Not the least use in all this.

The poetaster who has tasted type is done for.

He is like the man who has once been a candidate for the Presidency.

He feeds on the madder of his delusion all his days, and his very bones grow red with the glow of his foolish fancy.

One of these young brains is like a bunch of India crackers; once touch fire to it and it is best to keep hands off until it has done popping,--if it ever stops.