ry of their
country warm, should for one moment consider Walt Whitman a _poet_! Ye
gods! Where are your thunderbolts!"

"He's an American, isn't he?" asked Errington.

"He is, my dear boy! An American whom the sensible portion of America
rejects. We, therefore,--out of opposition,--take him up. His
chief recommendation is that he writes blatantly concerning
commonplaces,--regardless of music or rhythm. Here's a bit of him
concerning the taming of oxen. He says the tamer lives in a

"'Placid pastoral region.
There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds
to break them,--
Some are such beautiful animals, so lofty looking,--some are
buff-colored, some mottled, one has a white line running
along his back, some are brindled,
Some have wide flaring horns (a good sign!) look you! the bright
hides
See the two with stars on their foreheads--see the round bodies
and broad backs
How straight and square they stand on their legs--'"

"Stop, stop!" cried Lorimer, putting his hands to his ears. "This is a
practical joke, Beau! No one would call that jargon poetry!"

"Oh! wouldn't they though!" exclaimed Lovelace. "Let some critic of
reputation once start the idea, and you'll have the good London folk who
won't bother to read him for themselves, declaring him as fine as
Shakespeare. The dear English muttons! fine Southdowns! fleecy
baa-lambs! once let the Press-bell tinkle loudly enough across the
fields of literature, and they'll follow, bleating sweetly in any
direction! The sharpest heads in our big metropolis are those who know
this, and who act accordingly."

"Then why don't _you_ act accordingly?" asked Errington, with a faint
smile.

"Oh, I? I can't! I never asked a favor from the Press in my life--but
its little bell has tinkled for me all the same, and a few of the
muttons follow, but not all. Are you off?" this, as they rose to take
their leave. "Well, Errington, old fellow," and he shook hands warmly,
"a pleasant journey to you, and a happy return home! My best regards to
your wife. Lorimer, have you settled whether you'll go with me to Italy?
I start the day after to-morrow."

Lorimer hesitated--then said, "All right! My mother's delighted at the
idea,--yes, Beau! we'll come. Only I hope we shan't bore you."

"Bore me! you know me better than that," and he accompanied them out of
the smoking-room into the