But, to do Tom justice, he wrote nothing of this
sort: he was neither ill-natured nor experienced enough for that
department; what he did write was clever, shallow sketches of
that same society into whose charmed precincts he was but so
lately a comer that much was to him interesting which had long
ceased to be observed by eyes turned horny with the glare of the
world's footlights; and, while these sketches pleased the young
people especially, even their jaded elders enjoyed the sparkling
reflex of what they called life, as seen by an outsider; for they
were thereby enabled to feel for a moment a slight interest in
themselves objectively, along with a galvanized sense of
existence as the producers of history. These sketches did more
for the paper than the editor was willing to know or acknowledge.
But "The Firefly" produced also a little art on its own account--
not always very original, but, at least, not a sucking of life
from the labor of others, as is most of that parasitic thing
miscalled criticism. In this branch Tom had a share, in the shape
of verse. A ready faculty was his, but one seldom roused by
immediate interest, and never by insight. It was not things
themselves, but the reflection of things in the art of others,
that moved him to produce. Coleridge, I think, says of Dryden,
that he took fire with the running of his own wheels: so did Tom;
but it was the running of the wheels of others that set his
wheels running.
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