Incalculable thou--"

here I stopped suddenly and bowed my head.

"Why, what now, young sir; what's wrong?" questioned the Tinker.

"Everything!" said I miserably. "This is not poetry!"

"It--sounds very fine!" said the Tinker kindly.

"But it is just sound and nothing more--it is fatuous--trivial--it has
no soul, no meaning, nothing of value--I shall never be a poet!" And
knowing this for very truth, there was born in me a humility wholly
unknown until this moment.

"Nay--never despond, friend!" quoth the Tinker, laying his hand on my
bowed shoulder. "For arter all you've got what I ain't got--words! All
you need is to suffer a bit, mind an' body, an' not so much for
yourself as for some one or something else. Nobody can expect to be a
real poet, I think, as hasn't suffered or grieved over summat or some
one! So cheer up; suffering's bound to come t' ye soon or late; 'tis
only to be expected in this world. Meanwhile how are ye going to
live?"

"I haven't thought of it yet."

"Hum! Any money?"

"Only eighteen guineas."