At a London dinner recently the conversation turned to the various
methods of working employed by literary geniuses. Among the examples
cited was that of a well-known poet, who, it is said, was wont to arouse
his wife about four o'clock in the morning and exclaim, "Maria, get up;
I've thought of a good word!" Whereupon the poet's obedient helpmate
would crawl out of bed and make a note of the thought-of word.

About an hour later, like as not, a new inspiration would seize the
bard, whereupon he would again arouse his wife, saying, "Maria, Maria,
get up! I've thought of a better word!"

The company in general listened to the story with admiration, but a
merry-eyed American girl remarked: "Well, if he'd been my husband I
should have replied, 'Alpheus, get up yourself; I've thought of a bad
word!'"


"There is probably no hell for authors in the next world--they suffer so
much from critics and publishers in this."--_Bovee_.


A thought upon my forehead,
My hand up to my face;
I want to be an author,
An air of studied grace!
I want to be an author,
With genius on my brow;
I want to be an author,
And I want to be it now!