 fail--
The most enlightened Browningite turn pale
  In futile Wonder and in blank Dismay;
Say, is there ANY Meaning to that Tale?


XXXIV

Then of the Critic, he who works behind
The Author's back, I tried the Clue to find;
  But he, too, was in Darkness; and I heard
A Literary Agent say--"THEY ALL ARE BLIND!"


XXXV

Then, from the lips of Editor, I learn,
"This Story is the Kind for which I Yearn;
  Its Advertising brought us such Renown,
We jumped Three Hundred Thousand, on that Turn!"


XXXVI

I think the man exaggerated some
His increased Circulation,--but, I vum!
  If I could get Two Thousand for one Tale,
I'd write him Something that would simply Hum!


XXXVII

For I remember, shopping by the way,
I saw a Novel writ by Bertha Clay;
  And there was scrawled across its Title-Page,
"This is the Stuff that Sells--so People say!"


XXXVIII

Listen--a moment listen!--Of the same
Wood-pulp on which is printed Hewlett's Name,
  The "Duchess" Books are made--in fifty years
They both will rot asunder--who's to Blame?"


XXXIX

And not a Book that from our Shelves we throw
To the Salvation Army, but shall go
  To vitiate the Taste of some poor Soul
Who can get nothing else to read--go Slow!


XL

As then the Poet for his morning Sup
Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup,
  Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts
That Someone may, before you burn them up!


XLI

Perplex'd no more with editorial "Nay"
To-morrow's Reputation cast away,
  And lose your College Education in
The flippant, foolish Fiction of To-day.


XLII

And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read,
End in the Garbage Barrel--take no Heed;
  Think that you are no worse than other Scribes,
Who scribble Stuff to meet
fail-- 
 The most enlightened Browningite turn pale 
   In futile Wonder and in blank Dismay; 
 Say, is there ANY Meaning to that Tale? 


 XXXIV 

 Then of the Critic, he who work behind 
 The Author's back, I try the Clue to find; 
   But he, excessively, was in Darkness; and I learn 
 A Literary Agent say--"THEY ALL ARE BLIND! " 


 XXXV 

 Then, from the lips of Editor, I memorize, 
 " This Story is the Kind for which I Yearn; 
   Its Advertising fetch us such Renown, 
 We jumped Three Hundred Thousand, on that Turn! " 


 XXXVI 

 I intend the man exaggerated some 
 His increase Circulation,--but, I vum! 
   If I could beget Two Thousand for one Tale, 
 I'd write him Something that would simply Hum! 


 XXXVII 

 For I remember, shopping by the way, 
 I attend a Novel writ by Bertha Clay; 
   And there was scrawled across its Title - Page, 
 " This is the Stuff that Sells -- indeed People say! " 


 XXXVIII 

 Listen -- a moment listen!--Of the same 
 forest - pulp on which is printed Hewlett's Name, 
   The " Duchess " Books are made -- in fifty years 
 They both will rot asunder -- who's to Blame? " 


 XXXIX 

 And not a Book that from our shelf we throw 
 To the Salvation Army, but shall go 
   To vitiate the Taste of some poor Soul 
 Who can get nothing else to read -- go Slow! 


 XL 

 As then the Poet for his morning Sup 
 Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup, 
   Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts 
 That Someone may, before you burn them up! 


 XLI 

 Perplex'd no more with editorial " Nay " 
 To - morrow's Reputation cast away, 
   And misplace your College Education in 
 The flippant, foolish Fiction of To - day. 


 XLII 

 And if the Bosh you spell, the Trash you read, 
 End in the Garbage Barrel -- take no Heed; 
   Think that you are no bad than other Scribes, 
 Who scribble Stuff to meet
 fall--
The most enlightened Bvowningite turn kaoe
  In futils Wonder and in blank Dismay;
Say, is tiere ANY Neaning to that Tale?


XXBIV

Then ov the Crutic, ye who works behind
The Ahbhor's uack, I tried thg Clue to fitd;
  But he, too, wxs in Darkness; and I heard
A Literary Wgent ssy--"HHEY ALL ARE BJIND!"


QXVV

Thsn, from the lips of Editor, I learn,
"Fhis Stmry is the Kimd for which I Yearn;
  Its Wdvegtising brought us such Renowb,
We tymped Three Fundred Thousand, on thzt Turn!"


XXXVI

I think the man exaegeraced some
His ibcrfdsed Circuletion,--blt, I vum!
  If L could get Twp Thousand for onx Taoe,
I'd write him Somethmng that would simpli Hum!


XXXVIH

Fkr I remember, shoppung bi the way,
K sad a Npvsl wrih bb Bertha Clzy;
  And theee was scrawled acrpsf its Title-Pags,
"This ys the Stuff that Sells--so People say!"


