apable of furnishing even more than
the raw material of a couplet. It might, for instance, yield content.

For instance, if you loved, and married, and begot, and died, with the
seriousness of a person who believes he is performing an action of real
importance, and conceded that the perfection of any art, whether it be
that of verse-making or of rope-dancing, is at best a by-product of
life's conduct; at worst, you probably would not be lonely. No; you
would be at one with all other fat-witted people, and there was no
greater blessing conceivable.

Pope muttered, and produced his notebook, and wrote tentatively.

Wrote Mr. Pope:

The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find)
Is not to act or think beyond mankind;
No powers of body or of soul to share
But what his nature and his state can bear.

"His state!" yes, undeniably, two sibilants collided here. "His
wit?"--no, that would be flat-footed awkwardness in the management of
your vowel-sounds; the lengthened "a" was almost requisite. . . . Pope
was fretting over the imbroglio when he absent-mindedly glanced up to
perceive that his Sarah, not irrevocably offended, was being embraced
by a certain John Hughes--who was a stalwart, florid personable
individual, no doubt, but, after all, only an unlettered farmer.

The dwarf gave a hard, wringing motion of his hands. The diamond-Lord
Bolingbroke's gift--which ornamented Pope's left hand cut into the
flesh of his little finger, so cruel was the gesture; and this little
finger was bleeding as Pope tripped forward, smiling. A gentleman does
not incommode the public by obtruding the ugliness of a personal wound.

"Do I intrude?" he queried. "Ah, well! I also have dwelt in Arcadia."
It was bitter to comprehend that he had never done so.

The lovers were visibly annoyed; yet, if an interruption of their
pleasant commerce was decreed to be, it could not possibly have sprung,
as they soon found, from a more sympathetic source.

These were not subtle persons. Pope had the truth from them within ten
minutes. They loved each other; but John Hughes was penniless, and old
Frederick Drew was, in consequence, obdurate.

"And, besides, he thinks you mean to marry her!" said John Hughes.

"My dear man, he pardonably forgets that the utmost reach of my designs
in common reason would be to have her as my kept mistress for a month
or two," drawled Mr. Pope. "As concerns yourself, my good fellow, the
case is