A second-hand bookseller, I found, may read much in his time, but he cannot read continuously. My perusal of Walter Pope's poem was broken somewhat in the way I have attempted to describe. I got through the Horatian argument all right:-- "When I'm at Epsom or on Banstead Down, Free from the Wine, and Smoke, and Noise o' th' Town, When I those Waters drink and breathe that Air, What are my Thoughts? What's my continual Prayer?" and I was allowed to complete in peace the first stanza and the chorus:-- "If I live to be old, for I find I go down, Let this be my fate in a country town: May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate, And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate. CHORUS May I govern my passion with an absolute sway, And grow wiser and better, as my strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay." But here entered a very small dirty boy to know if I could spare his mother a piece of stamp paper. I said it was the one thing we didn't keep, and resumed the poem:-- "May my little house stand on the side of a hill, With an easy descent to a mead and a mill, That when I've a mind I may hear my boy read-- In the mill if it rains; if it's dry, in the mead. Near a shady grove and a murmuring brook, With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look, With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile, And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile." At this point there entered a rusty elderly man with a _Cruden's Concordance_, to know if I would buy it. I said we already had several, and I could not as a conscientious business man add to the stock. He sighed, surveyed me attentively, and went away, saying that he would bring something else. I implored him not to, but with an ineffable look of misfortune he shuffled away. I turned again to the page:-- "With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more Of the best wits that reign'd in the ages before; With roast mutton, rather than ven'son or teal, And clean, though coarse linen, at every meal. With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor, And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar; With Monte, Fiascone, or Burgundy wine, To drink the king's health as oft as I dine. May my wine be vermilion, may my malt drink be pale, In neither extreme, or too mild or too stale; In lieu of desserts, unwholesome and dear, Let Lodi or Parmesan bring up the rear. Nor Tory, or Whig, Observator, or Trimmer May I be, nor against the law's torrent a swimmer; May I mind what I speak, what I write, and hear read, And with matters of State never trouble my head."