Nature made him that. I intend him for a poet.
Here my uncle George rose up, sat down and rose again, striving for
speech, while uncle Jervas smiled and dangled his eyeglass.
MY UNCLE GEORGE (breathing heavily). That's done it, Jervas, that's
one in the wind. A poet! Poor, poor lad.
MY AUNT (triumphantly). He has written some charming sonnets, and an
ode to a throstle that has been much admired.
UNCLE GEORGE (faintly). Ode! B'gad! Throstle!
MY UNCLE JERVAS. He trifles with paints and brushes, too, I believe?
MY AUNT. Charmingly! He may dazzle the world with a noble picture yet;
who knows?
MY UNCLE JERVAS. Oh, my dear Julia, who indeed! He has a pronounced
aversion for most manly sports, I believe: horses, for instance--
MY AUNT. He rides with me occasionally, but as for your inhuman
hunting and racing--certainly not!
UNCLE GEORGE. And before we were his age, I had broken my collarbone
and you had won the county steeplechase from me by a head, Jervas. Ha,
that was a race, lad, never enjoyed anything more unless it was when
the "Camberwell Chicken" went down and couldn't come up to time and
the crowd--
AUNT JULIA. You were both so terribly wild and reckless!
UNCLE JERVAS. No, my sweet woman, just ordinary healthy young animals.
AUNT JULIA. My nephew is a young gentleman.
UNCLE GEORGE. Ha!
UNCLE JERVAS. H'm! A gentleman should know how to use his fists--there
is Sir Peter Vibart, for instance.
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