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 sv CALAMITIES OF LIVING MEN OF GENIUS. 



UP to the present hour, men of genius seem equally obnoxious to 

 calamity, as when Savage pined in a prison, Otway starved, and 

 Chatterton committed suicide. The fatal heir-loom still exists, and 

 attends the inheritance. Frightful misfortunes have darkened the 

 career, however splendid in appearance, of many popular and gifted 

 writers. Genius is naturally sensitive morbidly so in many cases. 

 How many men of splendid talents are there at this moment, in 

 this very city, pining away their existence in obscurity, for want of 

 that fostering care that others more fortunate, though less worthy, 

 have enjoyed. The vulgar victim of bodily affliction exposes his 

 leprosy to the multitude, and solicits charity : the more exalted 

 martyr suffers and expires under calamities he is too proud to reveal. 



Brooks was a man of a very benevolent disposition, and considerable 

 powers of mind. He had written some good verses ; and, what was 

 more to the purpose, had brought out some good saleable books, 

 whidh gained him more than fame it gave him the ear of the pub- 

 lishers; and with this followed, of course, a comfortable income. 

 Brooks was no starving poet. He had a comfortable house, well 

 furnished. He had, moreover, a clever and amiable wife, and always 

 a guinea for a needy friend. 



One day, while sauntering down Oxford Street, he accidentally 

 met with a fellow climber of Parnassus, but in very different circum- 

 stances to himself. Poor Spencer's coat was absolutely threadbare ; 

 his hat, had he worn it six months by the sea side, could not have 

 betrayed greater symptoms of atmospherical influence. In fact, he 

 was the beau ideal of a poet there was no mistaking him. 



" Well, Spencer, my dear fellow," said his warm-hearted friend, 

 extending his hand, " I have not seen you for some time how are you 

 going on ?" 



" Oh, miserably, sir miserably. It's a wretched world. I am 

 bowed down by necessity obliged to forego what my mind tells me 

 I am capable of, to furnish myself with the mere means of existence. 

 What I have already done books which the world has been pleased 

 with, are, in my mind, but mere gaudy butterflies they will die 

 with the season. If I had but the means to finish a great work which 

 I contemplate but that is folly that cannot be my fortune." 



" But surely," said Brooks, " surely some means could be devised." 



" None," cried the other, energetically. " I have no resource but 

 in my ink-bottle and I cannot starve. Ah ! how I envy those of 

 better fortune ! Were I in affluence, then would I go on triumph- 

 antly hewing colossal groups out of the living rock not as I am 

 now, carving cherry-stones toiling at trifles I despise. My friend/' 

 added he, in a subdued voice, " I am sick of the world sick at 

 heart and care little to remain in it." 



Brooks was moved : he could not but compare his own good for- 

 tune with that of the destitute being who stood before him, and his 



M. M. No. 8t>. X 



