He was indeed our Frankenstein (of whom many prototypes do
abound), wandering in the Cimmerian regions of thought, the graveyards
of the mind, and veiling his monstrous creations with the filmy drapery
of rhyme and the mists of a perverted reason. In his sad world eternal
night reigns and the sun is never seen.
'Tristis Erinnys,
Praetulit infaustas sanguinolenta faces,'
by whose red light awed audiences see the fruit of his labors.
But what right has he to a place in our van, who never asked our
sympathy, whose every effort was but to widen the gulf between him and
his fellow-man, whose sword was never drawn in defence of the right?
Genius! The very word is instinct with nobility and heartiness. Genius
clasps hands with true souls everywhere: it wakes the chord of
brotherhood in rude hearts in hovels, and quickens the pulses under the
purple and ermine of palaces. It has a smile for childhood and a
reverent tone for white-haired age. Its clasp takes in the frail flower
bending from slender stems and the stars in their courses. There is
laughter in its soul, and a huge banquet-table there to which all are
welcome. And to us, on its borders, come the summer-breath of Paestum
roses and the aroma of the rich red wine of Valdepenas; and there toasts
are given to the past and to the future, for genius knows no nation nor
any age.
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