This from Raymond.
'Where did you find that?' I asked.
'It is my own.'
'Of course! I might have known it. There is a certain rawness of style and versification which—'
'That's right,' interrupted Raymond; 'I know just what you are going to say. The whole matter of opinion is a game of 'follow-my-leader'; not one of you dares admire anything unless the critics say so. If I had told you the verses were by somebody instead of a nobody, you would have found wonderful beauties in them.'
'Exactly. My motto is, 'Never read anything unless it is by a somebody.' For, don't you see, that a nobody, if he is worth anything, will grow into a somebody, and, if he isn't worth anything you will have saved your time!'
'But it is not merely a question of growing,' said Raymond; 'it is a question of critics.'
'No; there you are mistaken. All the critics in the world can neither make nor crush a true poet.'
'What is poetry?' said Raymond, gloomily.
At this comprehensive question, the bittern gave a hollow croak, and flew away with his long legs trailing behind him. Probably he was not of an æsthetic turn of mind, and dreaded lest I should give a ramified answer.