The Diary of a Nobody

I had to run after it, and had the greatest difficulty in recovering it. When I had succeeded in doing so, I found Mrs. Fernlosse had walked on with some swell friends, and I felt I could not well approach her now, especially as my hat was smothered with mud. I cannot say how disappointed I felt. In the evening (Sunday evening of all others) I found an impertinent note from Mr. Burwin-Fosselton, which ran as follows: “DEAR MR. POOTER,— Although your junior by perhaps some twenty or thirty years— which is sufficient reason that you ought to have a longer record of the things and ways in this miniature of a planet— I feel it is just within the bounds of possibility that the wheels of your life don’t travel so quickly round as those of the humble writer of these lines. The dandy horse of past days has been known to overtake the slow coach. “Do I make myself understood? “Very well, then! Permit me, Mr. Pooter, to advise you to accept the verb. sap. Acknowledge your defeat, and take your whipping gracefully; for remember you threw down the glove, and I cannot claim to be either mentally or physically a coward! “Revenons à nos moutons. “Our lives run in different grooves. I live for MY ART— THE STAGE. Your life is devoted to commercial pursuits— ‘A life among Ledgers.’ My books are of different metal. Your life in the City is honourable, I admit. But how different! Cannot even you see the ocean between us? A channel that prevents the meeting of our brains in harmonious accord. Ah! But chaçun à son goût.