"Are the people of Gerona poetical?" asked H. C., rather anxiously.
"Poetical, sir?" with a puzzled expression. "Do you mean to ask if they write poetry, like Dante and Shakespeare? You do them too much honour."
"No, one could hardly expect that of them. But do they read and appreciate the poetry of others? There was a moment when I thought that crowd at the station was an ovation in honour of——"
H. C. paused and lowered his eyes modestly. Our intelligent landlord at once divined his meaning. We invariably found that he guessed things by intuition; two words of explanation with him went as far as twenty with others.
"Ah, I understand. You, sir, are a poet, and at first thought this riotous assemblage an ovation in your honour. I fear I must undeceive you—though you probably have already undeceived yourself. I hope it was not a bitter awakening. Still, I am enchanted to make the acquaintance of an English poet. I once saw and spoke to Mr. Browning in Italy. He did not look to me at all poetical. One pictures a poet with pale face, dreamy eyes, flowing locks, and abstracted manner. Mr. Browning was the opposite of all this. Now you, sir, with that beautiful regard and far-away expression looking into nothingness——"
H. C. bowed his acknowledgments; our host though flattering was growing a little personal.
"You have lost your poet-laureate," he continued; "and another has not been appointed. I read the newspapers and know the leading events of every country; for though I live out of the world, I must know everything that is going on there. Perhaps, sir, you are to be the new poet-laureate?"
"Not at present," said H. C., flushing deeply as a vision of future greatness rose up before him. "I hope to be so in time. At present I am rather young to bear the weight of the laurel wreath, which seldom adorns the unwrinkled brow."
"There is rhythm in your prose," said the landlord in quiet appreciation. "Truth will out. But, sir, though a poet, you are mortal; at least I conclude so, in spite of your diaphanous form and spiritual regard; and I bethink me that time flies in talking, and we shall have dinner ready before we can turn round. In England, being a poet, you probably feast upon butterflies' wings and the bloom of peaches; but——"
"On the contrary," cried H. C. hastily; "I have an excellent appetite and love substantial dishes. Crystallised violets and the bloom of peaches I leave to my aunt, Lady Maria. Like George III. my favourite repast is boiled mutton and apple dumplings; and like the king I have never been able to understand how the apples get inside the pastry. That does not affect their flavour. So we will, if you please, make ready for dinner. Do you patronise the French or Spanish cuisine? Oh, I am indifferent. It is a mere matter of butter versus oil, and both are good."