like to find a place for POEMS, by AURORA LEIGH. Mr. Snodgrass's book
of verses might grace one of the lower shelves. (What is the title of
it? AMELIA'S BOWER, I hazard.) RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LATE LORD BYRON
AND OTHERS, by CAPTAIN SUMPH, would be somewhere; for Sumph did, you
will be glad to hear, take Shandon's advice and compile a volume.
Bungay published it. Indeed, of the books for which I should find room
there are a good few that bear the imprimatur of Bungay. DESPERATIN,
OR THE FUGITIVE DUCHESS, by THE HON. PERCY Popjoy, was Bungay's; and
so, of course, were PASSION FLOWERS and WALTER LORRAINE. Of the books
issued by the rival firm of Bacon I possess but one: MEMOIRS OF THE
POISONERS, by DR. SLOCUM. Near to Popjoy's romance would be THE LADY
FLABELLA, of which Mrs. Wititterly said to Kate Nickleby, `So
voluptuous is it not--so soft?' WHO PUT BACK THE CLOCK? would have a
place of honour (unearned by its own merits?). Among other novels that
I could not spare, THE GIFT OF GIFTS would conspicuously gleam. As for
POMENTS--ah, I should not be content with one copy of that. Even at
the risk of crowding out a host of treasures, I vow I would have a
copy of every one of the editions that POMENTS ran through.



THE GOLDEN DRUGGET
1918.

Primitive and essential things have great power to touch the heart of
the beholder. I mean such things as a man ploughing a field, or sowing
or reaping; a girl filling a pitcher from a spring; a young mother
with her child; a fisherman mending his nets; a light from a lonely
hut on a dark night.