"It is bosh!" said the School-master. The Poet smiled quietly.
"Perfect bosh!" repeated the School-master. "And only shows how in weak hands so beautiful a thing as the sonnet can be made ridiculous."
"What's wrong with it?" asked the Idiot.
"It doesn't contain any thought—or if it does, no one can tell what the thought is. Your rhymes are atrocious. Your phraseology is ridiculous. The whole thing is bad. You'll never get anybody to print it."
"I do not intend to try," said the Idiot, meekly.
"You are wise," said the School-master, "to take my advice for once."
"No, it is not your advice that restrains me," said the Idiot, dryly. "It is the fact that this sonnet has already been printed."[Pg 101]
"In the name of Letters, where?" cried the School-master.
"In the collected works of William Shakespeare," replied the Idiot, quietly.
The Poet laughed; Mrs. Smithers's eyes filled with tears; and the School-master for once had absolutely nothing to say.[Pg 102]