strung two rhymes together, can improvise so readily in the style of
the present day, why should not a practical rhymester like yourself
dash off at a sitting a volume or so in the same style; disguising
completely the verbal elegances borrowed, adding to the delicacies of
the rhyme by the frequent introduction of a line that will not scan,
and towering yet more into the sublime by becoming yet more
unintelligible? Do that, and I promise you the most glowing panegyric
in 'The Londoner,' for I will write it myself."

"'The Londoner'!" exclaimed the minstrel, with an angry flush on his
cheek and brow, "my bitter, relentless enemy."

"I fear, then, you have as little studied the critical press
of the Augustan age as you have imbued your muse with the classical
spirit of its verse. For the art of writing a man must cultivate
himself. The art of being reviewed consists in cultivating the
acquaintance of reviewers. In the Augustan age criticism is cliquism.
Belong to a clique and you are Horace or Tibullus. Belong to no
clique and, of course, you are Bavius or Maevius. 'The Londoner' is
the enemy of no man: it holds all men in equal contempt. But as, in
order to amuse, it must abuse, it compensates the praise it is
compelled to bestow upon the members of its clique by heaping
additional scorn upon all who are cliqueless. Hit him hard: he has no
friends."

"Ah," said the minstrel, "I believe that there is much truth in what
you say. I never had a friend among the cliques. And Heaven knows
with what pertinacity those from whom I, in utter ignorance of the
rules which govern so-called organs of opinion, had hoped, in my time
of struggle, for a little sympathy, a kindly encouragement, have