[why is it that poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art music? the diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. the process is termed “setting” by composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.

for truly, just as the genuine epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme venison — whose every fibre seems to murmur “excelsior!” — yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect connoisseur in claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also —

i never loved a dear gazelle —

nor anything that cost me much:

high prices profit those who sell,

but why should i be fond of such?

to glad me with his soft black eye

my son comes trotting home from school;

he’s had a fight but can’t tell why—

he always was a little fool!

but, when he came to know me well,

he kicked me out, her testy sire:

and when i stained my hair, that belle

might note the change, and thus admire

and love me, it was sure to dye

a muddy green or staring blue:

whilst one might trace, with half an eye,

the still triumphant carrot through.