s have been lost past
recovery. I went to see him, and his childlike dependence on me was
quite pathetic. His general attitude was, "You see I'm such a damned
fool." And so he is. But when I compare him with the Balzacian
hauteur and the preposterous posing of many of our Fleet Street
decadent geniuses, I feel a movement of the blood which declares that
perhaps there are worse things than War. (Between ourselves, I have a
sneaking sympathy with fighting: I fought horribly at school. It is
well you should know my illogicalities.)

3rd. There is the selection of illustrations for the History of
China we are producing. I know no more of China than the Man in the
Moon (less, for he has seen it, at any rate), except what I got from
reading the book, but of course I shall make the most of what I do
know and airily talk of La-o-tsee and Wu-sank-Wei, criticise
Chung-tang and Fu-Tche, compare Tchieu Lung with his great successor,
whose name I have forgotten, and the Napoleonic vigour of Li with the
weak opportunism of Woo. Before I have done I hope people will be
looking behind for my pig-tail. The name I shall adopt will be
Tches-Ter-Ton.

4th. A MS to read translated from the Norwegian: a History of the
Kiss, Ceremonial, Amicable, Amatory, etc.--in the worst French
sentimental style. God alone knows how angry I am with the author of
that book. I am not sure that I shall not send up the brief report.
"A snivelling hound."

5th. The book for Nutt [_Greybeards at Play_], which has reached
its worst stage, that of polishing up for the eye of Nutt, instead of
merely rejoicing in the eye of God. Do you know this is the only one
of the lot about which I am at all worried. I do not feel as if
things like the Fish poem are really worth publishing. I know they
are better than many books that are published, but Heaven knows that
is not saying much. In support of some of my work I would fight to
the last. But with regard to this occasional verse I feel a humbug.
To publish a book of my nonsense verses seems to me exactly like
summoning the whole of the people of Kensington to see me smoke
cigarettes.

Macgregor told me that I should do much better in the business of
literature if I found the work more difficult. My facility, he said,
led me to undervalue my work. I wonder whether this is true, and
those silly rhymes are a