"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.
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