I did not like reviewing at all--it was not to my taste; it was not in my way; I liked it far less than translating the publisher's philosophy, for that was something in the line of one whom a competent judge had surnamed 'Lavengro.' I never could understand why reviews were instituted; works of merit do not require to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and require no praising; works of no merit at all will die of themselves, they require no killing. * * * * * A lad, who twenty tongues can talk, And sixty miles a day can walk; Drink at a draught a pint of rum, And then be neither sick nor dumb; Can tune a song, and make a verse, And deeds of northern kings rehearse; Who never will forsake his friend, While he his bony fist can bend; And, though averse to brawl and strife, Will fight a Dutchman with a knife, O that is just the lad for me, And such is honest six-foot three. A braver being ne'er had birth Since God first kneaded man from earth; O, I have come to know him well, As Ferroe's blacken'd rocks can tell. Who was it did, at Suderoe, The deed no other dared to do? Who was it, when the Boff had burst, And whelm'd me in its womb accurst, Who was it dashed amid the wave, With frantic zeal, my life to save? Who was it flung the rope to me? O, who, but honest six-foot three! Who was it taught my willing tongue, The songs that Braga fram'd and sung? Who was it op'd to me the store Of dark unearthly Runic lore, And taught me to beguile my time With Denmark's aged and witching rhyme; To rest in thought in Elvir shades, And hear the song of fairy maids; Or climb the top of Dovrefeld, Where magic knights their muster held: Who was it did all this for me? O, who, but honest six-foot three! Wherever fate shall bid me roam, Far, far from social joy and home; 'Mid burning Afric's desert sands; Or wild Kamschatka's frozen lands; Bit by the poison-loaded breeze Or blasts which clog with ice the seas; In lowly cot or lordly hall, In beggar's rags or robes of pall, 'Mong robber-bands or honest men, In crowded town or forest den, I never will unmindful be Of what I owe to six-foot three. That form which moves with giant grace-- That wild, tho' not unhandsome face; That voice which sometimes in its tone Is softer than the wood-dove's moan, At others, louder than the storm Which beats the side of old Cairn Gorm; That hand, as white as falling snow, Which yet can fell the stoutest foe; And, last of all, that noble heart, Which ne'er from honour's path would start Shall never be forgot by me-- So farewell, honest six-foot three. * * * * *