Can you match me that? The whole duty of man in a quatrain! And remark, I do not set up to be a professional bard; these are the outpourings of a dilettante."
"But, my dear sir!" he exclaimed.
"But, my dear sir!" I echoed, "I will allow no man to interrupt the flow of my ideas. Give me your opinion on my quatrain, or I vow we shall have a quarrel of it."
"Certainly you are quite an original,"" he said.
"Quite," said I; "and I believe I have my counterpart before me."
"Well, for a choice," says he, smiling, "and whether for sense or poetry, give, me
"'Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow:
The rest is all but leather and prunello.'"
"O, but that's not fair—that's Pope! It's not original. Dudgeon. Understand me," said I, wringing his breast-button, "the first duty of all poetry is to be mine, sir—mine. Inspiration now swells in my bosom, because—to tell you the plain truth, and descend a little in style—I am devilish relieved at the turn things have taken. So, I daresay, are you yourself. Dudgeon, if you would only allow it. And à propos, let me ask you a home question. Between friends, have you ever fired that pistol?"
"Why, yes, sir," he replied. "Twice—at hedgesparrows."
"And you would have fired at me, you bloody-minded man?" I cried.
"If you go to that, you seemed mighty reckless with your stick," said Dudgeon.
"Did I indeed? Well, well, 'tis all past history; ancient as King Pharamond—which is another French word, if you cared to accumulate more evidence," says I.
