best part of English literature, even in the range of
poetry, was in fact written by men of even more than middle age. So the
essay was never finished, though a good deal of it was sketched out.
Yesterday I took out the old manuscript; and after reading a bit of it,
it appeared so remarkably Vealy, that I put it with indignation into the
fire. Still I observed various facts of interest as to great things done
by young men, and some by young men who never lived to be old. Beaumont
the dramatist died at twenty-nine. Christopher Marlowe wrote "Faustus"
at twenty-five, and died at thirty. Sir Philip Sidney wrote his
"Arcadia" at twenty-six. Otway wrote "The Orphan" at twenty-eight,
and "Venice Preserved" at thirty. Thomson wrote the "Seasons" at
twenty-seven. Bishop Berkeley had devised his Ideal System at
twenty-nine; and Clarke at the same age published his great work on "The
Being and Attributes of God." Then there is Pitt, of course. But these
cases are exceptional; and besides, men at twenty-eight and thirty are
not in any way to be regarded as boys. What I wanted was proof of the
great things that had been done by young fellows about two-and-twenty;
and such proof was not to be found. A man is simply a boy grown up to
his best; and of course what is done by men must be better than what is
done by boys. Unless in very peculiar cases, a man at thirty will be
every way superior to what he was at twenty; and at forty to what he was
at thirty. Not, indeed, physically,--let _that_ be granted; not always
morally; but surely intellectually and aesthetically.

* * * * *

Yes, my readers, we have all been Calves. A great part of all our doings
has been, what the writer, in figurative language, has described as
Veal. We have not said, written, or done very much on which we can now
look back with entire approval; and we have said, written, and done a
very great deal on which we cannot look back but with burning shame
and confusion. Very many things, which, when we did them, we thought
remarkably good, and much better than the doings of ordinary men, we now
discern, on calmly looking back, to have been extremely bad. That time,
you know, my friend, when you talked in a very fluent and animated
manner after dinner at a certain house, and thought you were making a
great impression on the assembled guests, most of them entire strangers,
you are now fully aware that you were only making a fool of yourse