Had the gifted author of _Lyrics of the Heart_ never heard of rhetorical figures? But he is not Goldsmith's only hyper-critic. Charles Fox, who admired _The Traveller_, thought Olivia's famous song in the _Vicar_ "foolish," and added that "folly" was a bad rhyme to "melancholy."[3] He must have forgotten Milton's:-- Bird that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musicall, most melancholy! Or he might have gone to the other camp, and remembered Pope on Mrs. Howard:-- Not warp'd by Passion, aw'd by Rumour, Not grave thro' Pride,, or gay thro' Folly, An equal Mixture of good Humour, And sensible soft Melancholy. Note: [3] _Recollections_, by Samuel Rogers, 2nd ed., 1859, 43. AN EPISTLE TO AN EDITOR "Jamais les arbres verts n'ont essaye d'etre bleus."-- THEOPHILE GAUTIER. "A new Review!" You make me tremble (Though as to that, I can dissemble Till I hear more). But is it "new"? And will it be a _real_ Review?-- I mean, a Court wherein the scales Weigh equally both him that fails, And him that hits the mark?--a place Where the accus'd can plead his case, If wrong'd? All this I need to know Before I (arrogant!) say "Go." "We, that are very old" (the phrase Is STEELE'S, not mine!), in former days, Have seen so many "new Reviews" Arise, arraign, absolve, abuse;-- Proclaim their mission to the top (Where there's still room!), then slowly drop, Shrink down, fade out, and _sans_ preferment, Depart to their obscure interment;-- We should be pardon'd if we doubt That a new venture _can_ hold out. It _will_, you say. Then don't be "new"; Be "old." The Old is still the True. Nature (said GAUTIER) never tries To alter her accustom'd dyes; And all your novelties at best Are ancient puppets, newly drest. What you must do, is not to shrink From speaking out the thing you think; And blaming where 'tis right to blame, Despite tradition and a Name. Yet don't expand a trifling blot, Or ban the book for what it's not (That is the poor device of those Who cavil where they can't oppose!); Moreover (this is _very_ old!), Be courteous--even when you scold! Blame I put first, but not at heart. You must give Praise the foremost part;-- Praise that to those who write is breath Of Life, if just; if unjust, Death. Praise then the things that men revere; Praise what they love, not what they fear; Praise too the young; praise those who try; Praise those who fail, but by and by May do good work. Those who succeed, You'll praise perforce,--so there's no need To speak of that. And as to each, See you keep measure in your speech;-- See that your praise be so exprest That the best man shall get the best; Nor fail of the fit word you meant Because your epithets are spent. Remember that our language gives No limitless superlatives; And SHAKESPEARE, HOMER, _should_ have more Than the last knocker at the door!