"Another day," utter'd the poet Lingave, as he awoke in the morning,
and turn'd him drowsily on his hard pallet, "another day comes out,
burthen'd with its weight of woes. Of what use is existence to me?
Crush'd down beneath the merciless heel of poverty, and no promise of
hope to cheer me on, what have I in prospect but a life neglected and a
death of misery?"
The youth paused; but receiving no answer to his questions, thought
proper to continue the peevish soliloquy. "I am a genius, they say," and
the speaker smiled bitterly, "but genius is not apparel and food. Why
should I exist in the world, unknown, unloved, press'd with cares, while
so many around me have all their souls can desire? I behold the
splendid equipages roll by--I see the respectful bow at the presence of
pride--and I curse the contrast between my own lot, and the fortune
of the rich. The lofty air--the show of dress--the aristocratic
demeanor--the glitter of jewels--dazzle my eyes; and sharp-tooth' d envy
works within me. I hate these haughty and favor'd ones. Why should my
path be so much rougher than theirs? Pitiable, unfortunate man that I
am! to be placed beneath those whom in my heart I despise--and to be
constantly tantalized with the presence of that wealth I cannot enjoy!"
And the poet cover'd his eyes with his hands, and wept from very passion
and fretfulness.
O, Lingave! be more of a man! Have you not the treasures of health and
untainted propensities, which many of those you envy never enjoy? Are
you not their superior in mental power, in liberal views of mankind, and
in comprehensive intellect? And even allowing you the choice, how would
you shudder at changing, in total, conditions with them! Besides,
were you willing to devote all your time and energies, you could gain
property too: squeeze, and toil, and worry, and twist everything into a
matter of profit, and you can become a great man, as far as money goes
to make greatness.
Retreat, then, man of the polish'd soul, from those irritable complaints
against your lot-those longings for wealth and puerile distinction, not
worthy your class. Do justice, philosopher, to your own powers. While
the world runs after its shadows and its bubbles, (thus commune in your
own mind,) we will fold ourselves in our circle of understanding, and
look with an eye of apathy on those things it considers so mighty and
so enviable. Let the proud man pass with his pompous glance--let the gay
flutter in finery--let the foolish enjoy his folly, and the beautiful
move on in his perishing glory; we will gaze without desire on all their
possessions, and all their pleasures. Our destiny is different from
theirs. Not for such as we, the lowly flights of their crippled wings.
We acknowledge no fellow-ship with them in ambition. We composedly look
down on the paths where they walk, and pursue our own, without uttering
a wish to descend, and be as they. What is it to us that the mass pay
us not that deference which wealth commands? We desire no applause, save
the applause of the good and discriminating--the choice spirits among
men. Our intellect would be sullied, were the vulgar to approximate to
it, by professing to readily enter in, and praising it. Our pride is a
towering, and thrice refined pride.
When Lingave had given way to his temper some half hour, or thereabout,
he grew more calm, and bethought himself that he was acting a very silly
part. He listen'd a moment to the clatter of the carts, and the tramp
of early passengers on the pave below, as they wended along to commence
their daily toil. It was just sunrise, and the season was summer. A
little canary bird, the only pet poor Lingave could afford to keep,
chirp'd merrily in its cage on the wall. How slight a circumstance will
sometimes change the whole current of our thoughts! The music of that
bird abstracting the mind of the poet but a moment from his sorrows,
gave a chance for his natural buoyancy to act again.
Lingave sprang lightly from his bed, and perform'd his ablutions and his
simple toilet--then hanging the cage on a nail outside the window, and
speaking an endearment to the songster, which brought a perfect flood of
melody in return--he slowly passed through his door, descended the
long narrow turnings of the stairs, and stood in the open street.
Undetermin'd as to any particular destination, he folded his hands
behind him, cast his glance upon the ground, and moved listlessly
onward.
Hour after hour the poet walk'd along--up this street and down that--he
reck'd not how or where. And as crowded thoroughfares are hardly the
most fit places for a man to let his fancy soar in the clouds--many a
push and shove and curse did the dreamer get bestow'd upon him.
