Here was a discovery; probably the little unforeseen circumstance destined to turn the tide of my fortune and land me at last in Elysium. I must be a real, though rare bird of a misguided type. Thus impartial speech is sufficient to justify the conclusion. That being so, humility ill befits me. It is a mistake to cheapen what in reality are attributes as rare as they are highly prized. I am the one living illustration that in nature, as in law, nothing is impossible—that black even may become white. In law, I am told, this transformation is effected thoroughly, but at the same time at great cost to clients, and only by highly-gifted members of the bar. In my own case, natural law has been manipulated to bring about a like end, intended clearly for my gain. These sage conclusions led at once to my assuming the airs and importance of a creature who for the first time discovers that his genius has raised him from the gutter far above all his fellows. I seemed at once to acquire a more dignified and imposing strut while parading the spout, and at the same time a capacity for looking calmly into space, towards the place of my ultimate destiny, far removed from this narrow terrestrial sphere. All this was a wonderful transformation to be wrought by the careless boast of a tawdry gossip, and clearly proves how nicely poised are the affairs of life. Such incidents are not unknown among men, as the word of a fool has been known to arrest the overthrow of a kingdom. {254} Among other things, it occurred to me, since Nature has gone out of her way to make me what I am, I must be a poet. I can hardly explain the process of reasoning which led to this belief; for all that, the belief became so rooted in my brain that I must needs jot down my inspiration. It is universally acknowledged that the first step to be taken towards becoming a great poet is to look like one. I accordingly studied to look genius all over, and the result was, I was accepted as my own estimate. Next I determined to go in for classical verse, and bring out a poem in forty-eight cantos, so framed as to apprise the universe of my existence. I shall deplore my isolation in such a manner as to stir up the envy of the happiest beings on earth. Since Heaven has refused me a mate, I shall utterly condemn the law which divides the bird creation into families, each having its own distinctive attributes. I will cry down everything—prove that grapes are sour, that Nightingales sing one into despair, and that Blackbirds have fallen away from their primeval whiteness. But first I must lay hold of a good rhyming companion, a handy-book to lift me out of the horrors of fishing for words of the same sound. It will also be necessary to establish about my person a retinue of needy journalists and authors as an exhaustless source of inspiration, in order to deluge the world with rhymes copied from the strophes of Chaucer, and with plays decked out from the sentiments of Shakespeare.