“Yes; much has been changed since my time. It has been a period of changes. Now that Bonaparte is gone, we may hope for repose. England needs repose: so do I—though my vicissitudes have not been involved in hers. I have lived apart from the political imbroglio. But you must have been in the midst of it. Did you see Waterloo?”
“Only the remains of it: I was a non-combatant. Major Lockhart—a gentleman I met in Paris about three years ago, a fine fellow and a good soldier—we ran across each other again in Brussels, a few days before the battle. Lockhart was killed. He was a man of over sixty; was married, and had a grown-up daughter, I believe. He had been living at home with his family since ’13, and had hoped to see no more fighting. When he did not come back with his regiment, I rode out to look for him, and found his body. That’s all I know of Waterloo.”
“You never bore arms yourself?”
“No. My father was a clergyman; not that that would make much difference; besides, he was not of the bookworm sort, and didn’t object to a little fox-hunting and sparring. But I have never believed in anything enough to fight for it. I am like the Duke in ‘Measure for Measure’—a looker-on at life.”
“Ah! I can conceive that such an occupation may be not less arduous than any. But do you confine yourself to that? Do you never record your impressions?—cultivate literature, for example?”
Lancaster’s face flushed a little, and he turned his head toward his companion with a quick, inquiring look. “How came you to think of that?” he asked.
The old gentleman passed his hand down over his mouth and chin, as if to correct an impulse to smile. “It was but a chance word of your own, while I was at work upon your shoulder-joint,” he replied. “You let fall some word implying that you had written poetry. I am very slightly acquainted with modern English literature, and could not speak from personal knowledge of your works were you the most renowned poet of the day. Pardon me the liberty.”
Lancaster looked annoyed for a moment; but the next moment he laughed. “You cannot do me a better service than to show me that I’m a fool,” he said. “I’m apt to forget it. In theory, I care not a penny whether what I write is read or not; but I do care all the same. I pretend to be a looker-on at life from philosophical motives; but, in fact, it’s nothing but laziness. I try to justify myself by scribbling poetry, and am pleased when I find that any one has discovered my justification. But if I were really satisfied with myself, I should leave justification to whom it might concern.”
“My existence has been passed in what are called practical affairs,” Mr. Grant returned; “but I am not ready to say that, considered in themselves, they have as much real life in them as a single verse of true poetry. Poetry and music are things beyond my power to achieve, but not to enjoy. The experience of life which cannot be translated into poetry or music is a lifeless and profitless experience.” He checked himself, and added in his usual tone: “I mean to say that, man of business though I am, I am not unacquainted with the writings of poets, and I take great delight in them. The wisest thing a man can do is, I apprehend, to augment the enjoyment of other men. Commerce and politics aim to develop our own wealth and power at the cost of others; but poetry, like love, gives to all, and asks for nothing except to be received.”
“Have a care, or you will undo the service I have just thanked you for. Besides, as a matter of fact, poetry in our days not only asks to be received, but to be received by publishers, and paid for!”