quietude of transcendent beauty.

But what are we to say when, on opening almost any book of comparatively
recent verse, we find, not the self-forgetfulness attendant upon an
ineffable vision, but advertisement of the author's importance? His
argument we find running somewhat as follows: "I am superior to you
because I write poetry. What do I write poetry about? Why, about my
superiority, of course!" Must we not conclude that the poet, with the
rest of us, is speeding around the hippodrome of his own self-centered
consciousness?

Indeed the poet's circle is likely to appear to us even more viciousthan
that of other men. To be sure, we remember Sir Philip Sidney's
contention, supported by his anecdote of the loquacious horseman, that
men of all callings are equally disposed to vaunt themselves. If the
poet seems especially voluble about his merits, this may be owing to the
fact that, words being the tools of his trade, he is more apt than other
men in giving expression to his self-importance. But our specific
objection to the poet is not met by this explanation. Even the horseman
does not expect panegyrics of his profession to take the place of
horseshoes. The inventor does not issue an autobiography in lieu of a
new invention. The public would seem justified in reminding the poet
that, having a reasonable amount of curiosity about human nature, it
will eagerly devour the poet's biography, properly labeled, but only
after he has forgotten himself long enough to write a poem that will
prove his genius, and so lend worth to the perusal of his idiosyncratic
records, and his judgments on poetic composition.

The first impulse of our revulsion from the self-infatuated poet is to
confute him with the potent name of Aristotle, and show him his doom