The booming of the city clock sounded forth the hour twelve--high noon.
"Ho! Lingave!" cried a voice from an open basement window as the poet
pass'd.
He stopp'd, and then unwittingly would have walked on still, not fully
awaken'd from his reverie.
"Lingave, I say!" cried the voice again, and the person to whom the
voice belong'd stretch'd his head quite out into the area in front,
"Stop man. Have you forgotten your appointment?"
"Oh! ah!" said the poet, and he smiled unmeaningly, and descending
the steps, went into the office of Ridman, whose call it was that had
startled him in his walk.
Who was Ridman? While the poet is waiting the convenience of that
personage, it may be as well to describe him.
Ridman was a _money-maker_. He had much penetration, considerable
knowledge of the world, and a disposition to be constantly in the midst
of enterprise, excitement, and stir. His schemes for gaining wealth were
various; he had dipp'd into almost every branch and channel of business.
A slight acquaintance of several years' standing subsisted between him
and the poet. The day previous a boy had call'd with a note from Ridman
to Lingave, desiring the presence of the latter at the money-maker's
room. The poet return'd for answer that he would be there. This was the
engagement which he came near breaking.
Ridman had a smooth tongue. All his ingenuity was needed in the
explanation to his companion of why and wherefore the latter had been
sent for.
It is not requisite to state specifically the offer made by the man
of wealth to the poet. Ridman, in one of his enterprises, found it
necessary to procure the aid of such a person as Lingave--a writer of
power, a master of elegant diction, of fine taste, in style passionate
yet pure, and of the delicate imagery that belongs to the children of
song. The youth was absolutely startled at the magnificent and permanent
remuneration which was held out to him for a moderate exercise of his
talents.
But the _nature_ of the service required! All the sophistry and art of
Ridman could not veil its repulsiveness. The poet was to labor for the
advancement of what he felt to be unholy--he was to inculcate what
would lower the perfection of man. He promised to give an answer to the
proposal the succeeding day, and left the place.
Now during the many hours there was a war going on in the heart of the
poor poet. He was indeed poor; often he had no certainty whether he
should be able to procure the next day's meals. And the poet knew
the beauty of truth, and adored, not in the abstract merely, but in
practice, the excellence of upright principles.
Night came. Lingave, wearied, lay upon his pallet again and slept. The
misty veil thrown over him, the spirit of poesy came to his visions, and
stood beside him, and look'd down pleasantly with her large eyes, which
were bright and liquid like the reflection of stars in a lake.
Virtue, (such imagining, then, seem'd conscious to the soul of the
dreamer,) is ever the sinew of true genius. Together, the two in one,
they are endow'd with immortal strength, and approach loftily to Him
from whom both spring. Yet there are those that having great powers,
bend them to the slavery of wrong. God forgive them! for they surely do
it ignorantly or heedlessly. Oh, could he who lightly tosses around
him the seeds of evil in his writings, or his enduring thoughts, or his
chance words--could he see how, haply, they are to spring up in distant
time and poison the air, and putrefy, and cause to sicken--would he not
shrink back in horror? A bad principle, jestingly spoken--a falsehood,
but of a word--may taint a whole nation! Let the man to whom the great
Master has given the might of mind, beware how he uses that might. If
for the furtherance of bad ends, what can be expected but that, as
the hour of the closing scene draws nigh, thoughts of harm done, and
capacities distorted from their proper aim, and strength so laid out
that men must be worse instead of better, through the exertion of that
strength--will come and swarm like spectres around him?
"Be and continue poor, young man," so taught one whose counsels should
be graven on the heart of every youth, "while others around you grow
rich by fraud and disloyalty. Be without place and power, while others
beg their way upward. Bear the pain of disappointed hopes, while others
gain the accomplishment of their flattery. Forego the gracious pressure
of a hand, for which others cringe and crawl. Wrap yourself in your own
virtue, and seek a friend and your daily bread. If you have, in such a
course, grown gray with unblench'd honor, bless God and die."
When Lingave awoke the next morning, he despatch'd his answer to his
wealthy friend, and then plodded on as in the days before.