'
"Ethelbert coughed faintly; a tinge of red, the size of a rose-bud,
coloured the middle of his cheek; and yet he seemed not to be pained
by the reproof. He looked fondly and affectionately at his teacher,
who thus proceeded:
"'My dear youth, do not carry the stone of Sisyphus on thy shoulder
to pave the way to disappointment. If thou writest but indifferent
poetry none will envy thee, and some will praise thee; but nature,
in her malignity, hath denied unto thee a capacity for the enjoyment
of such praise. In this she hath been kinder to most others than to
thee; we know wherein she hath been kinder to thee than to most
others. If thou writest good poetry many will call it flat, many
will call it obscure, many will call it inharmonious; and some of
these will speak as they think; for, as in giving a feast to great
numbers, it is easier to possess the wine than to procure the cups,
so happens it in poetry; thou hast the beverage of thy own growth,
but canst not find the recipients. What is simple and elegant to
thee and me, to many an honest man is flat and sterile; what to us
is an innocently sly allusion, to as worthy a one as either of us is
dull obscurity; and that moreover which swims upon our brain, and
which throbs against our temples, and which we delight in sounding
to ourselves when the voice has done with it, touches their ear, and
awakens no harmony in any cell of it.
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