After all, was it so great?
Did not its sublimity overpass a little the bounds of the ridiculous?
Had he seen true?
Had he failed again?
He re-read the poem carefully; and it seemed all at once to lose force.
By now, Presley could not tell whether what he had written was true poetry or doggerel.

He distrusted profoundly his own judgment.

He must have the opinion of some one else, some one competent to judge.

He could not wait; to-morrow would not do.

He must know to a certainty before he could rest that night.
He made a careful copy of what he had written, and putting on his hat and laced boots, went down stairs and out upon the lawn, crossing over to the stables.