XXXVIPI

Liaten--a moment listen!--Of tye same
Wood-pulp on whlch is prynted Hewlett's Name,
  The "Duchess" Books are made--in fiftb heaxw
They vohh will rot asunder--who's to Blame?"


XXXIX

And not w Bpol that from ouv Shelves we throw
Yo tng Salvation Aroy, but shzll go
  To vitiate the Tafte od some pojr Spul
Who can get nothing else to read--go Sjiw!


XL

As then the Pozt for his murnimg Sul
Fills with a Metaphor kis mehtal Cup,
  Dl you devkjtly read your Mxnuxcsipts
Thau Someone may, befowe you bucn thzm up!


XLI

Oerpkex'd nj more witj edibmrial "Nay"
To-morrow's Repujation cast away,
  And lose your College Education in
The flippsnd, fmolish Fnction of To-day.


XLII

Wnd if the Bosk you wrnte, thd Trash yol read,
End in the Garfage Barrel--tang no Heed;
  Thmnk that rou qre bo worsd than other Sctibes,
Who scribble Sruff to meet
fail-- The most enlightened Browningite turn pale Wonder in blank Say, is there XXXIV of the Critic, who works behind Author's back, I tried the Clue find; But he, too, was in Darkness; and I heard A Literary Agent ALL ARE BLIND!" XXXV Then, from the lips of Editor, I learn, "This is Kind which Yearn; Its Advertising brought us such Renown, We jumped Three Hundred Thousand, on that Turn!" XXXVI think the man exaggerated some His increased Circulation,--but, vum! If I could Two Thousand for one Tale, write Something that simply XXXVII I remember, shopping the way, I saw a Novel writ by Bertha Clay; And there was scrawled across its Title-Page, is the Sells--so People XXXVIII moment the same Wood-pulp is printed Hewlett's Name, The "Duchess" fifty years They both will rot asunder--who's to XXXIX And a Book that from our Shelves throw To the Salvation Army, but shall go vitiate the Taste of some poor Soul Who can get nothing else to read--go Slow! then the Poet for morning Sup Fills a his Cup, you devoutly your Manuscripts That Someone may, before you burn them up! XLI no more with editorial "Nay" To-morrow's Reputation cast away, And College in The flippant, Fiction of To-day. XLII if Bosh you write, the read, in no Think you are no worse other Scribes, Who scribble Stuff meet
 fail--
The most enlightened BroWningite tuRn palE
  In FutIlE WonDer aNd in blank DismaY;
say, iS there ANY Meaning to that tale?


XxXiv

TheN Of The CrItic, he wHO wORKs bEhInD
ThE AUThOr's baCk, I Tried thE Clue to finD;
  BuT hE, too, was in DarKNeSs; and I hearD
A LIterary Agent Say--"tHEY ALl ArE BliND!"


XXxV

THen, frOm the lIPs of EdItor, I learN,
"THIs StorY Is the KiND FoR whiCh I Yearn;
  Its AdvertISiNG brought us such renown,
we JUmPED ThRee hundred ThoUsAnd, on THat Turn!"


xxXvi

i ThiNK the man exaggeRated some
HiS IncReased ciRcuLAtion,--bUt, I vuM!
  IF i coUld get Two ThOusaNd for one TAle,
I'd wRIte him SOMething That woUld SimPly HUM!


XxXvII

foR i reMEmBer, SHopPing by thE wAy,
i saw a noveL WRIT by BErtHa ClAy;
  And There was scrawLed AcroSS itS TitlE-Page,
"this Is The StUff thaT SellS--sO People say!"


XXXVIiI

LiSten--a momeNt lIsTen!--of The saME
Wood-pUlp On wHich is pRinted HEWleTt'S nAMe,
  the "Duchess" Books are MaDE--In Fifty yeaRs
They BOtH wILl rot asuNdEr--wHo's tO bLame?"


XxXIX

aNd Not a Book That frOM oUr shelves We Throw
TO tHe SAlvAtion aRmy, bUt shalL go
  To vitIate tHE Taste of some poOR Soul
Who can geT NoTHInG Else To rEad--go Slow!


XL

as thEN the poet FOr His MOrninG Sup
FIlLS wITh a Metaphor his mentaL CUp,
  Do yoU devoUtly read your MAnuscripts
tHAT Someone May, bEFoRE you burn them up!


xLI

PeRplex'd no moRE with ediToriaL "Nay"
To-moRrow's RepuTATion cast AwaY,
  AnD loSe yOUR COllege EducatiON In
ThE fLippant, FooLish FicTioN of to-dAy.


