The author believes himself above the public, or he would never have written; and," continued Trevylyan, with enthusiasm, "he _is_ above them; their fiat may crush his glory, but never his self-esteem.

He stands alone and haughty amidst the wrecks of the temple he imagined he had raised 'To THE FUTURE,' and retaliates neglect with scorn.

But is this, the life of scorn, a pleasurable state of existence?
Is it one to be cherished?
Does even the moment of fame counterbalance the years of mortification?
And what is there in literary fame itself present and palpable to its heir?
His work is a pebble thrown into the deep; the stir lasts for a moment, and the wave closes up, to be susceptible no more to the same impression.

The circle may widen to other lands and other ages, but around _him_ it is weak and faint.

The trifles of the day, the low politics, the base intrigues, occupy the tongue, and fill the thought of his contemporaries.