
    »Your little poem pleases me much,« said he: »however, you must not count my
opinion for any thing. I am no judge of verses, and for my own part never
composed more than six lines in my life: those six produced so unlucky an
effect, that I am fully resolved never to compose another. But I wander from my
subject. I was going to say that you cannot employ your time worse than in
making verses. An author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal
whom every body is privileged to attack: for though all are not able to write
books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries
with it its own punishment - contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and
entails upon its author a thousand mortifications: he finds himself assailed by
partial and ill-humoured criticism: one man finds fault with the plan, another
with the style, a third with the precept which it strives to inculcate; and they
who cannot succeed in finding fault with the book, employ themselves in
stigmatizing its author. They maliciously rake out from obscurity every little
circumstance which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and
aim at wounding the man since they cannot hurt the writer. In short, to enter
the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect,
ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured
that you will not escape from blame. Indeed this circumstance contains a young
author's chief consolation: he remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had
unjust and envious critics, and he modestly conceives himself to be exactly in
their predicament. But I am conscious that all these sage observations are
thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania, to conquer which no reasons are
sufficiently strong; and you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I
persuade you not to write. However, if you cannot help being occasionally seized
with a poetical paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your
verses to none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation.«
    »Then, my lord, you do not think these lines tolerable?« said Theodore, with
an humble and dejected air.
    »You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have pleased me much: but my
regard for you makes me partial, and others might judge them less favourably. I
must still remark, that even my prejudice in your favour does not blind me so
much as to prevent my observing several faults. For instance
