ipated, a critique on my first volume of poems.

Indifference to criticism, if based upon a simple consciousness of moral
right, is a noble thing. But indifference to criticism, taken in its
ordinary, and especially its literary sense, is generally a very small
thing, and resolves itself, for the most part, into a halting and
one-sided kind of stoicism, meaning indifference to blame and ridicule,
and never indifference to praise. It is very convenient to the
disappointed authorling; very effective, in the established writer; but
it is mere vanity at the root, and equally contemptible in both. For my
part, I confess that I came to my trial as tremblingly as any poor
caitiff to the fiery ordeal, and finding myself miraculously clear of
the burning ploughshares, was quite as full of wonder and thankfulness
at my good fortune. For I found my purposes appreciated, and my best
thoughts understood; not, it is true, without some censure, but it was
censure tempered so largely with encouragement that I drew hope from
it, and not despondency. And then I thought of Hortense, and, picturing
to myself all the joy it would have been to lay these things at her
feet, I turned my face to the grass, and wept like a child.

Then, one by one, the ghosts of my dead hopes rose out of the grave of
the past and vanished "into thin air" before me; and in their place came
earnest aspirations, born of the man's strong will. I resolved to use
wisely the gifts that were mine--to sing well the song that had risen to
my lips--to "seize the spirit of my time," and turn to noble uses the
God-given weapons of the poet. So should I be worthier of her
remembrance, if she yet remembered me--worthier, at all events, to
remember her.

Thus the hours ebbed, and when I at length rose and turned my face
homeward, the golden day was already bending westward. Lower and lower
sank the sun as the miles shortened; stiller and sweeter grew the
evening air; and ever my lengthening shadow travelled before me along
the dusty road--wherein I was more fortunate than the man in the German
story who sold his to the devil.

It was quite dusk by the time I gained the outskirts of the town, and I
reflected with much contentment upon the prospect of a cosy bachelor
dinner, and, after dinner, lamplight and a book.

"If you please, sir," said Collins, "a lady has been here."

Collins--the same Collins who had been my father's servant when I was a
boy at home--was now a grav