The great fault of modern poetasters arises
from their extreme love of spinning out an infinite deal of nothing. Now,
as "brevity is the soul of wit," their productions can be looked upon as
little else than phantasmagorial skeletons, ridiculous from their extreme
extenuation, and in appearance more peculiarly empty, from the
circumstance of their owing their existence to false lights. This fault
does not exist with all the master spirits, and, though "many a flower is
born to blush unseen," we now proceed to rescue from obscurity the
brightest gem of unfamed literature.
Wisdom is said to be found in the mouths of babes and sucklings. So is the
epic poem of Giles Scroggins. Is wisdom Scroggins, or is Scroggins wisdom?
We can prove either position, but we are cramped for space, and therefore
leave the question open. Now for our author and his first line--
"Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown."
Beautiful condensation! Is or is not _this_ rushing at once in _medias
res_? It is; there's no paltry subterfuge about it--no unnecessary wearing
out of "the waning moon they met by"--"the stars that gazed upon their
joy"--"the whispering gales that breathed in zephyr's softest
sighs"--their "lover's perjuries to the distracted trees they wouldn't
allow to go to sleep.
Pages:
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33