CHAPTER FOUR

“Is this the hend?”

(“_Nicholas Nickleby._”)

Bathed in the radiance of the newly-risen Sun, the billows are surging and bristling below the Cliff, along which the Poet is thoughtfully wending his way. It may possibly surprise the reader that he should not ere this have obtained an interview with his beloved Sukie: he may ask the reason: he will ask in vain: to record with rigid accuracy the progress of events is the sole duty of the historian: were he to go beyond that, and attempt to dive into the hidden causes of things, the why and the wherefore, he would be trespassing on the province of the metaphysician.

Presently the Poet reached a small rising ground at the end of the gravel walk, where he found a seat commanding a view of the sea, and here he sunk down wearily.

For a while he gazed dreamily upon the expanse of ocean, then, struck by a sudden thought, he opened a small pocket book, and proceeded to correct and complete his last poem. Slowly to himself he muttered the words “death--saith--breath,” impatiently tapping the ground with his foot. “Ah, that’ll do,” he said at last, with an air of relief, “breath”:

“His barque had perished in the storm, Whirled by its fiery breath On sunken rocks, his stalwart form Was doomed to watery death.”

“That last line’s good,” he continued exaltingly, “and on Coleridge’s principle of alliteration, too--W. D., W. D.--was doomed to watery death.”

“Take care,” growled a deep voice in his ear, “what you say will be used in evidence against you--now it’s no use trying that, we’ve got you tight,” this last remark being caused by the struggles of the Poet, naturally indignant at being unexpectedly collared by two men from behind.

“He’s confessed to it, constable? you heard him?” said the first speaker (who rejoiced in the euphonious title of Muggle, and whom it is almost superfluous to introduce to the reader as the elder traveller of