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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
116
In
all
that
I
have
thus
said
I
do
not
wish
to
be
misunderstood.
Believing,
as
I
firmly
do,
that
the
poet
is
destined
to
become
extinct,
I
am
not
one
of
those
who
would
accelerate
his
extinction.
The
time
has
not
yet
come
for
remedial
legislation,
or
the
application
of
the
criminal
law.
Even
in
obstinate
cases
where
pronounced
delusions
in
reference
to
plants,
animals,
and
natural
phenomena
are
seen
to
exist,
it
is
better
that
we
should
do
nothing
that
might
occasion
a
mistaken
remorse.
The
inevitable
natural
evolution
which
is
thus
shaping
the
mould
of
human
thought
may
safely
be
left
to
its
own
course.
Self-made
Men
They
were
both
what
we
commonly
call
successful
business
men--men
with
well-fed
faces,
heavy
signet
rings
on
fingers
like
sausages,
and
broad,
comfortable
waistcoats,
a
yard
and
a
half
round
the
equator.
They
were
seated
opposite
each
other
at
a
table
of
a
first-class
restaurant,
and
had
fallen
into
conversation
while
waiting
to
give
their
order
to
the
waiter.
Their
talk
had
drifted
back
to
their
early
days
and
how
each
had
made
his
start
in
life
when
he
first
struck
New
York.
"I
tell
you
what,
Jones,"
one
of
them
was
saying,
"I
shall
never
forget
my
first
few
years
in
this
town.
By
George,
it
was
pretty
uphill
work!
Do
you
know,
sir,
when
I
first
struck
this
place,
I
hadn't
more
than
fifteen
cents
to
my
name,
hadn't
a
rag
except
what
I
stood
up
in,
and
all
the
place
I
had
to
sleep
in--you
won't
believe
it,
but
it's
a
gospel
fact
just
the
same--was
an
empty
tar
barrel.
No,
sir,"
he
went
on,
leaning
back
and
closing
up
his
eyes
into
an
expression
of
infinite
experience,
"no,
sir,
a
fellow
accustomed
to
luxury
like
you
has
simply
no
idea
what
sleeping
out
in
a
tar
barrel
and
all
that
kind
of
thing
is
like."
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