Burlesques | Page 5

has refreshed the traveller and perplexed the natural
philosopher. The shop in question was, in a word, a Grocer's.
In the midst of the shop and its gorgeous contents sat one who, to judge
from his appearance (though 'twas a difficult task, as, in sooth, his back
was turned), had just reached that happy period of life when the Boy is
expanding into the Man. O Youth, Youth! Happy and Beautiful! O
fresh and roseate dawn of life; when the dew yet lies on the flowers, ere
they have been scorched and withered by Passion's fiery Sun!
Immersed in thought or study, and indifferent to the din around him, sat
the boy. A careless guardian was he of the treasures confided to him.
The crowd passed in Chepe; he never marked it. The sun shone on
Chepe; he only asked that it should illumine the page he read. The
knave might filch his treasures; he was heedless of the knave. The
customer might enter; but his book was all in all to him.
And indeed a customer WAS there; a little hand was tapping on the
counter with a pretty impatience; a pair of arch eyes were gazing at the
boy, admiring, perhaps, his manly proportions through the homely and
tightened garments he wore.
"Ahem! sir! I say, young man!" the customer exclaimed.
"Ton d'apameibomenos prosephe," read on the student, his voice
choked with emotion. "What language!" he said; "how rich, how noble,
how sonorous! prosephe podas--"
The customer burst out into a fit of laughter so shrill and cheery, that
the young Student could not but turn round, and blushing, for the first
time remarked her. "A pretty grocer's boy you are," she cried, "with
your applepiebomenos and your French and lingo. Am I to be kept
waiting for hever?"
"Pardon, fair Maiden," said he, with high-bred courtesy: "'twas not
French I read, 'twas the Godlike language of the blind old bard. In what
can I be serviceable to ye, lady?" and to spring from his desk, to
smooth his apron, to stand before her the obedient Shop Boy, the Poet

no more, was the work of a moment.
"I might have prigged this box of figs," the damsel said good- naturedly,
"and you'd never have turned round."
"They came from the country of Hector," the boy said. "Would you
have currants, lady? These once bloomed in the island gardens of the
blue Aegean. They are uncommon fine ones, and the figure is low;
they're fourpence-halfpenny a pound. Would ye mayhap make trial of
our teas? We do not advertise, as some folks do: but sell as low as any
other house."
"You're precious young to have all these good things," the girl
exclaimed, not unwilling, seemingly, to prolong the conversation. "If I
was you, and stood behind the counter, I should be eating figs the
whole day long."
"Time was," answered the lad, "and not long since I thought so too. I
thought I never should be tired of figs. But my old uncle bade me take
my fill, and now in sooth I am aweary of them."
"I think you gentlemen are always so," the coquette said.
"Nay, say not so, fair stranger!" the youth replied, his face kindling as
he spoke, and his eagle eyes flashing fire. "Figs pall; but oh! the
Beautiful never does. Figs rot; but oh! the Truthful is eternal. I was
born, lady, to grapple with the Lofty and the Ideal. My soul yearns for
the Visionary. I stand behind the counter, it is true; but I ponder here
upon the deeds of heroes, and muse over the thoughts of sages. What is
grocery for one who has ambition? What sweetness hath Muscovada to
him who hath tasted of Poesy? The Ideal, lady, I often think, is the true
Real, and the Actual, but a visionary hallucination. But pardon me;
with what may I serve thee?"
"I came only for sixpenn'orth of tea-dust," the girl said, with a faltering
voice; "but oh, I should like to hear you speak on for ever!"
Only for sixpenn'orth of tea-dust? Girl, thou camest for other things!

Thou lovedst his voice? Siren! what was the witchery of thine own? He
deftly made up the packet, and placed it in the little hand. She paid for
her small purchase, and with a farewell glance of her lustrous eyes, she
left him. She passed slowly through the portal, and in a moment was
lost in the crowd. It was noon in Chepe. And George de Barnwell was
alone.
Vol. II.
We have selected the following episodical chapter in preference to
anything relating to the mere story of George Barnwell, with which
most readers are familiar.
Up to this passage (extracted from the beginning of Vol. II.) the tale is
briefly