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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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
"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?"
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?"
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