THE GOLOSHES OF FORTUNE [9]
that he intended to
start on the following day on a summer excursion. "Are you really
going away so soon?" asked the clerk. "What a free, happy man you are.
You can roam about where you will, while such as we are tied by the
foot."
"But it is fastened to the bread-tree," replied the poet. "You
need have no anxiety for the morrow; and when you are old there is a
pension for you."
"Ah, yes; but you have the best of it," said the clerk; "it must
be so delightful to sit and write poetry. The whole world makes itself
agreeable to you, and then you are your own master. You should try how
you would like to listen to all the trivial things in a court of
justice." The poet shook his head, so also did the clerk; each
retained his own opinion, and so they parted. "They are strange
people, these poets," thought the clerk. "I should like to try what it
is to have a poetic taste, and to become a poet myself. I am sure I
should not write such mournful verses as they do. This is a splendid
spring day for a poet, the air is so remarkably clear, the clouds
are so beautiful, and the green grass has such a sweet smell. For many
years I have not felt as I do at this moment."
We perceive, by these remarks, that he had already become a
poet. By most poets what he had said would be considered common-place,
or as the Germans call it, "insipid." It is a foolish fancy to look
upon poets as different to other men. There are many who are more
the poets of nature than those who are professed poets. The difference
is this, the poet's intellectual memory is better; he seizes upon an
idea or a sentiment, until he can embody it, clearly and plainly in
words, which the others cannot do. But the transition from a character
of every-day life to one of a more gifted nature is a great
transition; and so the clerk became aware of the change after a
time. "What a delightful perfume," said he; "it reminds me of the
violets at Aunt Lora's. Ah, that was when I was a little boy. Dear me,
how long it seems since I thought of those days! She was a good old
maiden lady! she lived yonder, behind the Exchange. She always had a
sprig or a few blossoms in water, let the winter be ever so severe.
I could smell the violets, even while I was placing warm penny
pieces against the frozen panes to make peep-holes, and a pretty
view it was on which I peeped. Out in the river lay the ships,
icebound, and forsaken by their crews; a screaming crow represented
the only living creature on board. But when the breezes of spring
came, everything started into life. Amidst shouting and cheers the
ships were tarred and rigged, and then they sailed to foreign lands.
"I remain here, and always shall remain, sitting at my post at the
police office, and letting others take passports to distant lands.
Yes, this is my fate," and he sighed deeply. Suddenly he paused. "Good
gracious, what has come over me? I never felt before as I do now; it
must be the air of spring. It is overpowering, and yet it is
delightful."
He felt in his pockets for some of his papers. "These will give me
something else to think of," said he. Casting his eyes on the first
page of one, he read, "'Mistress Sigbirth; an original Tragedy, in
Five Acts.' What is this?- in my own handwriting, too! Have I
written this tragedy?" He read again, "'The Intrigue on the Promenade;
or, the Fast-Day. A Vaudeville.' However did I get all this? Some
one must have put them into my pocket. And here is a letter!" It was
from the manager of a theatre; the pieces were rejected, not at all in
polite terms.
"Hem, hem!" said he, sitting down on a bench; his thoughts were
very elastic, and his heart softened strangely. Involuntarily he
seized one of the nearest flowers; it was a little, simple daisy.
All that botanists can say in many lectures was explained in a
moment by this little flower. It spoke of the glory of its birth; it
told of the strength of the sunlight, which had caused its delicate
leaves
start on the following day on a summer excursion. "Are you really
going away so soon?" asked the clerk. "What a free, happy man you are.
You can roam about where you will, while such as we are tied by the
foot."
"But it is fastened to the bread-tree," replied the poet. "You
need have no anxiety for the morrow; and when you are old there is a
pension for you."
"Ah, yes; but you have the best of it," said the clerk; "it must
be so delightful to sit and write poetry. The whole world makes itself
agreeable to you, and then you are your own master. You should try how
you would like to listen to all the trivial things in a court of
justice." The poet shook his head, so also did the clerk; each
retained his own opinion, and so they parted. "They are strange
people, these poets," thought the clerk. "I should like to try what it
is to have a poetic taste, and to become a poet myself. I am sure I
should not write such mournful verses as they do. This is a splendid
spring day for a poet, the air is so remarkably clear, the clouds
are so beautiful, and the green grass has such a sweet smell. For many
years I have not felt as I do at this moment."
We perceive, by these remarks, that he had already become a
poet. By most poets what he had said would be considered common-place,
or as the Germans call it, "insipid." It is a foolish fancy to look
upon poets as different to other men. There are many who are more
the poets of nature than those who are professed poets. The difference
is this, the poet's intellectual memory is better; he seizes upon an
idea or a sentiment, until he can embody it, clearly and plainly in
words, which the others cannot do. But the transition from a character
of every-day life to one of a more gifted nature is a great
transition; and so the clerk became aware of the change after a
time. "What a delightful perfume," said he; "it reminds me of the
violets at Aunt Lora's. Ah, that was when I was a little boy. Dear me,
how long it seems since I thought of those days! She was a good old
maiden lady! she lived yonder, behind the Exchange. She always had a
sprig or a few blossoms in water, let the winter be ever so severe.
I could smell the violets, even while I was placing warm penny
pieces against the frozen panes to make peep-holes, and a pretty
view it was on which I peeped. Out in the river lay the ships,
icebound, and forsaken by their crews; a screaming crow represented
the only living creature on board. But when the breezes of spring
came, everything started into life. Amidst shouting and cheers the
ships were tarred and rigged, and then they sailed to foreign lands.
"I remain here, and always shall remain, sitting at my post at the
police office, and letting others take passports to distant lands.
Yes, this is my fate," and he sighed deeply. Suddenly he paused. "Good
gracious, what has come over me? I never felt before as I do now; it
must be the air of spring. It is overpowering, and yet it is
delightful."
He felt in his pockets for some of his papers. "These will give me
something else to think of," said he. Casting his eyes on the first
page of one, he read, "'Mistress Sigbirth; an original Tragedy, in
Five Acts.' What is this?- in my own handwriting, too! Have I
written this tragedy?" He read again, "'The Intrigue on the Promenade;
or, the Fast-Day. A Vaudeville.' However did I get all this? Some
one must have put them into my pocket. And here is a letter!" It was
from the manager of a theatre; the pieces were rejected, not at all in
polite terms.
"Hem, hem!" said he, sitting down on a bench; his thoughts were
very elastic, and his heart softened strangely. Involuntarily he
seized one of the nearest flowers; it was a little, simple daisy.
All that botanists can say in many lectures was explained in a
moment by this little flower. It spoke of the glory of its birth; it
told of the strength of the sunlight, which had caused its delicate
leaves