Some years ago I wrote a book, and no one read it save myself; it
occupies a dusty nook, all sad and lonesome, on the shelf. And having
found I couldn't write such stories as would please the mob, I sternly
said, "I'll wreak my spite on those who can hold down the job." So now
I sit in gloomy state and roast an author every day, and show he's a
misguided skate who should be busy baling hay. The people read me as I
cook my victims, and exclaim with glee, "If he would only write a book,
oh where would Scott and Dickens be?"
I used to think that I could sing, but when a few sweet trills I'd
shed, the people would arise and fling dead cats and cabbage at my
head. Then, realizing that my throat was modeled on the foghorn plan,
I said, "If I can't sing a note, I'll surely roast the folks who can!"
I go to concerts and look wise, and shudder as in misery; in vain the
prima donna tries to win approving smiles from me; in vain the tenor or
the bass, to gain from me admiring looks, pours floods of music through
his face--I squirm as though on tenderhooks. And people watch my
curves and sigh; "He has it all by heart, by jing! What melody would
reach the sky if he would but consent to sing!"
When I was young I painted signs, but not a soul my work would buy, for
all my figures and my lines were out of drawing and awry. And so I
said; "It breaks my heart that I can't sell a single sign; but in the
noble realms of art as critic I shall surely shine!" And so I grew a
Vandyke beard, and let my hair grow long as grass, and studied up a
jargon weird, and learned to wear a single glass. Then to the
galleries I went and looked at paintings with a frown, and wept in
dismal discontent that art's so crushed and beaten down. And people
followed in my tracks to ascertain my point of view; whenever I applied
the ax they gaily swung the cleaver, too. And often, through a solemn
hush, I'd hear my rapt admirers say: "If he would only use the brush,
Mike Angelo would fade away!"