with their stars? Their demons
have not whispered to them "have a taste," but "you have genius," and
the world gives the demons the lie. Thence anger, spite, rancour, and
envy eat their hearts, and they "rail against the Lord's anointed." They
set up idols of clay, and fall down and worship them--or idols of brass,
more worthless than clay; or they perversely, and in hatred, not in
love, pretend reverence for the Fair and Good, because, forsooth, placed
by man's ingratitude too far in the shade, whereas man's pity has, in
deep compassion, removed the objects of their love, because of their
imperfections not blameless, back in among that veiling shade, that
their beauty might still be visible while their deformities were hidden
in "a dim religious light."

Let none of the sons or daughters of genius hearken to such outcry but
with contempt--and at all times with suspicion, when they find
themselves the objects of such lamentations. The world is not--at least
does not wish to be an unkind, ungenerous, and unjust world. Many who
think themselves neglected, are far more thought of than they suppose;
just as many who imagine the world ringing with their name, are in the
world's ears nearly anonymous. Only one edition or two of your poems
have sold--but is it not pretty well that five hundred or a thousand
copies have been read, or glanced over, or looked at, or skimmed, or
skipped, or fondled, or petted, or tossed aside "between malice and true
love," by ten times that number of your fellow-creatures, not one of
whom ever saw your face; while many millions of men, nearly your equals,
and not a few millions your superiors far, have contentedly dropt into
the grave, at the close of a long life, without having once "invoked the
Muse," and who would have laughed in your face had you talked to them,
even in their greatest glee, about their genius?

There is a glen in the Highlands (dearly beloved Southrons, call on us,
on your way through Edinburgh, and we shall delight to instruct you how
to walk our mountains) called Glencro--very unlike Glenco. A good road
winds up the steep ascent, and at the summit there is a stone seat on
which you read "_Rest and be thankful_." You do so--and are not a little
proud--if pedestrians--of your achievement. Looking up, you see cliffs
high above your head (not the Cobbler), and in the clear sky, as far
above them, a balanced bird. You envy him his seemingly motionless
wings, and wonder at his