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.
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