“My dear Peter,
“No; I should be doing an injustice to my readers if I were to print your verse in the Doctrinaire; but you must not be discouraged by this action on my part. You are still very young, and no one who has followed (as you may be sure I have) your brilliant career at the University can doubt your ultimate success in whatever profession you undertake. But the path of letters is a stony one, and the level of general utility in such work is only reached by the most arduous efforts. I saw your Aunt Phœbe the other day, and she was warm in your praises. She told me you were thinking of becoming an architect; I sincerely hope you will, for I believe you have every aptitude for that profession. Plod on steadily and I will go warrant for your writing verse with the best of them. It is inevitable, my dear Peter, that one’s early verse should be imitative and weak; but you have the ‘inner voice,’ do but follow the gleam and never allow your first enthusiasms to grow dim.
“Always your Father’s Old Friend,
“Archibald Wellington McGregor.”
Peter was a little pained by this; but he answered it very politely, inviting himself to lunch on the following Thursday, and then, turning to his verses, he gave the title “Dead,” and sent them to the Patriot, from whom he got no reply for a month.
He then wrote to the editor of the Patriot on a postcard, and said that, in view of the present deplorable reaction in politics, he feared the verses, if they were held over much longer, would lose their point. Would the Patriot be so kind, then, as to let him know what they proposed to do with the Poem?
He got a reply the same evening:—
“Telephone 239. “36A, Clare Market,
“Telegraph, ‘Vindex.’ “W.C.
“Dr. Sir,
“Your estd. favor to hand. No stamp being enclosed with verses, we have retained same, but will forward on receipt of two stamps, including cost of this.
“Faithfully yrs.,
“Alphonse Riphraim.
“Please note change of address.”