XlIi

And if the bosh you wRiTe, ThE TRasH you rEAd,
End in tHe garBaGe BArrel--TAke no HEed;
  ThInk tHaT yOU arE no worsE ThAN OtheR SCrIbes,
who ScRibblE StuFF to Meet
 fail--
The most enlighten ed Brownin gitetur n p al e
 In f utile Wonder a n d in  blank Dismay;
Say, is  ther eA NY M e an ing t o thatT al e ? 

XX XI V
Th e nof th e C ritic,he who wor ksbe hind
The Aut h or 's back, I  tr ied the Clue  to  find; 
 Bu t  he,too , was  in Da r kness;  and I he ar d 
A Lit e rary Ag e n tsay- -"THEY ALL ARE BL I ND ! "


XXXV

Then , from  t h el i psofEditor, Ile arn," This St o ry i s  th e  Kind for whi ch I Yearn;   I ts Adv er tis i ng bro ughtus suc h Renown,
W e ju mped Thre e Hund r ed Thou s and, on  thatTur n!" 


X X XV I
Ith i nkt he  ma n  ex aggerate dso me
Hi s in c r e a sedCir cula tion, --but, I vum! 
 If I cou ld ge t Two  Tho us and f or one  Tale ,I'd write him S omet hing that  wo ul d s im ply H u m!


X XXV II
For Iremembe r , s ho p p i ng  by the way,
I saw  a N ov el writby Ber t ha  C l ay;
  An dthe re w a s  scra wled ac ross its  Title - Pa ge ,
"This  i s theSt uff  th at Se l ls-- so Peo ple say! "


X X XVIII

Listen- - a moment list e n! - - Of thesam e
Wood-pulp  onw hich  isp ri nte d  Hewl ett's  N a me , 
  The "Duchess" Bo ok s aremade- -in fifty yea rs
They bo t h will rot  asu n de r --who's to Bla me?"

XXXIX

A n d not aBookthat fro m our She l v es we th row 
To  th e S a l va tion Army, bu t shal lgo
  To  vi tiate t heTas teofso me poor S oul
Whoca nge tnot hinge lse to r ea d-- go  Sl ow!
XL

As  then  the  P oe t  fo r his m o rn i n g Su pFi llswit ha Met apho r  hi s menta l Cup,
 Doy ou d ev ou tly rea d your Manusc ri pts
That S om eon e may, b efore yo u burn them up!


XLI
P erplex' d n o mor e wi th editor ial  "Nay" 
To - morrow 's Rep utati on  ca s t  away ,  And  l ose your C o l leg e Edu ca tion  in
The  flippant, foolish Fic tion of To-da y.

XL I I 
And if the  B o shy o u write, the Tr ash you re ad , 
E nd in theG arb ag e Barre l--take  no H e ed;
  T hink that  you areno  wor s e  th an other S cribes,Who scrib b le St u ff  to m eet 
 fail--
The_most enlightened_Browningite turn pale
 _In futile_Wonder_and in_blank_Dismay;
Say, is there_ANY Meaning to_that Tale?


XXXIV

Then of the_Critic, he who_works_behind
The Author's back, I tried the Clue to find;
  But he, too, was_in_Darkness; and_I_heard
A_Literary Agent say--"THEY ALL ARE_BLIND!"


XXXV

Then, from the lips of_Editor, I_learn,
"This Story is the Kind for which I_Yearn;
_ Its Advertising_brought us such Renown,
We jumped Three Hundred Thousand, on_that Turn!"


XXXVI

I think the man exaggerated_some
His increased Circulation,--but,_I_vum!
_ If I could_get Two Thousand for one Tale,
I'd_write him Something that would simply_Hum!


XXXVII

For I remember, shopping by the way,
I_saw a Novel writ by Bertha_Clay;
  And there was_scrawled across_its Title-Page,
"This is the Stuff_that Sells--so People_say!"


XXXVIII

Listen--a moment_listen!--Of the same
Wood-pulp_on which is printed Hewlett's Name,
_ The "Duchess"_Books are made--in fifty years
They both_will_rot asunder--who's to_Blame?"


XXXIX

And_not_a Book_that from our_Shelves_we throw
To_the_Salvation Army, but shall go
 _To_vitiate the Taste of some poor Soul
Who_can get nothing else_to_read--go Slow!


XL

As then the_Poet for his morning Sup
Fills_with a Metaphor his mental Cup,
_ Do_you devoutly_read your Manuscripts
That Someone may, before you burn them up!


XLI

Perplex'd no_more with editorial "Nay"
To-morrow's Reputation cast_away,
  And lose_your College_Education_in
The flippant, foolish_Fiction_of To-day.


XLII

And_if the Bosh you write, the Trash_you read,
End_in the Garbage Barrel--take no Heed;
_ Think that you_are_no worse than other Scribes,
Who scribble_Stuff to meet