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Coffee and Repartee

<h2>X</h2> <div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/image019.png" width-obs="496" height-obs="357" alt=""'YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY THAT YOU WRITE FOR THE PAPERS?'"" title=""'YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY THAT YOU WRITE FOR THE PAPERS?'"" /> "'YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY THAT YOU WRITE FOR THE PAPERS?'"</div> "Good-morning, gentlemen," said the Idiot, as he seated himself at the breakfast-table and glanced over his mail. "Good-morning yourself," returned the Poet. "You have an unusually large number of letters this morning. All checks, I hope?" "Yes," replied the Idiot. "All checks of one kind or another. Mostly checks on ambition—otherwise, rejections from my friends the editors." "You don't mean to say that you write for the papers?" put in the School-master, with an incredulous smile. "I try to," returned the Idiot, meekly. "If the papers don't take 'em, I find them useful in curing my genial friend who imbibes of insomnia." "What do you write—advertisements?" queried the Bibliomaniac. "No. Advertisement writing is an art to which I dare not aspire. It's too great a tax on the brain," replied the Idiot. "Tax on what?" asked the Doctor. He was going to squelch the Idiot. "The brain," returned the latter, not ready to be squelched. "It's a little thing people use to think with, Doctor. I'd advise you to get one." Then he added, "I write poems and foreign letters mostly." "I did not know that you had ever been abroad," said the clergyman. "I never have," returned the Idiot. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/image021.png" width-obs="749" height-obs="463" alt="CURING INSOMNIA" title="CURING INSOMNIA" /> CURING INSOMNIA</div> "Then how, may I ask," said Mr. Whitechoker, severely, "how can you write foreign letters?" "With my stub pen, of course," replied the Idiot. "How did you suppose—with an oyster-knife?" The clergyman sighed. "I should like to hear some of your poems," said the Poet. "Very well," returned the Idiot. "Here's one that has just returned from the Bengal Monthly. It's about a writer who died some years ago. Shakespeare's his name. You've heard of Shakespeare, haven't you, Mr. Pedagog?" he added. Then, as there was no answer, he read the verse, which was as follows: <blockquote>SETTLED. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Yes! Shakespeare wrote the plays—'tis clear to me. Lord Bacon's claim's condemned before the bar. He'd not have penned, "what fools these mortals be!" But—more correct—"what fools these mortals are!" </div> </div> </blockquote> "That's not bad," said the Poet. "Thanks," returned the Idiot. "I wish you were an editor. I wrote that last spring,[Pg 94] and it has been coming back to me at the rate of once a week ever since." "It is too short," said the Bibliomaniac. "It's an epigram," said the Idiot. "How many yards long do you think epigrams should be?" The Bibliomaniac scorned to reply. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/image020.png" width-obs="573" height-obs="375" alt=""'WE WOOED THE SELF-SAME MAID'"" title=""'WE WOOED THE SELF-SAME MAID'"" /> "'WE WOOED THE SELF-SAME MAID'"</div> "I agree with the Bibliomaniac," said the School-master. "It is too short. People want greater quantity." "Well, here is quantity for you," said the Idiot. "Quantity as she is not wanted by nine comic papers I wot of. This poem is called: <blockquote>"THE TURNING OF THE WORM. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "'How hard my fate perhaps you'll gather in, My dearest reader, when I tell you that I entered into this fair world a twin— The one was spare enough, the other fat. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'I was, of course, the lean one of the two, The homelier as well, and consequently In ecstasy o'er Jim my parents flew, And good of me was spoken accident'ly. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'As boys, we went to school, and Jim, of course, Was e'er his teacher's favorite, and ranked Among the lads renowned for moral force, Whilst I was every day right soundly spanked. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'Jim had an angel face, but there he stopped. I never knew a lad who'd sin so oft And look so like a branch of heaven lopped From off the parent trunk that grows aloft. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'I seemed an imp—indeed 'twas often said That I resembled much Beelzebub. My face was freckled and my hair was red— The kind of looking boy that men call scrub. