The morning call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1878-1895, 1893-01-16
INSPIRATION.

You could not very well conceive less
sentimental name than John Thomas Au-
gustus Brownrigg. But names, like ap-
pearanees are deceptive, and the young
man who bore the one quoted was among
the most sentimental of the Almighty's
creatures. His Weakness-if weakness it
was-expTessed itself in the particular form
Of poetic effusion. From the early age of
be had dabbled in verses, and by the time
he was q he must have invoked the muse to
che extent of several reams of foolscap
But hitherto the inappreciative obduTacy Of
editors and publishers had prevented his
efforts from seeing the light of print; in
deed. the farthest he had got on the road to
publication was to pay the Authors ALI
ance Qimited) 20 guineas for bringing out
or, as it proved, not bringing out-a volume
Of his poems.
The worthy Br0wnrigg. however, was
not SO easily daunted or put out Of conceit
with himself. He remembered Wordsworth
and Keats, and how the literary fraternity
Of their day had snubbed them at the outset
True genius, be modestly consoled himself,
though often secuted in its initial stage, was
sure TO find recognition in tie end; and he,
Augustus BTownTigg, only had to wait for
portunity and be would rush through it ire
siStible as the ocean through breach in a
dam.
This opening, the one thing needful for
him, he tried for a long. long time in vain TO
get; but at length favorable opportunity
presented itself. By the kindness of friend
he was given an Introduction to the editor
OF popular monthly magazine; and this
editor, good-natured man, in an unusually
good-natured moment, commissioned him 10
write some verses on the death or a leading
minister of the crown, ~ hich had Just then
occurred. The editor did, indeed reserve 10
himself the right Of rejecting the verses If
they were not up to the mark; but this
caused Browurigg no uneasiness whatever.
up 10 the mark, foTsoothW
He was granted week in which to write
the verses. One day In this week, viz. the
Saturday preceding the Tuesday on which
the verses were to be sent in, the poet TOOK
as a holiday, having some time back made
an engagement with an old schOol-fellOw,
who was then in town for few days. TO
lunch with him at the "Crt' and go on to
matinee of Henry VIII" He came up.
therefore, from Ealing, where he lived, to
keep his engagement, ana, after a copiOus
and elaborate lunch, repaired with his friend
10 the Lyceum, finding himself almost too
dFOwsy TO enjoy the piece.
When it was over nothing would satisfy
his friend but that they should go and split
another bottle Of champagne al neighbor-
ing restaurant, which they accordingly did.
And it was getting quite late in the evening
when BroWnrigg hurried off to catch the
train for Ealing, which should get him home
in time for dinner, and thus save him the
outpourings Of paternal displeasure which
always greeted him when he was late for
that meal
1t was the dead season in London just
then. Hence very few passengers were
about The platforms Of the Underground
railway were almost deserted. And the
smoking compartment, into which our
friend betook himself at Gloucester road,
presented the unusual spectacle. at that
time Of day. Of being entirely empty.
Brownrigg was glad of this. For the ef-
feet of the champagne and Of good cigar
had been to put him into dreamy poetical
frame OF mind, IN which he Telished the
idea Of lying drowsily back In the corner OF
the carriage and brooding over the verses
in .lf-abs0Tbed solitude. So, as the train
mo- % ut he surrendered himself to his
dreamy laDgour. half closing his eyes, and
waiting for poetical thoughts to fall and en-
trance him.
He had not long been In this lethargIc
state, feeding his mind with high. inspiring
thoughts on the great subject which en-
crossed him, when actual lines and verses
began TO shape themselves In bis brain, and
gradually to fix themselves there In the tan
gible form Of articulate words.
They seemed TO come to him with no
part. but. as it were, spontaneously; until
Eve completed verses-VerSes, too, such as
be had never hoped TO write-had rIveted
themselves in his memory. . This,
then, was poetic inspiration. No racking
Of the brain for Ideas; no beating about
for rhymes; no paltry drudgery with pen
and ink; but simple suIrendering Of ones
self to dreamy meditativeness and a leav-
Ing of of all the rest 10 the heavenly musel
IL Ealing Broadway" had not been a
terminus, Browning would infalibly have
been carried beyond his destination. For,
as Il was, he had to be reused by porter
before he could awake from the dreams of
poetry to the facts OF practical life. He
rubbed his eyes, shook himself and stepped
out Of the train. Those verses-dreadfuI
thought-had they vanished with his dream
Mol Thank heaVeni They we're
still clear and fresh in his memory. He
would commit them to paper at once in case
they might escape him. So taking out his
pocketbo0k be wrote them down hastily
then ana there, being more than ever
struck with the beauties of his own muse as
be saw them in black and white What
hit they would makel Why. thew
were worthy Of Tennyson himself!
He said nothing to any one about this
wonderful phase Of inspiration which had
oveTtaken him amid the prosaic Surround
ings Of the District railway. But next dav
he posted the verses. which Dlaasan him