About an hour later, like as not, a new inspiration would seize the bard, whereupon he would again arouse his wife, saying, "Maria, Maria, get up! I've thought of a better word!"
The company in general listened to the story with admiration, but a merry-eyed American girl remarked: "Well, if he'd been my husband I should have replied, 'Alpheus, get up yourself; I've thought of a bad word!'"
"There is probably no hell for authors in the next world—they suffer so much from critics and publishers in this."—Bovee.
A thought upon my forehead,
My hand up to my face;
I want to be an author,
An air of studied grace!
I want to be an author,