their rules, Mr Taylor calmly unfolds his theory, that it is from
'deep self-possession, an intense repose' that all genuine emanations
of poetic genius proceed, and expresses his doubt whether any high
endeavour of poetic art ever has been or ever will be promoted by the
stimulation of popular applause.[2] He denies that youth is the poet's
prime. He contends that what constitutes a great poet is a rare and
peculiar balance of all the faculties--the balance of reason with
imagination, passion with self-possession, abundance with reserve, and
inventive conception with executive ability. He insists that no man is
worthy of the name of a poet who would not rather be read a hundred
times by one reader than once by a hundred. He affirms that poetry,
unless written simply to please and pamper, and not to elevate or
instruct, will do little indeed towards procuring its writer a
subsistence, and that it will probably not even yield him such a
return as would suffice to support a labouring man for one month out
of the twelve.[3] Tenets like these are not for the million. The
propounder they regard as talking at them, not to them. His principles
and practice, his canons of taste, and his literary achievements, are
far above out of their sight--his merit they are content to take on
trust, by the hearing of the ear, a mystery of faith alone.

Perhaps men shrewder than good Sir Roger de Coverley might aver that
much is to be said on both sides--that there may be something of
fallacy on the part of poet as well as people in this controversy. It
is possible to set the standard too high as well as too low--to plant
it on an elevation so distant that its symbol can no longer be
deciphered, as well as to fix it so low that its folds draggle in mire
and dust. If genius systematically appeal only to the initiated few,
it must learn to do without the homage of the outer multitude. For
its slender income of fame, it has mainly itself to thank. These