New Orleans daily crescent. [volume] ([New Orleans, La.]) 1851-1866, 1854-08-18
The Green Horn and the Poet.

The following incident Of a distinguished Phil
adelphian teaches lesson Of love and kindness
which it will be we'll for all literary men to
copy: I'd
Once on time went to see Willis Gaylord
Clarke, then editor Of the Philadelphia Gazette
remember the clothes wore, and how I ar
ranged them and brushed them tots take off 7"
the country, but it would stick to them. That
gray linsey -woolsey coatee, made capacious to
invite growth, with huge pockets outside for
chesnuts and apples; the thick wooden mitten,
trousers Of the same material, rough inside asa
rasp, to promote counter irritation and dilute
the blood made Of ample dimensions, with tucks,
SO as to last for Sundays two winters, and for
common indefinitely q waiBtcoat somewhat
short but wide, to compensate, with staring
brown figures, big and bold, as compromise
with a cravat of the same color commodious
high boots, heavy and hob-nailed, emitting
compound Of leather and grease, when near thu
fire; wool hat Of aspiring crown and diminu-
tive brim, and shilling cotton bandanna, to
display on occasion Of emotions.
$50 attired, Invent to the city of Brotherly
Love with forty pairs Of chickens, six turkeys
and two 'possums, the latter harpooned in the
hen roost with pitchfork and their carcasses,
otherwise contraband, to be sold to pay for the
depredations, with this provender to sell on ac-
count of my guardian, and poem in those
trowsers pockets to exhibit on my own account,
went. The marketing sold, not to the best
advantage either, for the poem and Mr.. Clarke
were in my mind Icalled at the office, inquired
for the editor, stated my business was personal
and private" and was ushered into the sanctum
amid the smiles Of clerks and others.
Mr. Clarke was alone and deeply absorbed
and there was in the presence of a real live
poet. l slid quietly along to the nearest chair,
holding my wool cap between my knees and the
bandanna in my hand, awaiting him to look up 4
He did 80 in o few moments, and the pensive,
almost melancholy beauty of his face lit up with
a faint smile as he saw the rustic apparition /
was all eyes, for there sat the man who edited
"our paper" and writ tile verses had cried
over in the barn and cornfeld, and tried to
initiate, on Sunday mornings, when our folks
had gone to church. My earnestness, l suppose,
interested him He did not laugh, as / feared,
but gently said
did you wish to see me, sir?"
l said eyes" And / trembled, and my eyes
filled in spite of myself. 81 came to ask your
advice about some lines have written"
sc You write verses, do you?" he said pleas
| antly and added, g It's poor business"
'sNot if l could write such as yours" re-
piled. --.-
ssPerhaps you may said he; &c allow me to
see yours What do you call thsm?"
ssThe Home of the Poets,'' said I, handing
the paper 1t was a substantial foolscap, and
well tumbled.
Poets have no home on EARTH" he said !;
and the terrible pathos thrilled me like an
| arrow.
81 have made their home in Heaven I
| said "and have given them a superior place,
| for / think that exalted nature must reach
| a higher place in whatever sphere they attain
| to-
| He looked at me steadily for moment, and
then read the poem of thirty verses twice over,
during which / watched his face, so pale, with
such deep lines Of thought and suffering; ma
| ture 80 purely emotional, forced into sphere
80 wholly executive, fitted to dream and glow,
but compelled to work and suffer, till my heart
went out to him with a bound. Finishing the
poem, he said
MY young friend, Nature made you q poet
| there's no denying that's and it will puzzle man
to unmake you. I'll give you ten dollars for
this, and publish it,
ssThank you," said |, as well as could; &c
do not want to publish it, Then he handed me
some of his own manuscripts, which 1 read F; and
passed q never to be forgotten hour or two
with him. recur to it always with the great
est pleasure; it was noble in him to receive a
green, gawky boy, and read my crude rhymes
And thousand times since, when the promise
of life has turned to ashes and the victory no
worth the battle, have required to that inter
view and resolved to struggle. left Mr.. Clarke
threw the rhymes into the desk, with hundred:
of others, plunged into commerce and reform
graduated through Quakerism to some spiritua
faith, but rejected and disbelieved my gift 0
poesy-scarcely believe it now; but occasion
ally look back to Mr.. Clarke's generous word
and then the rhyming impulse carries me out c
sc trade and tumult,' to the sweet, still places
far inward and upward.-[P Pittsburgh Ghristia
Advocate.