‘I have,’ he answered. ‘What’s the use of writing trash?’
‘Oh, Emmanuel, how can you talk so? I’m sure I never read sweeter verses than yours.’
‘Yes, mother, you think them sweet because I am your son. You wouldn’t care a straw for them if they were written by a stranger. Come, I’ll read you a bit of real poetry, and you’ll see the difference.’
He opened his well-used Milton, and read the hymn on the Nativity. He knew those noble verses by heart, and declaimed them well.
‘What do you think of that mother?’ he asked, when he had finished.
‘I don’t understand it all, dear,’ she answered meekly, ‘there are so many heathen idols in it. But it’s poetry that rings like a great brazen bell, and there’s more words in it than in yours.’
‘Yes, mother, that’s it. The man who wrote that was a born poet. He could do what he liked with the language, and make it ring like sound metal. My verse is like a poor little cracked sheep-bell, and sounds no better than tin. And I haven’t above a quarter of the English language in my vocabulary. I’ve read a great deal, but the words don’t come to my finger ends in all their wealth and variety, as they did to Shelley and Keats. No, mother, I’m no poet. Mr. Dulcimer is a good judge. If I write anything it must be prose.’
‘I hope Mr. Dulcimer hasn’t been putting you out of conceit with yourself, Emmanuel.’
‘He has only told me the truth, mother. That’s always good for a man to know, though it takes him aback sometimes to hear it.’
‘I should be very sorry to see you give up your pen, dear,’ said the mother, persistently. ‘I should be so proud if I could live to see you an author.’