“But I do not know these verses, just made, well enough to sing them; it is enough if I can recall them well enough to recite.” Here the minstrel paused a minute or so as if for recollection, and then, in the sweet clear tones and the rare purity of enunciation which characterized his utterance, whether in recital or song, gave to the following verses a touching and a varied expression which no one could discover in merely reading them. THE FLOWER-GIRL BY THE CROSSING. “By the muddy crossing in the crowded streets Stands a little maid with her basket full of posies, Proffering all who pass her choice of knitted sweets, Tempting Age with heart’s-ease, courting Youth with roses. “Age disdains the heart’s-ease, Love rejects the roses; London life is busy,-- Who can stop for posies? “One man is too grave, another is too gay; This man has his hothouse, that man not a penny: Flowerets too are common in the month of May, And the things most common least attract the many. “Ill, on London crossings, Fares the sale of posies; Age disdains the heart’s-ease, Youth rejects the roses.” When the verse-maker had done, he did not pause for approbation, nor look modestly down, as do most people who recite their own verses, but unaffectedly thinking much more of his art than his audience, hurried on somewhat disconsolately,-- “I see with great grief that I am better at sketching than rhyming. Can you” (appealing to Kenelm) “even comprehend what I mean by the verses?” KENELM.--“Do you comprehend, Tom?” TOM (in a whisper).--“No.” KENELM.--“I presume that by his flower-girl our friend means to represent not only poetry, but a poetry like his own, which is not at all the sort of poetry now in fashion. I, however, expand his meaning, and by his flower-girl I understand any image of natural truth or beauty for which, when we are living the artificial life of crowded streets, we are too busy to give a penny.” “Take it as you please,” said the minstrel, smiling and sighing at the same time; “but I have not expressed in words that which I did mean half so well as I have expressed it in my sketch-book.” “Ah! and how?” asked Kenelm. “The image of my thought in the sketch, be it poetry or whatever you prefer to call it, does not stand forlorn in the crowded streets: the child stands on the brow of the green hill, with the city stretched in confused fragments below, and, thoughtless of pennies and passers-by, she is playing with the flowers she has gathered; but in play casting them heavenward, and following them with heavenward eyes.” “Good!” muttered Kenelm, “good!” and then, after a long pause, he added, in a still lower mutter, “Pardon me that remark of mine the other day about a beefsteak. But own that I am right: what you call a sketch from Nature is but a sketch of your own thought.” CHAPTER X.