“When a man relishes his food it is all right with him,” he thought.—“Starving for the sake of science may be all very well, but if it kills the scientist what becomes of the science?”
And he grew quite cheerful in the contemplation of the “Herr Doctor’s” improved appetite, and by degrees almost forgot the uncanny bird that was still sitting on the topmost ledge of the tower.
Among other studious habits engendered by long solitude into which Kremlin had fallen, was the somewhat unhygienic one of reading at meals. Most frequently it was a volume of poems with which he beguiled the loneliness of his dinner, for he was one of those rare few who accept and believe in what may be called the “Prophecies” of Poesy. These are in very truth often miraculous, and it can be safely asserted that if the writers of the Bible had not been poets they would never have been prophets. A poet,—if he indeed be a poet, and not a mere manufacturer of elegant verse,—always raves—raves madly, blindly, incoherently of things he does not really understand. Moreover, it is not himself that raves—but a Something within him,—some demoniac or angelic spirit that clamours its wants in wild music, which by throbbing measure and degree resolves itself, after some throes of pain on the poet’s part, into a peculiar and occasionally vague language. The poet, as man, is no more than man; but that palpitating voice in his mind gives him no rest, tears his thoughts piecemeal, rends his soul, and consumes him with feverish trouble and anxiety not his own, till he has given it some sort of speech, however mystic and strange. If it resolves itself into a statement which appals or amazes, he, the poet, cannot help it; if it enunciates a prophecy he is equally incapable of altering or refuting it. When Shakespeare wrote the three words, “Sermons in stones,” he had no idea that he was briefly expounding with perfect completeness the then to him unknown science of geology. The poet is not born of flesh alone, but of spirit—a spirit which dominates him whether he will or no, from the very first hour in which his childish eyes look inquiringly on leaves and flowers and stars—a spirit which catches him by the hands, kisses him on the lips, whispers mad nothings in his startled ears, flies restlessly round and about him, brushing his every sense with downy, warm, hurrying wings,—snatches him up altogether at times and bids him sing, write, cry out strange oracles, weep forth wild lamentations, and all this without ever condescending to explain to him the reason why. It is left to the world to discover this “Why,” and the discovery is often not made till ages after the poet’s mortal dust has been transformed to flowers in the grass which little children gather and wear unknowingly. The poet whose collected utterances Dr. Kremlin was now reading, as he sipped the one glass of light burgundy which concluded his meal, was Byron; the fiery singer whose exquisite music is pooh-poohed by the insipid critics of the immediate day, who, jealous of his easily-won and world-wide fame, grudge him the laurel, even though it spring from the grave of a hero as well as bard. The book was open at “Manfred,” and the lines on which old Kremlin’s eyes rested were these:
“How beautiful is all this visible world!
How glorious in its action and itself!
But we who name ourselves its sovereigns, we
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit
To sink or soar, with our mix’d essence make
A conflict of its elements, and breathe
The breath of degradation and of pride,