It is long since Mr. Carlyle expressed his opinion that if any poet or other literary creature could really be “killed off by one critique” or many, the sooner he was so despatched the better; a sentiment in which I for one humbly but heartily concur.
To wipe off the froth of falsehood from the foaming lips of inebriated virtue, when fresh from the sexless orgies of morality and reeling from the delirious riot of religion, may doubtless be a charitable office.
The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.
The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog; not though in that stage of development he should puff and blow himself till he bursts with windy adulation at the heels of the laureled ox.
I see not a step before me as I tread on another year; But I ’ve left the Past in God’s keeping,—the Future His mercy shall clear; And what looks dark in the distance may brighten as I draw near.
