The i***t

Chapter 7

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A new boarder had joined the circle about Mrs. Pedagog's breakfast-table.

He had what the i***t called a three-ply name--which was Richard

Henderson Warren--and he was by profession a poet. Whether it was this

that made it necessary for him to board or not, the rewards of the muse

being rather slender, was known only to himself, and he showed no

disposition to enlighten his fellow-boarders on the subject. His success

as a poet Mrs. Pedagog found it hard to gauge; for while the postman left

almost daily numerous letters, the envelopes of which showed that they

came from the various periodicals of the day, it was never exactly clear

whether or not the missives contained remittances or rejected

manuscripts, though the fact that Mr. Warren was the only boarder in the

house who had requested to have a waste-basket added to the furniture of

his room seemed to indicate that they contained the latter. To this

request Mrs. Pedagog had gladly acceded, because she had a notion that

therein at some time or another would be found a clew to the new

boarder's past history--or possibly some evidence of such duplicity

as the good lady suspected he might be guilty of. She had read that Byron

was profligate, and that Poe was addicted to drink, and she was impressed

with the idea that poets generally were bad men, and she regarded the

waste-basket as a possible means of protecting herself against any such

idiosyncrasies of her new-found genius as would operate to her

disadvantage if not looked after in time.

This waste-basket she made it her daily duty to empty, and in the privacy

of her own room. Half-finished "ballads, songs, and snatches" she perused

before consigning them to the flames or to the large jute bag in the

cellar, for which the ragman called two or three times a year. Once Mrs.

Pedagog's heart almost stopped beating when she found at the bottom of

the basket a printed slip beginning, "_The Editor regrets that the

enclosed lines are unavailable_," and closing with about thirteen

reasons, any one or all of which might have been the main cause of the

poet's disappointment. Had it not been for the kindly clause in the

printed slip that insinuated in graceful terms that this rejection did

not imply a lack of literary merit in the contribution itself, the good

lady, knowing well that there was even less money to be made from

rejected than from accepted poetry, would have been inclined to request

the poet to vacate the premises. The very next day, however, she was glad

she had not requested the resignation of the poet from the laureateship

of her house; for the same basket gave forth another printed slip from

another editor, begging the poet to accept the enclosed check, with

thanks for his contribution, and asking him to deposit it as soon as

practicable--which was pleasing enough, since it implied that the poet

was the possessor of a bank account.

Now Mrs. Pedagog was consumed with curiosity to know for how large a sum

the check called--which desire was gratified a few days later, when the

inspired boarder paid his week's bill with three one-dollar bills and a

check, signed by a well-known publisher, for two dollars.

[Illustration: THE INSPIRED BOARDER PAID HIS BILL]

By the boarders themselves the poet was regarded with much interest.

The School-Master had read one or two of his effusions in the Fireside

Corner of the journal he received weekly from his home up in New

England--effusions which showed no little merit, as well as indicating

that Mr. Warren wrote for a literary syndicate; Mr. Whitechoker had known

of him as the young man who was to have written a Christmas carol for his

Sunday-school a year before, and who had finished and presented the

manuscript shortly after New-Year's day; while to the i***t, Mr. Warren's

name was familiar as that of a frequent contributor to the funny papers

of the day.

"I was very much amused by your poem in the last number of the

_Observer_, Mr. Warren," said the i***t, as they sat down to breakfast

together.

"Were you, indeed?" returned Mr. Warren. "I am sorry to hear that, for it

was intended to be a serious effort."

"Of course it was, Mr. Warren, and so it appeared," said the

School-Master, with an indignant glance at the i***t. "It was a very

dignified and stately bit of work, and I must congratulate you upon it."

"I didn't mean to give offence," said the i***t. "I've read so much of

yours that was purely humorous that I believe I'd laugh at a dirge if you

should write one; but I really thought your lines in the _Observer_ were

a burlesque. You had the same thought that Rossetti expresses in 'The

Woodspurge':

'The wind flapped loose, the wind was still,

Shaken out dead from tree to hill;

I had walked on at the wind's will,

I sat now, for the wind was still.'

That's Rossetti, if you remember. Slightly suggestive of 'Blow Ye Winds

of the Morning! Blow! Blow! Blow!' but more or less pleasing."

"I recall the poem you speak of," said Warren, with dignity; "but the

true poet, sir--and I hope I have some claim to be considered as

such--never so far forgets himself as to burlesque his masters."