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'Kind deeds, however, were my constant thought; In everything I did the best I could; I said my prayers thrice daily, and I sought In all my ways to do the right and good. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'On Saturdays I'd do my Monday's sums, While Jim would spend the day in search of fun; He'd sneak away and steal the neighbors' plums, And, strange to say, to earth was never run. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'Whilst I, when study-time was haply through, Would seek my brother in the neighbor's orchard; Would find the neighbor there with anger blue, And as the thieving culprit would be tortured. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'The sums I'd done he'd steal, this lad forsaken, Then change my work, so that a paltry four Would be my mark, whilst he had overtaken The maximum and all the prizes bore. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'In later years we loved the self-same maid; We sent her little presents, sweets, bouquets, For which, alas! 'twas I that always paid; And Jim the maid now honors and obeys. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'We entered politics—in different roles, And for a minor office each did run. 'Twas I was left—left badly at the polls, Because of fishy things that Jim had done. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'When Jim went into business and failed, I signed his notes and freed him from the strife Which bankruptcy and ruin hath entailed On them that lead a queer financial life. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'Then, penniless, I learned that Jim had set Aside before his failure—hard to tell!— A half a million dollars on his pet— His Mrs. Jim—the former lovely Nell. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'That wearied me of Jim. It may be right For one to bear another's cross, but I Quite fail to see it in its proper light, If that's the rule man should be guided by. </div> <div class="stanza"> "'And since a fate perverse has had the wit To mix us up so that the one's deserts Upon the shoulders of the other sit, No matter how the other one it hurts, </div> <div class="stanza"> "'I am resolved to take some mortal's life; Just when, or where, or how, I do not reck, So long as law will end this horrid strife And twist my dear twin brother's sinful neck.'" </div> </div> </blockquote> "There," said the Idiot, putting down the manuscript. "How's that?" "I don't like it," said Mr. Whitechoker. "It is immoral and vindictive. You should accept the hardships of life, no matter how[Pg 98] unjust. The conclusion of your poem horrifies me, sir. I—" "Have you tried your hand at dialect poetry?" asked the Doctor. "Yes; once," said the Idiot. "I sent it to the Great Western Weekly. Oh yes. Here it is. Sent back with thanks. It's an octette written in cigar-box dialect." "In wh-a-at?" asked the Poet. "Cigar-box dialect. Here it is: <blockquote> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "'O Manuel garcia alonzo, Colorado especial H. Clay, Invincible flora alphonzo, Cigarette panatella el rey, Victoria Reina selectas— O twofer madura grandé— O conchas oscuro perfectas, You drive all my sorrows away.'" </div> </div> </blockquote> "Ingenious, but vicious," said the School-master, who does not smoke. "Again thanks. How is this for a sonnet?" said the Idiot: <blockquote> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancel'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I now pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think of thee, dear friend! All losses are restored and sorrows end.'" </div> </div> </blockquote> "It is bosh!" said the School-master. The Poet smiled quietly. "Perfect bosh!" repeated the School-master. "And only shows how in weak hands so beautiful a thing as the sonnet can be made ridiculous." "What's wrong with it?" asked the Idiot. "It doesn't contain any thought—or if it does, no one can tell what the thought is. Your rhymes are atrocious. Your phraseology is ridiculous. The whole thing is bad. You'll never get anybody to print it." "I do not intend to try," said the Idiot, meekly. "You are wise," said the School-master, "to take my advice for once." "No, it is not your advice that restrains me," said the Idiot, dryly. "It is the fact that this sonnet has already been printed." "In the name of Letters, where?" cried the School-master. "In the collected works of William Shakespeare," replied the Idiot, quietly. The Poet laughed; Mrs. Smithers's eyes filled with tears; and the School-master for once had absolutely nothing to say. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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