Part 6 (2/2)

He simply rioted in haggling over a threepenny piece. Even old Henderson feared him. This Henderson was a thirsty old bookseller who kept a shop at the corner of Cowcaddens and Ingram Street, and whose leading speciality was second-hand family Bibles, with the former genealogical leaf riven out and replaced by a clean sheet pasted in for the family of the next purchaser. To him, sitting enthroned on a pile of Bibles, Forbes, entering, spake: ”Have you a copy of the _Lives of the Twelve Caesars_?” ”Aye, aye,” said old Henderson, with a gracious smile; ”_thirteen_ if you like.” The copy of Suetonius was produced, and ”How much do you want for Suet.?” queried Forbes. ”Half-a-crown,” said old Henderson. ”I'll give you ninepence,” said Forbes. ”Make it one-and-six,” said the bookseller, rising from his Biblical throne, ”and the book's yours.” ”I'll give you a s.h.i.+lling and a half of whisky,”

retorted Forbes. ”Say a whole gla.s.s and the s.h.i.+lling, and we'll do business,” quoth the vendor of volumes. This was agreed upon, and the two retired into the nearest dram-shop to conclude the bargain. Every Sat.u.r.day evening, Forbes came home by the last train, carrying his bundle of volumes. He was careful to fumigate them for the purpose of destroying any microbes, and finally would sprinkle them with _eau de Cologne_ to make them tolerable to the nose. On Sunday, he enjoyed the luxury of desultory reading.

Like Mr. Forbes, I enjoy a ramble among these old shops, and can say, as he said to me at parting:--

”I love the trundling stall Where ragged authors wait the buyer's call, Where, for the tariff of a modest supper, You'll buy a twelvemonth's moral feast in Tupper; Where Virgil's tome is labelled at a groat, And twopence buys what t.i.ttering Flaccus wrote; Where lie the quips of Addison and Steele, And the thrice-blessed songs of Rob Mossgiel; And some that resurrection seek in vain From the swart dust that chokes the lumbering wain.”

FAVOURITES.

I have often been asked: ”You who are so much on the move, who have had so much train-travelling to do, what books would you recommend for a long railway journey?” I do not know that one man's likes and dislikes in reading are of value save as showing his own limitations, yet there are certain books of which I never tire. I never leave home without the following books handy for perusal: (i.) The _Odes of Horace_, (ii.) The _Sonnets of Shakespeare_, (iii.) A French novel and a few copies of the Paris _Matin_, (iv.) A Greek book of some kind, (v.) Pope or Addison, (vi.) Some Victorian cla.s.sic. The list is varied enough, and has furnished me with much of the material for my speaking.

HORACE.

The pleasant thing about Horace is that his odes are so short: you can read one in a few minutes--shut your eyes and enjoy the mental taste of it--try to repeat it, and, if you fail, consult the original--then, finally (as Pope and many others have done), endeavour to find modern parallels. Suppose, _e.g._, you are reading, as is likely, the first Ode of the first Book, you might find present-day resemblances like the following:--

_Curriculo pulverem._

What mad attractions sway the world!

Some are unhappy save when whirled In motor cars that madly race, To leave a stench in every place, And maim those foolish folk that stray Abroad upon the king's highway.

_Tergeminis honoribus._

Yon babbling wight, of sense forlorn, Who thinks himself a Gladstone born, Although a bailie, still must strain To gain himself a Provost's chain.

And, after that, the worthy prater Aspires to be a legislator; Dreams of St. Stephen's, where he sees Himself hobn.o.bbing with M.P.'s.

_Patrios agros._

But Farmer Bob is somewhat saner-- He minds his stock and is the gainer; Content to pa.s.s his life amid The scenes that his old father did.

With hose in hand he cleans the byre, And saves himself a menial's hire; But gives his girls an education That may unfit them for their station.

But don't ask Bob to tempt the tide, Even on a turbine down the Clyde; Neptune and Ceres don't agree, And farmers hate the name of sea.

_Mox reficit rates._

When Skipper Smith (whose usual goal Is Campbeltown with Ayrs.h.i.+re coal) Is labouring thro' Kilbrannan Sound, He sighs for Troon and solid ground, And swears, if he were safe on sh.o.r.e, He'd never be a sailor more.

But once on sh.o.r.e--he thinks it dull, And soon begins to tar the hull And caulk the timbers of his s.h.i.+p: ”I'll try,” he says, ”another trip.”

_Lene Caput._

Some love to mangle turf: I see Them drive their b.a.l.l.s from sandy tee, And think their day's delight begins When they are up among the whins.

Some elders, full of G.o.dly zeal, Turn crazy about rod and reel; And ministers, reputed wise, Take service with the Lord of Flies (Beelzebub), and like the work Better than prosing in a kirk.

_Conjugis immemor._

Sir Samuel Crsus (n.o.ble wight!

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