And did.
My young poet had "signed on" under the name of Thomas Webb. It was
not assumed. For years he had been known in the haberdashery as Webb.
There was more to it, however; there was a tail to the kite. The
English have an inordinate fondness for hyphens, for mother's family
name and grandmother's family name and great-grandmother's, with the
immediate paternal cognomen as a period. Thomas' full name was a
rosary, if you like, of yeomen, of soldiers, of farmers, of artists, of
gentle bloods, of dreamers. The latest transfusion of blood is always
most powerful in effect upon the receiver; and as Thomas' father had
died in penury for the sake of an idea, it was in order that the son
should be something of a dreamer too. Poetry is but an expression of
life seen through dreams.
His father had been a scholar, risen from the people; his mother had
been gentle. From his seventh year the boy had faced life alone. He
had never gone with the stream but had always found lodgment in the
backwaters. There is no employment quieter, peacefuller than that of a
clerk in a haberdashery.
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