When I moved into a new house a few weeks ago, my books, as was natural, moved with me.  Strong, perspiring men shovelled them into packing-cases, and staggered with them to the van, cursing Caxton as they went.  On arrival at this end, they staggered with them into the room selected for my library, heaved off the lids of the cases, and awaited orders.  The immediate need was for an emptier room.  Together we hurried the books into the new white shelves which awaited them, the order in which they stood being of no matter so long as they were off the floor.  Armful after armful was hastily stacked, the only pause being when (in the curious way in which these things happen) my own name suddenly caught the eye of the foreman.  “Did you write this one, sir?” he asked.  I admitted it.  “H’m,” he said noncommittally.  He glanced along the names of every armful after that, and appeared a little surprised at the number of books which I hadn’t written.  An easy-going profession, evidently.

So we got the books up at last, and there they are still.  I told myself that when a wet afternoon came along I would arrange them properly.  When the wet afternoon came, I told myself that I would arrange them one of these fine mornings.  As they are now, I have to look along every shelf in the search for the book which I want.  To come to Keats is no guarantee that we are on the road to Shelley.  Shelley, if he did not drop out on the way, is probably next to How to Be a Golfer Though Middle-aged.

Having written as far as this, I had to get up and see where Shelley really was.  It is worse than I thought.  He is between Geometrical Optics and Studies in New Zealand Scenery.  Ella Wheeler Wilcox, whom I find myself to be entertaining unawares, sits beside Anarchy or Order, which was apparently “sent in the hope that you will become a member of the Duty and Discipline Movement”—­a vain hope, it would seem, for I have not yet paid my subscription.  What I Found Out, by an English Governess, shares a corner with The Recreations of a Country Parson; they are followed by Villette and Baedeker’s Switzerland.  Something will have to be done about it.  But I am wondering what is to be done.  If I gave you the impression that my books were precisely arranged in their old shelves, I misled you.  They were arranged in the order known as “all anyhow.”  Possibly they were a little less “anyhow” than they are now, in that the volumes of any particular work were at least together, but that is all that can be claimed for them.  For years I put off the business of tidying them up, just as I am putting it off now.  It is not laziness; it is simply that I don’t know how to begin.

Let us suppose that we decide to have all the poetry together.  It sounds reasonable.  But then Byron is eleven inches high (my tallest poet), and Beattie (my shortest) is just over four inches.  How foolish they will look standing side by side.  Perhaps you don’t know Beattie, but I assure you that he was a poet.  He wrote those majestic lines:—­