And you, you are the
last poet in the world, Cadurcis, whom one would have fancied his
votary.'
'I have written like a boy,' said Cadurcis. 'I found the public bite,
and so I baited on with tainted meat. I have never written for fame,
only for notoriety; but I am satiated; I am going to turn over a new
leaf.'
'For myself,' said Herbert, 'if I ever had the power to impress my
creations on my fellow-men, the inclination is gone, and perhaps the
faculty is extinct. My career is over; perhaps a solitary echo from my
lyre may yet, at times, linger about the world like a breeze that has
lost its way. But there is a radical fault in my poetic mind, and I am
conscious of it. I am not altogether void of the creative faculty, but
mine is a fragmentary mind; I produce no whole. Unless you do this,
you cannot last; at least, you cannot materially affect your species.
But what I admire in you, Cadurcis, is that, with all the faults
of youth, of which you will free yourself, your creative power is
vigorous, prolific, and complete; your creations rise fast and fair,
like perfect worlds.'
'Well, we will not compliment each other,' said Cadurcis; 'for, after
all, it is a miserable craft. What is poetry but a lie, and what are
poets but liars?'
'You are wrong, Cadurcis,' said Herbert, 'poets are the unacknowledged
legislators of the world.
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