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tactfulwho can walk over him in a practicalway any time. And he is also certainof his smoke of dreams—that vast fabric towering trom the earth on whichhe sits, to the zenith of the seventhheaven. But he is not always so sureof rewards and power in his hands, olsecond chariots and the shout of thecrowd. Think of Robbie Burns—blesshis proud, breaking heart! —invited tosit aside from the table where a fewsmall rich and weil-born men werefeeding, to entertain them with hispoems—like a toleratedorgan-grinder!Think how his genius and his manhood raged like a flame against all thecircumstances of his life. I hink of theletter of despair he wrote to his father,while he was vet a boy, and the futureseemed a mist in which he could donothing but lose himself.Whenever I sit down with Elia inmy hands—his very pen-name is music—and laugh over his gentle humoror silently till with sadness over hisexquisite pathos, in a background ofthe mind I can always see him goingacross the fields with his sister to themad house, both crying, for ’ her timeof darkness” had come again. Howcould Charles Lamb know that eventhis generation would love him like abrother? If he had known it, would“the glory around his head have gilded his poverty and the long imprisonment ol Ins clerkship5 “It is notdross.’1 he declaims piteously aboutmoney. “Books, travel, ease of minda mans time to himself, these thingsare not dirt, though we may slanderas such the faithful metal which procures them tor us.” The man with theglory can see the excellent results ofpractical forehandedness.but he listenslike a perplexed child to the shrewdnaxims of the world. Let him go tohe hill, as Kirke White did. to see thelightning when it storms, and you mayhave all his emoluments if vou willtake his place while he goes. Let himsit in his cave, or his studio, or hissanctum, or with his music scoreonly a still, small voice to move himand for the time he is an Emperor, inhis purple. But the man with the glory'is sure to have times of depression,when he is dumb, and that peculiarcrown presses into his brain with nee-
Newspaper Details
Kokomo Saturday Tribune
Kokomo, Indiana, US
Sat, Jan 24, 1880
Page 2
Full Page
Clipped by
Anonymous
USA 28 Jan 2020
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