Hold on, my dear fellow. You are quite too fast. As I said, when the
lines to somebody or something were sent to the editor, I was in a
perfect fever. I could hardly wait for Wednesday to come, the day on
which the paper was to be issued--the paper which was to be the medium
of the first acquaintance of my muse with "a discerning public."

"Well, how did you feel when the lines were printed?"

When they were printed! Alas, for my fame! they were not printed at
all. The editor rejected them. "Theodore's lines," said he--the great
clown! what did _he_ know about poetry?--"Theodore's lines have gone
to the shades. They possessed some merit,"--_some_ merit! that's all
he knows about poetry; the brute!--"but not enough to entitle them to
a place. Still, whenever age and experience have sufficiently
developed his genius,"--mark the smooth and oily manner in which the
savage knocks a poor fellow down, and treads on his neck--"whenever
age and experience have sufficiently developed his genius, we shall be
happy to hear from him again."

If you can fancy how a man feels, when he is taken from an oven,
pretty nearly hot enough to bake corn bread, and plunged into a very
cold bath, indeed--say about forty degrees Fahrenheit--you can form
some idea of my feelings when I read that paragraph in the editorial
column, under the notice "To correspondents."

I am inclined to think there are a great many little folks climbing up
the stairs of the stage of life, who verily believe that genius has
got them by the hand, leading them along, but who, in fact, are not a
little mistaken. It is rather important that one should know whether
he has any genius or not; and if he has, in what particular direction