... I yesterday sent you some lines composed "Lang Syne," and written
from memory.... Do not print these things, I beseech you, unless you
like them. At the hazard of rapping my own knuckles, I shall quarrel
with you if you publish much trash. You may lose a subscriber by
rejecting it; but you will gain ten by every number you issue in which
every article is good. Horace tells us that neither gods nor men can
endure middling poetry. And what shall be said of that which is not
even middling? Let us take an example. Byron's name is sacred to the
muses. No man whose lips are not touched with the fire of inspiration
should be allowed to use it. Yet we have him shown up, and words put
into his mouth in many a piece, the writers of which cannot even count
their _feet_.
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