weeks ago. He seems to have been one of those, who
would do great things if they could; but are content to compass the
small. He imagined, that the precedence of authors he had established
in his library, was their Mardi order of merit. He condemned the
sublime poems of Vavona to his lowermost shelf. 'Ah,' thought he, 'how
we library princes, lord it over these beggarly authors!' Well read in
the history of their woes, Pollo pitied them all, particularly the
famous; and wrote little essays of his own, which he read to himself."

MEDIA--Well: and what said Lombardo to those good friends of his,--
Zenzori, Hanto, and Roddi?

BABBALANJA--Nothing. Taking home his manuscript, he glanced it over;
making three corrections.

ABRAZZA--And what then?

BABBALANJA--Then, your Highness, he thought to try a conclave of
professional critics; saying to himself, "Let them privately point out
to me, now, all my blemishes; so that, what time they come to review
me in public, all will be well." But curious to relate, those
professional critics, for the most part, held their peace, concerning
a work yet unpublished. And, with some generous exceptions, in their
vague, learned way, betrayed such base, beggarly notions of
authorship, that Lombardo could have wept, had tears been his. But in
his very grief, he ground his teeth. Muttered he, "They are fools. In
their eyes, bindings not brains make books. They criticise my tattered
cloak, not my soul, caparisoned like a charger. He is the great
author, think they, who drives the best bargain with his wares: and no
bargainer am I. Because he is old, they worship some mediocrity of an
ancient, and mock at the living prophet with the live coal on his
lips. They are men who would not be men, had they no books. Their
sires begat them not; but the authors they have read. Feelings they
have none: and their very opinions they borrow. They can not say yea,
nor nay, without first consulting all Mardi as an Encyclopedia. And
all the learning in them, is as a dead corpse in a coffin. Were
they worthy the dignity of being damned, I would damn them; but they
are not. Critics?--Asses! rather mules!--so emasculated, from vanity,
they can not father a true thought. Like mules, too, from dunghills,
they trample down gardens of roses: and deem that crushed fragrance
their own.--Oh! that all round the domains of genius should lie thus
unhedged, for such cattle to uproot! Oh! that an eagle should be
stabbed by a