and the mass of the public ignored him, yet he possessed his soul in patience; but during the last dozen years or so the poor puzzled critics (I mean the professional book-tasters) have treated him with respect if not with understanding, and the poor bewildered public (I mean the small public that reads poetry) has looked into his books, though for the most part with glances of mere despair, yet now he bursts out upon both with almost savage scorn. One cannot say that he has no right to be angry, supposing that mere human stupidity ought ever to move to anger; one cannot help thinking that the anger is postdated. It would not have been surprising had he lashed out merrily and fiercely when a fatuous Edinburgh Reviewer, among other choice grievances, complained that he had not rendered the burning of the last Master of the Templars in a pleasing manner! But the time is past when any reviewers, Edinburgh, Quarterly or other, could venture such imbecility; yet here we have the poet castigating them with a will:—
And these in the drabs, blues and yellows.
Are surely the privileged fellows;
So, saltbox and bones, tongs and bellows!
(I threw up the window) 'Your pleasure?'
An old friend—put leg forward nimbly,
We critics as sweeps out your chimbly!
Much soot to remove from your flue, sir!
Who spares coal in kitchen an't you, sir!
And neighbours complain it's no joke, sir,
—You ought to consume your own smoke, sir!
