Volume 101 — THE LAST OF THE CANTERBURY TALES.
Reading edition
BEFORE THE UNVEILING.
She. What do you know about MARLOWE?
He. Isn't it somewhere near Taplow?
She. I think not, because Mr. IRVING went to unveil MARLOWE, and I don't think he is a rowing-man.
He. But he may be doing it for Sir MORELL MACKENZIE, who has a place at Wargrave.
She. Yes, but then the papers would have said something about it—wouldn't they?
He. Very likely; they would say anything in the silly season.
AFTER THE UNVEILING.
She. Well, I know all about MARLOWE now. He was a great poet—greater than SHAKSPEARE, or thereabouts.
He. Always thought that they would find some fellow greater than SHAKSPEARE. SHAKSPEARE always bores me awfully. But what did this fellow write?
She. Oh, lots of things! Faust, amongst the rest.
He. Come, that must be wrong, for Faust was written by GOUNOD. Wasn't it?
She. Now! I come to think of it, I suppose it was—or BERLIOZ.
He. Yes, they did it together. But where does MARLOWE come in?
She. Well, I am not quite sure.
He. You had better write to Mr. IRVING about it; he will tell you. He's awfully well up in the subject. As for me, I'm still under the impression that Marlow is somewhere on the river.
Honours Divided.
Writers can't speak in public. So says WALTER. They mumble, stumble, hammer, stammer, falter! BESANT, why grumble at fate's distribution? To writers, sense; to speakers, elocution! Some books are bosh, but all experience teaches "Rot's" native realm is—After-dinner Speeches!
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