to be dedicated, or a centennial to be
celebrated, or a picnic to be sung, or a fair to be closed, I am called
on to furnish the poetry, which, with that sweetness of disposition
which forms a rare but fitting background to poetic genius, I
invariably do, to be praised and thanked for a week, and then to be
again as before told, upon the slightest provocation, "You better not
meddle with verses." "You stick to prose." "Verses are not your
forte." "You can't begin to come up with ----, and ----, and ----." On
that auroral night, crowned with the splendors of the wild mystery of
the North, I am sure that the muse awoke and stirred in the depths of
my soul, and needed but a word of recognition and encouragement to put
on her garland and singing robes, and pour forth a strain which the
world would not have willingly let die, and which I would have
transferred to these pages. But that word was not spoken. Scorn and
sarcasm usurped the throne of gentle cherishing, and the golden moment
passed away forever. It is as well. Perhaps it is better; for on
second thought, I recollect that the absurd prejudice I have mentioned
has extended itself to the editor of this Magazine,[*] who jerks me
down with a pitiless pull whenever I would soar into the
empyrean,--ruling out with a rod of iron every shred of poetry from my
pages, till I am reduced to the necessity of smuggling it in by writing
it in the same form as the rest when, as he tells poetry only by the
capitals and exclamation-points, he thinks it is prose, and lets it go.

[* The Atlantic Monthly]

Here, if I may be allowed, I should like to make a digression. In an
early stage of my journeying, I spoke of the pleasure I had taken in
reading "The Betrothal" and "The Espousals." I cannot suppose that it
is of any consequence to the world whether I think well or ill of a
poem, but the only way in which the world will ever come out right is
by everyone's putting himself right; and I don't wish even my influence
to seem to be thrown in favor of so objectionable a book as "Faithful
Forever," a continuation of the former poems by the same author.
Coventry Patmore's books generally are made up of poetry and prattle,
but the poetry makes you forgive the prattle. The tender, strong,
wholesome truths they contain steady the frail bark through dangerous
waters; but "Faithful Forever" is wrong, false, and pernicious, root
and branch, and a thorough misnomer besides. Frederic loves