here I stopped suddenly and bowed my head.
"Why, what now, young sir; what's wrong?" questioned the Tinker.
"Everything!" said I miserably. "This is not poetry!"
"It—sounds very fine!" said the Tinker kindly.
"But it is just sound and nothing more—it is fatuous—trivial—it has no soul, no meaning, nothing of value—I shall never be a poet!" And knowing this for very truth, there was born in me a humility wholly unknown until this moment.
"Nay—never despond, friend!" quoth the Tinker, laying his hand on my bowed shoulder. "For arter all you've got what I ain't got—words! All you need is to suffer a bit, mind an' body, an' not so much for yourself as for some one or something else. Nobody can expect to be a real poet, I think, as hasn't suffered or grieved over summat or some one! So cheer up; suffering's bound to come t' ye soon or late; 'tis only to be expected in this world. Meanwhile how are ye going to live?"
"I haven't thought of it yet."
"Hum! Any money?"
"Only eighteen guineas."
"Why, 'tis a tidy sum! But even eighteen pound can't last for ever, an' when 'tis all gone—how then?"