for years, nay, for his whole life,—from infancy to any age which Sir Cornewall Lewis may allow him to attain,—without letting him be in love at all. But if you shut him up for a week without putting something into his stomach, you will find him at the end of it as dead as a door-nail.”
Here the singer, who had gradually retreated before the energetic advance of the orator, sank into the seat by the elm-tree and said pathetically, “Sir, you have fairly argued me down. Will you please to come to the conclusion which you deduce from your premises?”
“Simply this, that where you find one human being who cares about love, you will find a thousand susceptible to the charms of a dinner; and if you wish to be the popular minne-singer or troubadour of the age, appeal to nature, sir,—appeal to nature; drop all hackneyed rhapsodies about a rosy cheek, and strike your lyre to the theme of a beefsteak.”
The dog had for some minutes regained his master’s side, standing on his hind legs, with the tray, tolerably well filled with copper coins, between his teeth; and now, justly aggrieved by the inattention which detained him in that artificial attitude, dropped the tray and growled at Kenelm.
At the same time there came an impatient sound from the audience in the tea-garden. They wanted another song for their money.
The singer rose, obedient to the summons. “Excuse me, sir; but I am called upon to—”
“To sing again?”
“Yes.”
“And on the subject I suggest?”
“No, indeed.”
“What! love, again?”
“I am afraid so.”
“I wish you good evening then. You seem a well-educated man,—more shame to you. Perhaps we may meet once more in our rambles, when the question can be properly argued out.”
Kenelm lifted his hat, and turned on his heel. Before he reached the street, the sweet voice of the singer again smote his ears; but the only word distinguishable in the distance, ringing out at the close of the refrain, was “love.”
“Fiddle-de-dee,” said Kenelm.
CHAPTER VI
AS Kenelm regained the street dignified by the edifice of the Temperance Hotel, a figure, dressed picturesquely in a Spanish cloak, brushed hurriedly by him, but not so fast as to be unrecognized as the tragedian. “Hem!” muttered Kenelm, “I don’t think there is much triumph in that face. I suspect he has been scolded.”
The boy—if Kenelm’s travelling companion is still to be so designated—was leaning against the mantelpiece as Kenelm re-entered the dining-room. There was an air of profound dejection about the boy’s listless attitude and in the drooping tearless eyes.
“My
