And mayhap we like them none the worse for it.
Indeed, there is a traitor sort among ourselves, that spins facile phrases in the honour of these whipmasters of ours—as 'omnes eodem cogimur,' and the rest; which is all very pretty and mighty consoling. The fact is, the poets are the only people who score by the present arrangement; which it is therefore their interest to maintain. While we are doing all the work, these incorrigible skulkers lounge about and make ribald remarks; they write Greek tragedies on Fate, on the sublimity of Suffering, on the Petty Span, and so on; and act in a generally offensive way. And we are even weak enough to buy their books; offer them drinks, peerages, and things; and say what superlative fellows they are! But when the long-looked-for combination comes, and we poor devils have risen and abolished fate, destiny, the Olympian Council, early baldness, and the like, these poets will really have to go.
And when every rhymester has walked the plank, shall we still put up with our relations? True members of the 'stupid party,' who never believe in us, who know (and never
