A HOUSE in London's Heart. A first-floor room, Filled to the full with Ghosts of by-gone Great; Where Thackeray, of old, was wont to come, Where Trollope talked, and Eliot held debate. A tall, thin man in editorial chair, Scholar, King's Counsel—with an inborn flair For finding talent—greets a glad young man, Exhorts, encourages; Cæsarian, Surveys his suitor shrewdly, through and through, Rises, shakes hands and, bidding him adieu, Utters this mighty message: "@3We believe in you!@1" This, too, to one who, ere that happy hour, Though striving ceaselessly, had striven in vain, Had seen some strange malignant Fate o'er-pow'r Each Argosy he launched upon Life's main: Why was it you reacted thus to me, That your strong soul met mine in sympathy? Was it not that, one morning, you had found Upon your desk a story, written round A man who matched yourself in soul and mind, Spacious, self-sacrificial, swift to help his kind? Or was it but your native, Heav'n-born gift To widen vista, open spiritual door, To spur, to encourage, hearten and uplift, To be, to artists, Art's ambassador? This much I know. From that thrice-happy day I leaped ahead, in magic, undreamed way, Trebled my efforts, stole new strength through strife, Gathered fresh force by going, found in life An added, an incomparable zest ... Its mists at last dispelled; my aims made manifest. In all I did, in all I strove to be, In all I have done, in all I hope to do, There lay, and lies, this dream ... that men in me Should find the worth-while protégé of you, Who gave an all-obscure young man his chance ... Not while life lasts will I forget the blow, The stark, the sickening shock it was to know My heartener—overworked and overwrought By War's fierce strain and fell predominance Of unexplained neurosis—had been brought To self-destruction. Grateful to the end, I stay. And not I, only ... Publisher and Friend. |