And those who made a Mint off Miss MacLane, And those who shuddered at her Jests profane, Alike consigned her to Oblivion, And buried once, would not dig up again. XVI Anthony Hope men set their hearts upon-- Like Conan Doyle he prospered; and anon, Remained unopened on the dusty Shelf, Delighting us an Hour--and then was gone. XVII Think, in this gaudy monthly Magazine Whose Covers are Soapette and Breakfastine, How Author after Author with his Tale Fills his fool Pages, and no more is seen. XVIII They say that now Miss Myra Kelly reaps Rewards that Howells used to have for Keeps: And Seton, that great Hunter of Wild Beasts Has Coin ahead; Cash comes to him in Heaps! XIX I sometimes think that never Prose is read So good as that by Advertising bred, And every Verse Sapolian poets sing Brings laurel wreaths once twin'd for Spenser's head. XX And this audacious Author, young and green In Smart Set--surely you know whom I mean-- Ah, look upon him lightly! for who knows But once in Lippincott's he wrote unseen! XXI Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clears TO-DAY of dreary Debt and sad Arrears; _To-morrow!_--Why, To-morrow I may see My Nonsense popular as Edward Lear's. XXII For some we've read, the month's Six Selling Best The Bookman scored with elephantine Jest, Have sold a half a Million in a Year, Yet no one ever heard of them, out West! XXIII And we, that now within the Editor's Room Make merry while we have our little Boom, Ourselves must we give way to next month's Set-- Girls with Three Names, who know not Who from Whom! XXIV Ah, make the most of what we yet may do, Before our Royalties have vanish'd, too, Book after Book, and under Book to lie, Sans Page, sans Cover, Reader--or Review! XXV Alike for those who for TO-DAY have Shame, And those who strive for some TO-MORROW'S Fame, A Critic from anonymous Darkness cries, "Fools, your Reward will fool you, just the Same!" XXVI Why, e'en Marie Corelli, who discuss'd Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, is thrust Like Elbert Hubbard forth; her Words to Scorn Are scatter'd, and her Books by Critics cussed. XXVII Myself when young did eagerly peruse James, Meredith and Hardy--but to lose My Reason, trying to make Head or Tail; The more I read, the more did they confuse. XXVIII With them the Germs of Madness did I sow, And with "Two Magics" sought to make it grow; Yet this was all the Answer that I found-- "What it is all about, I do not know!" XXIX Into the Library, and _Why_ not knowing, Nor _What I Want_, I find myself a-going; And out of it, with Nothing fit to Read-- Such is the Catalogue's anaemic Showing. XXX What, without asking, to be hypnotized Into a Sale of Stevenson disguised? Oh, many a page of Bernard Shaw's last Play Must drown the thought of Novels Dramatized! XXXI