If a man can not be a great genius, is it worth his while to
be a little one? Some learned men say not. Of the poets who
flourished and were famous a hundred years ago, how many are
known now? Of all the bright volumes that brought fame to their
authors and made the booksellers of old wealthy, how many can
we find upon the shelves of the bookstores to-day? Only a few.
And yet, their authors, lauded by friends and flattered by
reviews, threw all their souls into their songs, and fondly
dreamed of earthly immortality. The fittest survive, and the
world has sorted them out with unerring judgment. From the good
it has taken the best, and we are thankful. But these little
geniuses--did they live their lives in vain because they are
forgotten now? Was all their music meaningless, and did the
world never miss it when their harps were silent? They fulfilled
their mission; their songs went home to human hearts and
quickened them with feeling. They sang as sang the birds--brief,
tender songs that made the world glad for a day; and tho their
names are now unknown, their graves unmarked, their work has not
been unrewarded. So let the little geniuses be of good cheer;
their footsteps may not go echoing down the ages, but they
may sound very pleasantly in the pathways of to-day. If they
feel that they must sing, let no man say them nay; there will
be ears to listen, voices to applaud, and hearts to feel. The
world needs the low, soft notes of the humble singer, the homely
harpings of the little poet, as a rest from the deep bass of the
bards sublime.--Atlanta _Constitution_.
(1206)