‘Put your wig straight On your bald pate, Keep your chin scraped, And your figure draped.
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!’ 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.”’
‘Oh, 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 dare say, 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. ‘But happily we are now the best of friends, and have all our interests in common.’
‘You go a little too fast, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. ---: I do not know your name, that I am aware,’ said Dudgeon.
‘No, to be sure!’ said I. ‘Never heard of it!’
‘No, Dudgeon!’ I interrupted. ‘Be practical; I know what you want, and the name of it is supper. _Rien ne creuse comme l’emotion_. I am hungry myself, and yet I am more accustomed to warlike palpitations than you, who are but a hunter of hedgesparrows. Let me look at your face critically: your bill of fare is three slices of cold rare roast beef, a Welsh rabbit, a pot of stout, and a glass or two of sound tawny port, old in bottle—the right milk of Englishmen.’ Methought there seemed a brightening in his eye and a melting about his mouth at this enumeration.