birthday anniversary of Burns accomplished it once. His remarks at the memorial service for his friend Riley were perfect and memorable.
I think he does not regret the little time left by his duties for literature; he is an excellent economist and while his collected works will be few, they will be precious. No other poem by him compares with "Derelict;" the rest are engaging but, I think, ephemeral. Years ago, he wrote a newspaper novel, "The Passing of Major Kilgore," a good story; but it is buried in the files of a defunct magazine. His short stories and his essays also for the most part are hidden in old files. The librettos of two comic operas by him, one of them a collaboration, once were printed; but they are now almost unprocurable.
What else, then, is there that may bring happiness to the admirer of "Derelict," on his Twistian search?
There is "The Delicious Vice," if one can come across it. The editions (there have been two) were limited, and both are out of print. Since the death of Charles Lamb, who now hobnobs genially, it is to be hoped, with Walter Savage Landor, in some paradisal inn, no more delightfully bookish volume has come from any press. "The Delicious Vice," to which Allison pleads guilty, is novel-reading. The sub-title