"Well, I don't know what to call it, then, when a poet takes the same

thought that has previously been used by his masters and makes a funny

poem--"

"But," returned the Poet, warmly, "it was not a funny poem."

"It made me laugh," retorted the i***t, "and that is more than half the

professedly funny poems we get nowadays can do. Therefore I say it was a

funny poem, and I don't see how you can deny that it was a burlesque of

Rossetti."

"Well, I do deny it _in toto_."

"I don't know anything about denying it _in toto_," rejoined the i***t,

"but I'd deny it in print if I were you. I know plenty of people who

think it was a burlesque, and I overheard one man say--he is a Rossetti

crank--that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for writing it."

"There is no use of discussing the matter further," said the Poet. "I am

innocent of any such intent as you have ascribed to me, and if people say

I have burlesqued Rossetti they say what is not true."

"Did you ever read that little poem of Swinburne's called 'The Boy at the

Gate'?" asked the i***t, to change the subject.

"I have no recollection of it," said the Poet, shortly.

"The name sounds familiar," put in Mr. Whitechoker, anxious not to be

left out of a literary discussion.

"I have read it, but I forget just how it goes," vouchsafed the

School-Master, forgetting for a moment the Robert Elsmere episode and its

lesson.

"It goes something like this," said the i***t:

"Sombre and sere the slim sycamore sighs;

Lushly the lithe leaves lie low o'er the land;

Whistles the wind with its whisperings wise,

Grewsomely gloomy and garishly grand.

So doth the sycamore solemnly stand,

Wearily watching in wondering wait;

So it has stood for six centuries, and

Still it is waiting the boy at the gate."

"No; I never read the poem," said Mr. Whitechoker, "but I'd know it was

Swinburne in a minute. He has such a command of alliterative language."

"Yes," said the Poet, with an uneasy glance at the i***t. "It is

Swinburnian; but what was the poem about?"

"'The boy at the gate,'" said the i***t. "The idea was that the sycamore

was standing there for centuries waiting for the boy who never turns up."

"It really is a beautiful thought," put in Mr. Whitechoker. "It is, I

presume, an allegory to contrast faithful devotion and constancy with

unfaithfulness and fickleness. Such thoughts occur only to the wholly

gifted. It is only to the poetic temperament that the conception of such

a thought can come coupled with the ability to voice it in fitting terms.

There is a grandeur about the lines the i***t has quoted that betrays the

master-mind."

"Very true," said the School-Master, "and I take this opportunity to say

that I am most agreeably surprised in the i***t. It is no small thing

even to be able to repeat a poet's lines so carefully, and with so great

lucidity, and so accurately, as I can testify that he has just done."

"Don't be too pleased, Mr. Pedagog," said the i***t, dryly. "I only

wanted to show Mr. Warren that you and Mr. Whitechoker, mines of

information though you are, have not as yet worked up a corner on

knowledge to the exclusion of the rest of us." And with these words the

Idiot left the table.

"He is a queer fellow," said the School-Master. "He is full of pretence

and hollowness, but he is sometimes almost brilliant."

"What you say is very true," said Mr. Whitechoker. "I think he has just

escaped being a smart man. I wish we could take him in hand, Mr. Pedagog,

and make him more of a fellow than he is."

Later in the day the Poet met the i***t on the stairs. "I say," he said,

"I've looked all through Swinburne, and I can't find that poem."

"I know you can't," returned the i***t, "because it isn't there.

Swinburne never wrote it. It was a little thing of my own. I was only

trying to get a rise out of Mr. Pedagog and his Reverence with it. You

have frequently appeared impressed by the undoubtedly impressive manner

of these two gentlemen. I wanted to show you what their opinions were

worth."

[Illustration: "I KNOW YOU CAN'T, BECAUSE IT ISN'T THERE"]

"Thank you," returned the Poet, with a smile. "Don't you want to go

into partnership with me and write for the funny papers? It would be

a splendid thing for me--your ideas are so original."

"And I can see fun in everything, too," said the i***t, thoughtfully.

"Yes," returned the Poet. "Even in my serious poems."

Which remark made the i***t blush a little, but he soon recovered his

composure and made a firm friend of the Poet.

The first fruits of the partnership have not yet appeared, however.

As for Messrs. Whitechoker and Pedagog, when they learned how they had

been deceived, they were so indignant that they did not speak to the

Idiot for a week.

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