sort of revelry makes a corresponding idea in their minds, for the
paltry ballad mongers, whose productions supply hawkers with their
wares, are poets with them, and they imagine one as great as the
other, common minds making no distinction in these common fames. On
the other hand there is something in it to wish for, because there
are things as old as England that have outlived centuries of
popularity, nay, left half its history in darkness, and they still
live on, as common in every memory as the seasons, and as familiar to
children even as the rain and Spring flowers. I allude to the old
superstitious fragments of legends and stories in rhyme that are said
to be Norman, or Saxon, or Danish. There are many desire this common
fame, and it is mostly met in a manner least expected. While some
affectations are striving for a lifetime to hit all tastes and always
miss the mark by a wide throw, an unconscious poet of little name
writes a trifle as he feels, without thinking of others, and he
becomes a common name.

Unaffected simplicity is the everyday picture of Nature. Thus, little
children's favourites of "Cock Robin," "Little Red Riding Hood," and
"Babes in the Wood," have impressions at the core that grow up with
manhood and are always dear. Poets anxious after common fame, as some
of the "naturals" seem to be, imitate these things by affecting
simplicity, and become unnatural. These things found fame where the
greatest names are still oblivious. A literary man might enquire
after the names of Spenser and Milton in vain in half the villages in
England, even among what are called its gentry, but I believe it
would be difficult to find a corner in any county where the others
are not known, nor an old woman in any hamlet with whom they are not
familiar.