“That is Mr. Anon,” whispered Lord Bacon. “Shakespeare is quite jealous of him, for Anon claims to be the most voluminous author in the world and, like Byron’s reviewer, has ‘just enough learning to misquote.’ He seldom quotes anyone correctly, not even excepting himself, but in this he is not unlike those other authors whom excess of egotism persuades into signing their names to that which would be their own had not some one said it before.” “‘Heed him not, gentle sirs, ’Tis but the fool,’” observed Shakespeare. “I ought to give you a pension for making my sayings so well known; I notice you never quote your own sentiments because mine answer all purposes so much better.” It was Lord Bacon who spoke. “I was talking of you, I grant that,” retorted Shakespeare. “Shall I repeat it? My wife says that it’s only by a hair—” “You two men are always quarreling,” interrupted Anon. “Please keep the age of Anne from his lordship’s notice, for she hath a way to fry his Bacon. My lord, you should never judge a poet by his hair.” “Nor yet by his feet,” interrupted Longfellow; “although if a poet looks well to his feet there are no heights to which he cannot climb.” “I accept the measure of your judgment,” went on Anon calmly. “As for the lady, Delilah’s barber stunt convinced Samson it isn’t wise to tell the truth to a woman.” “Yet I must insist,” continued Lord Bacon, “that Shakespeare is rather shy of hair to be a real poet. Of course, I have heard the story that Anne Hathaway, after a conference with Delilah, sought to reduce the strength of the Samson of letters by cutting his name from Shakespeare to Shakspeare and trimming his hair to make assurance doubly sure, but Lot’s wife, in looking backward, has recommended that the pig-tale be swallowed with a grain of salt. My dear Willie, your poetry has pains in its feet, your rhyme has received the absent treatment, and your rythm, like your hair, is lacking.” “Oh, well, hair doesn’t grow on brains,” retorted the claimant to “Hamlet.” But Anon was not to be out-argued, and continued: “A hirsute chrysanthemum growing on a man’s head is more likely to indicate a quarterback Freshman on the gridiron than a hunchback poet on the Mount of Parnassus. As for the poet’s other extreme, metrical feet are not always symmetrical.” “You’ve told it all—so for a spell For more rhymes where’s the reason? Besides, just now we are in h—” “That’s blank verse,” interrupted Shakespeare. “You mean damn!” interjected Lord Bacon, profanely. “Let me lend you the metres, Bill, so that you may measure up to my standard, or else cork the rythmic bottle and spill no more mimic blood of red ink.” “The gas man is the only person who controls my metre,” said the Bard of Avon, chuckling at his own wit. “You quite sweep me off my metaphorical feet. That may not be original, but I have no aspirations in the direction of originality.”