Coffee and Repartee

Chapter 10

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"Good-morning, gentlemen," said the i***t, 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 i***t. "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 i***t, 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 i***t.

"Tax on what?" asked the Doctor. He was going to squelch the i***t.

"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.

[Illustration: "'YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY THAT YOU WRITE FOR THE

PAPERS?'"]

"I never have," returned the i***t.

"Then how, may I ask," said Mr. Whitechoker, severely, "how can you

write foreign letters?"

"With my stub pen, of course," replied the i***t. "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 i***t. "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:

SETTLED.

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!"

"That's not bad," said the Poet.

[Illustration: "'WE WOOED THE SELF-SAME MAID'"]

"Thanks," returned the i***t. "I wish you were an editor. I wrote that

last spring, 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 i***t. "How many yards long do you think

epigrams should be?"

The Bibliomaniac scorned to reply.

"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 i***t. "Quantity as she is

not wanted by nine comic papers I wot of. This poem is called:

"THE TURNING OF THE WORM.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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.

"'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,

"'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.'"

"There," said the i***t, 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 unjust. The

conclusion of your poem horrifies me, sir. I--"

[Illustration: CURING INSOMNIA]

"Have you tried your hand at dialect poetry?" asked the Doctor.

"Yes; once," said the i***t. "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:

"'O Manuel garcia alonzo,

Colorado especial H. Clay,

Invincible flora alphonzo,

Cigarette panatella el rey,

Victoria Reina selectas--

O twofer madura grand--

O conchas oscuro perfectas,

You drive all my sorrows away.'"

"Ingenious, but vicious," said the School-master, who does not smoke.

"Again thanks. How is this for a sonnet?" said the i***t:

"'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.'"

"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 i***t.

"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 i***t, 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 i***t, 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 i***t,

quietly.

The Poet laughed; Mrs. Smithers's eyes filled with tears; and the

School-master for once had absolutely nothing to say.

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