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He had not yet recovered from the agony of having that water-melon line cut out of his part. It was the only good line, he considered, that he had. Any line that is cut out of an actor's part is always the only good line he has. "The speech about Omar Khayyam?" he enquired with suppressed irritation. "I thought that was the way you said it. All wrong! It's Omar of Khayyam."
I need not say here who were the others of that group, but it was to them I alluded in the ‘Toast to Omar Khayyam,’ which years afterwards I printed in The Athenæum, and have since reprinted in a volume of mine. After a while it was arranged that he was to come and visit us for a few days at The Pines.
Nothing more was said on this subject until the brothers were on their way home. "Bill," said the younger brother, breaking a painful silence, "why can't you leave things that you don't understand to me? Omar Khayyam ain't a wine, you chump; it's a cheese." An old South Carolina darky was sent to the hospital of St. Xavier in Charleston.
'Her brain had been writ upon by the "moving finger," quoted Mary, 'though the writing was not graved so deep but that love and science could erase it. You remember the four lines in Omar Khayyam? "'The moving finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your piety nor wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it."
But perhaps his most triumphant exploit was signing a copy of the Rubaiyat thus: "This book is given to the Anti-Saloon League of Naishapur by that thorn in their side, O. Khayyam." By the time the ambulance reached Mr. Girth's home George was completely beyond control. He was taken away screaming because he had not had a chance to autograph a copy of the "Songs of Solomon."
Man: Well, shall we say a lettuce salad, and a Perrier and soda? I'm dieting, too. Waiter: Lettuce salad, and a Perrier and soda? Yes, sir. Woman: You aren't very gay. Man: Gay! You don't know all the yearnings of my soul. Don't imagine that because I'm a special of the Record I haven't got a soul. Woman: I suppose you've been reading that book, Omar Khayyam, that every one's talking about.
Mr Goble!" "What is it now?" "Omar Khayyam was a Persian poet. His name was Khayyam." "That wasn't the way I heard it," said Mr Goble doggedly. "Did you?" he enquired of Wally. "I thought he was born at Khayyam." "You're probably quite right," said Wally, "but, if so, everybody else has been wrong for a good many years. It's usually supposed that the gentleman's name was Omar Khayyam.
We men are grand-stand players: we need an audience, some one person who really cares whether we succeed or fail. Your brother, for instance, has won more in the building of the S. R. & N. than I can ever hope to win." Eliza felt a trifle conscious, too, and she did not look at him when she said: "Poor, lonely old Omar Khayyam! You deserve all Dan has.
For instance, we brought out Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, an essay by Emerson, and another by Thoreau. Our Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam was Heron-Allen's translation of the original MS in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, which, though less poetical than FitzGerald's, was not so common. Several years ago we began to publish the works of our own members.
He always declared he could feel it farther if he drank standing. "What's his name?" whispered Jimmy, releasing the glass. "Rubaiyat, Omar Khayyam," panted the Captain, and was lost. Jimmy finished the round of his friends, and then approached the bar. His voice was softening.
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