among us ever written an “Orlando Furioso”? or a “Paradise Lost”? “Lusiads”? a “Faust”? a “Divine Comedy”? Vain conceit! What then have we? Only a few thin booklets of verses, “Morning songs,” “New songs,” then “Songs of Zavis.” (It was he who had discovered and properly valued them.) What was there else? Vrchlický?[1] Hem! He at once subjected them to his venomous criticism, though he admitted that he had talent, that it was possible that he would soon write a great work, that his forty books so far were nothing but flimsy toys. And the others? Shame, shame! We have versifying artisans, but no poets. What about Sládek? Nothing. He does not write like Homer, Krásnohorská[2] does not write like Zola, and Zola himself ought to write not as he does, but as Tolstoy. He was not striking at them now for the first
