He was still a liar, but he told his lies on paper now, and hid them. He told them in prose and verse—prose which was measled with ‘Oh’s,’ and ‘Alas’s,’ and full of great windblown phrases of bombast, like inflated bladders, each with one little parched pea of meaning to rattle inside it The verse was mainly such as might have been written by a moderately illiterate absurd old man who had found life a vanity, and had deserved his discovery.
There was one idle and worthless journeyman in the ramshackle office, and one only. He kept the place like a pigsty, and the floor was littered with boards on which unlocked formes of type fell about into confusion. Paul could pick his way through these blindfold, and many and many a night in the dark he raged out his verses, marching to and fro with the four big dim windows staring dully at him, wall-eyed with countless paper patches, seen as darker blots on the darkness.
One night he was there in hiding. He had played truant from Sunday-school and chapel, and had been all day in the fields, hungry, but happy beyond all dreaming. And, oh! the Sundays! the dreary, bestial days, with Sunday-school at half-past nine and chapel at eleven, and Sunday-school at half-past two and chapel at half-past six and family prayers at nine, and bed at half-past nine, and books forbidden, and speech a crime, and whistling a felony. Paul had broken loose, and knew not what to look for, and cared little for the hour. For his head was full of verses, and his heart was full of the summer day, and for the first time in his life he had gone to Nature, and forgotten his thrice-thirty-times copied emotions, and had dared to speak in his own voice. The lines he had made that day were unutterably sacred and sweet to him. The dreaming Solitary, staring down the gorge, heard the boy’s awestruck whisper, and, forgetting all the rest of the verses, remembered this one only:
‘Why, all is happy! Not a worm that crawls,
Or grasshopper that chirps about the grass,
Or beetle basking on the sunny walls,
Or mail-clad fly that skims the face of glass
The river wears in summer;—not a bird
That sings the tranquil glory of the fields,
Or single sight is seen or sound is heard,
But some new pleasure to my full soul yields!’
Paul, standing there in the darkness, whispered this many times as if struck with awe by it, and indeed the boy wondered, and thought it an inspiration.
‘That is poetry,’ said Paul ‘I am a poet—a poet—a poet!’
He fell on his knees, with his face on his hands in the open quoin drawer, feeling as if he had uttered a blasphemy. How long he was there he never knew, but he was disturbed by the grating of a door below, and his father’s voice called up the stairs:
‘Paul! Where are ye?’
‘Here, father,’ Paul answered
A sob met his voice half-way, and Armstrong came stumbling up the stairs.