That God dwells in the senseless clay they mould,
Who live their little lives and die their deaths,
Lapped in a smug respectability;
Who never dreamt of breaking puny laws
Formed for a puny race of grovellers;
But in the blood-stained track of flaming swords,
Wielded by knotty arms in Man's despite,
Or on the wings of crashing battle-balls,
Bone-shattering dealers of a thousand wounds,
The roaring heralds of indignant God,
There rapture dwells, and there I too would dwell.'

"Here is power that would furnish forth a whole legion of the
poetasters who crawl through our effete literature!" But I cannot
pursue these memories. They are too painful. For who speaks of
CHEPSTOWE now? Who cares to cumber his bookshelves with the volumes
in which this inflated arm-chair prophet of the tin pots delivered his
shrieking message? His very name has flickered out; and when I spoke
of him the other day, I was asked, by a person of some intelligence,
if I referred to CHEPSTOWE who had just made 166 playing cricket for
the Gentlemen against the Players. Not even the lion and the lizard
keep his courts, and yet JAMSHYD CHEPSTOWE gloried and drank deep in
his day. He blustered through many editions, he bellowed his contempt
at a shrinking world, he outraged conventionality, he swung himself by
the aid of newly-fashioned metres to lofty peaks of poetic daring, and
to-day the dust lies thick upon his books, and his name is confounded
with that of an eminent cricket-player!

My excellent SWAGGER, it was meanly done. If you meant to wipe him out
so swiftly, why did you ever exalt him?