ldness, both in the thought and expression, that 'a Lord is
imprisoned in the Bastille of a name, and cannot enlarge himself into
man'; and I have known men of genius in the same predicament. Why must
a man be for ever mouthing out his own poetry, comparing himself with
Milton, passage by passage, and weighing every line in a balance of
posthumous fame which he holds in his own hands? It argues a want of
imagination as well as common sense. Has he no ideas but what he has put
into verse; or none in common with his hearers? Why should he think it
the only scholar-like thing, the only 'virtue extant,' to see the merit
of his writings, and that 'men were brutes without them'? Why should he
bear a grudge to all art, to all beauty, to all wisdom, that does not
spring from his own brain? Or why should he fondly imagine that there is
but one fine thing in the world, namely, poetry, and that he is the only
poet in it? It will never do. Poetry is a very fine thing; but there are
other things besides it. Everything must have its turn. Does a wise man
think to enlarge his comprehension by turning his eyes only on himself,
or hope to conciliate the admiration of others by scouting, proscribing,
and loathing all that they delight in? He must either have a
disproportionate idea of himself, or be ignorant of the world in which
he lives. It is quite enough to have one class of people born to think
the universe made for them!--It seems also to argue a want of repose,
of confidence, and firm faith in a man's real pretensions, to be always
dragging them forward into the foreground, as if the proverb held
here--_Out of sight out of mind._ Does he, for instance, conceive that
no one would ever think of his poetry unless he forced it upon them by
repeating it himself? Does he believe all competition, all allowance
of another's merit, fatal to him? Must he, like Moody in the _Country
Girl_, lock up the faculties of his admirers in ignorance of all other
fine things, painting, music, the antique, lest they should play truant
to him? Methinks such a proceeding implies no good opinion of his own
genius or their taste: it is deficient in dignity and in decorum. Surely
if any one is convinced of the reality of an acquisition, he can bear
not to have it spoken of every minute. If he knows he has an undoubted
superiority in any respect, he will not be uneasy because every one
he meets is not in the secret, nor staggered by the report of rival
excellen