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Aatter his self-love extravagantly, or puff him up with intolerable and vain conceit.
This, indeed, is one test of genius, and of real greatness of mind — whether a man can wait patiently and calmly for the award of posterity, satisfied with the unwearied exercise of his faculties, retired within the sanctuary of his own thoughts; or whether he is eager to forestall his own immortality, and mortgage it for a newspaper puff. He who thinks much of himself, will be in danger of being forgotten by the rest of the world; he who is always trying to lay violent hands on reputation, will not secure the best and most lasting.
If the restless candidate for praise takes no pleasure, no sincere and heartfelt delight, in his works, but as they are admired and applauded by others, what should others see in them to admire or applaud ? They cannot be expected to admire them because they are his, but for the truth and nature contained in them, which must first be inly felt and copied with severe delight, from the love of truth and nature, before it can ever appear there.
Was Raphael, think you, when he painted his pictures of the Virgin and Child, in all their inconceivable truth of beauty and expression, thinking most of his subject or himself? Do you suppose that Titian, when he painted a landscape, was pluming himself on being thought the finest colorist in the world, or making himself so, by looking at nature? Do you imagine that Shakspeare, when he wrote Lear or Othel. lo, was thinking of any thing but Lear and Othello ? — No; he who would be great in the eyes of others, must first learn to be nothing in his own. The love of fame, as it enters at times into his mind, is only another name for the love of excellence; or it is the ambition to attain the highest excellence, sanctioned by the highest authority — that of time.
Genius, an uncommon degree of intellect, particularly the power of invention. This word is used to designate the peculiar structure of mind which is given by nature to an individual, and which qualifies him for a particular employment. - Sincere, being in reality what it seems to be : vino, 51.
8. The Old Man on the Mossy Stone.
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ;
Poor, unknown -
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat,
Coat as ancient as the forın 'twas folding, Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat, Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding,
There he sat! Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat
It was summer, and we went to school,
Dapper country lads and little maidens, Taught the motto of the “Dunce's Stool,”. Its grave import still my fancy ladens,
“Here's A Fool !" It was summer, and we went to school.
When the stranger seemed to mark our play,
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted, I remember well, too well, that day! Oftentimes the tears unbidden started,
Would not stay, When the stranger seemed to mark our play.
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell;
Ah! to me her name was always heaven!
Angel,” said he sadly, "I am old;
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;
Down it rolled !
“I have tottered here to look once more
On the pleasant scene where I delighted,
To the core !
"All the picture now to me how dear!
E’en this gray old rock, where I am seated.
With a tear !
" Old stone school-house! — it is still the same.
There's the very step I so oft mounted;
For the game;
“In the cottage, yonder, I was born ;
Long my happy home – that humble dwelling; 'There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling;
Ah, forlorn! In the cottage, yonder, I was born.
There's the orchard where we used to climb,
When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,
Past its prime!
“There's the mill that ground our yellow grain,
Pond, and river still serenely flowing ;
“There's the gate on which I used to swing,
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; But alas! no more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's table;
Taken wing! There's the gate on which I used to swing.
I am fleeing! — all I loved are fled!
Yon green meadow was our place for playing ; That old tree can tell of sweet things said, When around it Jane and I were straying ;
She is dead! I am fleeing ! - all I loved are fled !
“ Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,
Tracing silently life's changeful story,
There on high!
" Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided thither by an angel mother ; Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod, Sire and sisters, and my little brother;
Gone to God!
“ There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways,
Bless the holy lesson! but, ah, never
“There my Mary blessed me with her hand,
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing,
Broken band !
“I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
To the core !
Angel," said he sadly, “ I am old!
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now, why I sit here thou hast been told :" In his eye another pearl of sorrow,
Down it rolled! Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old !”
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;