A  bookseller  may  write  poetry,  but  a
poet  whose  soul  is  given  up  wholly  to  the
muse  makes  a  poor  bookseller.  Imagine
the  poet  bookseller  at  his  desk  writing
"Verses  to  Her  I  Love,"  or  "A  Sonnet  to
the  Moon,"  interrupted  by  a  boy  asking
for  "Deadwood  Dick,  the  Daring  Detec-
tive's "  latest ;  or  conceive  him  having  to
descend  from  the  lofty  heights  of  Parnas-
sus to  sell  a  twopenny  bundle  of  old
magazines.  Alas  for  the  unfortunate
poet  who  must  needs  earn  his  livelihood
by  selling  books.  Think  of  a  genius
when  the  poetic  frenzy  comes  over  him,
when  the  spirits  of  Shakespeare  and  Burns
inspire  him  to  walk  about  his  shop,  recit-
ing aloud  his  poems  to  an  unsympathetic
customer,  who  asks  not  for  poetry  but  for
a  second-hand  copy  of  Adam  Smith's
"Wealth  of  Nations."

Robert  Nichol,  the  Scottish  poet,  who
died  before  he  was  thirty,  tried  book-
selling, but  was  a  failure.     Indeed,  if  he


AN   OLD  BOOK  SHOP.  G7

had  succeeded  as  a  bookseller,  he  would
have  had  to  kill  the  poet,  and  change  his
nature.  He  was  a  lover  of  books  and  of
literature,  but  it  needs  more  than  that  to
succeed  as  a  bookseller.  One  must  of
necessity  bo  a  lover  of  hard  cash  as  well.
