I put down my mug with a gravity far greater than her own.  “But this place is a Shrine!” I said.  “Pilgrims should be pouring into it from wherever the English legend has endured alive.  There ought to be a colossal statue in the market-place of the man who invented Stilton cheese.  There ought to be another colossal statue of the first cow who provided the foundations of it.  There should be a burnished tablet let into the ground on the spot where some courageous man first ate Stilton cheese, and survived.  On the top of a neighbouring hill (if there are any neighbouring hills) there should be a huge model of a Stilton cheese, made of some rich green marble and engraven with some haughty motto:  I suggest something like ‘Ver non semper viret; sed Stiltonia semper virescit.’” The old lady said, “Yes, sir,” and continued her domestic occupations.

After a strained and emotional silence, I said, “If I take a meal here tonight can you give me any Stilton?”

“No, sir; I’m afraid we haven’t got any Stilton,” said the immovable one, speaking as if it were something thousands of miles away.

“This is awful,” I said:  for it seemed to me a strange allegory of England as she is now; this little town that had lost its glory; and forgotten, so to speak, the meaning of its own name.  And I thought it yet more symbolic because from all that old and full and virile life, the great cheese was gone; and only the beer remained.  And even that will be stolen by the Liberals or adulterated by the Conservatives.  Politely disengaging myself, I made my way as quickly as possible to the nearest large, noisy, and nasty town in that neighbourhood, where I sought out the nearest vulgar, tawdry, and avaricious restaurant.

There (after trifling with beef, mutton, puddings, pies, and so on) I got a Stilton cheese.  I was so much moved by my memories that I wrote a sonnet to the cheese.  Some critical friends have hinted to me that my sonnet is not strictly new; that it contains “echoes” (as they express it) of some other poem that they have read somewhere.  Here, at least, are the lines I wrote : 

SONNET TO A STILTON CHEESE

Stilton, thou shouldst be living at this hour
And so thou art.  Nor losest grace thereby;
England has need of thee, and so have I—­
She is a Fen.  Far as the eye can scour,
League after grassy league from Lincoln tower
To Stilton in the fields, she is a Fen. 
Yet this high cheese, by choice of fenland men,
Like a tall green volcano rose in power.

Plain living and long drinking are no more,
And pure religion reading ‘Household Words’,
And sturdy manhood sitting still all day
Shrink, like this cheese that crumbles to its core;
While my digestion, like the House of Lords,
The heaviest burdens on herself doth lay.

I confess I feel myself as if some literary influence, something that has haunted me, were present in this otherwise original poem; but it is hopeless to disentangle it now.