disgusting, worms whose sight is such an abomination,
whose stink is so crapulous and purulent, that, ignoring
their malignity, but simply aware of their detestable
presence, the heel is ground down in one generous
impulse, and the slimy thing is no more. Decomposition,
already far advanced, may be trusted speedily to resolve
the remains into the ultimate dust of things, mere
matter for some new and hopefuller avatar.
Such a worm are you, M. D——, who once, as
above described, voided your noxious nastiness in my
presence, trusting to conciliate me by the intended
compliment that my poems on Rodin were from myself
and not from him, and that any other statues would
have done as well.
I am as little susceptible to flattery as I am to the
venomous dicta of spite and envy, and I resent that
when I see it employed as the medium for this. Without
your compliment, M. D , | might have left you to
crawl on, lord of your own muck-heap; with it, I take
this opportunity of stamping on you.
Notr.—I
had intended to include reproductions of photographs
of those few statues which I have written upon; but I prefer to pay
my readers the compliment of supposing that they possess the originals
in either bronze or marble.