cheek, the coals may be still burning in the heart, but when we come to
the words it leaves behind it, a little warmth, a cinder or two just
glimmering under the dead gray ashes,--that is all we can look for. When
it comes to the manufactured article, one is surprised to find how well
the metrical artisans have learned to imitate the real thing. They catch
all the phrases of the true poet. They imitate his metrical forms as a
mimic copies the gait of the person he is representing.

Now I am not going to abuse "these same metre ballad-mongers," for the
obvious reason that, as all The Teacups know, I myself belong to the
fraternity. I don't think that this reason should hinder my having my
say about the ballad-mongering business. For the last thirty years I
have been in the habit of receiving a volume of poems or a poem, printed
or manuscript--I will not say daily, though I sometimes receive more than
one in a day, but at very short intervals. I have been consulted by
hundreds of writers of verse as to the merit of their performances, and
have often advised the writers to the best of my ability. Of late I have
found it impossible to attempt to read critically all the literary
productions, in verse and in prose, which have heaped themselves on every
exposed surface of my library, like snowdrifts along the railroad
tracks,--blocking my literary pathway, so that I can hardly find my daily
papers.

What is the meaning of this rush into rhyming of such a multitude of
people, of all ages, from the infant phenomenon to the oldest inhabitant?

Many of my young correspondents have told me in so many words, "I want to
be famous." Now it is true that of all the short cuts to fame, in time
of peace, there is none shorter than the road paved with rhymes. Byron
woke up one morning and found himself famous. Still more notably did