The New York herald. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1840-1920, 1861-06-22
LITERATURE.
LITERATURE.
COWING AND REAPING.
BY J. F. SMITH,
AUTHOR OF "TKH srKYkorHER," "MpNIsRsy,"
ETC., ETC.


CHAPTER
Never did possy appear
30 full OF heaven to me, - when
saw how Il would pierce through pride and fear
To the lives OF coarseet mem
thought these men VIII carry hence
Promptngs their former lives above;
And something OF q finer reverence
For beauty, truth and love Lowell.
How frequently do we hear it said, 1.-THE age OF
poetry has passed in England" that men no
moved from truth, that we should not pause to
refute them but for the all but universal credence
they have obtained. Nopoetry in England! Why,
London itself is never ending epic, interspersed
fusedly together in one huge volume, bound in
brick and stone. No poetry The overgrown
city teens with it, 1t meets You in every street;
strikes on the ear in hundred wholesome loud,
some hushed- mingling in the hot stream Of life,
and tinting it with its many col0red passions.
Look at the clerk, who, regularly, for forty
years, has hudged his way into Lombard street or
the Mnories; there is herOsm, one of the finest
clements OF poetry, even in his dull existence.
The balm breathing breath of spring, the glowing
heat Of summer, autumn's healthiu breeze, are in
yitations thrown away upon him-he is too poor
to accept them; he cannot afford the time TO gaze
upon the face OF Nature, rejoice in her smiles, in
terrogate her secrets; they are sealed page to
the poor city drudge, and none the less tantazing
that he knows there are such secrets. The little
sun parcbed patch Of earth at Hackney or Is!ing-
ton. which he calls his garden, has told him that;
he is chained TO his desk like Prometheus to hi,
rock, a voluntary sacrifice. And why? He has a
wife and children
Is there no poetry We ask, in such life! The
pelican feeding its young with blood drawn from
its own breast is but feeble type oft.
Regard your great speculators!- -magoates upon
Change, who direct the commerce of the world,
and deal with millions as Familiarity as cOster-
mopgers handle pence, who have magnificent
mansions, fine carriages and horses, liyeried
~. x,sastA ALL I,
might envy. They are equally .!seria, there is a
biting satire in their lives. Like Frankenstein,
they fettered h. tac idol they have raised. it
may be Of gold and the pedestal of clay. A CIPHER
wrong, false calculation, ana it falls: Day AMI
ticipate the changes of the market, the fiuctua-
tons of credit the commissions of the political
atmosphere, and so arrange their lightning con-
auc;ors that the storm may burst, and Leave their
furtune unscathed. To stop is ruin, retreat ila
possible. They know this, and accept it as tie
condition Of their existence.
Thus they persevere-toiling on till the over
wrought brain at last gives .way--the idol falls
and is shattered. Curious eyes examine it; some
times it proves to have been bubble Of coarsest
earth, held together by fraud and ndomitable will.
Sometimes It's fragments are of gold, which greedy
heirs soon dissipate.
Thus we find that the SPECTATOR lives for an
idea, sells himself for oil idea, barters health hap
piness, the joys Of home, and sweet domestic ties
f5r an idea, dies for an idea but whether thatid
be Of good or ILL., at least, there is poetry mixed
- Suffering is the condition Of success Let no
As pleasing contrast to the picture we have
drawn, take the city missionary, as he wends his
way, unnoticed, TO the abodes Of poverty and
in his heart, consolation on his
tongue, and such humble help az his means
afford, ready to be bestowed where need most
presses. His life is calm as a good mans
thoughts; his perseverance enduring as the for
bearance of Providence neither foul words, in
suit, nor reproaches turn him from the path he
to the guilty, penitence Armed with the Word,
he skaters the hard, calcareous cist ignorance
and indifference have gradually deposited around
the sinners heart, enN eoping it as in winding
sheet-rOuses it from its torpor, probes the moral
.angrene, and awakens it to life.
No morbid sensibillties or artistic tastes urge
him to his self'imposed task love aud Christian
charity are his motives, Heaven his reward
y, is not wanting; but it is seen best at night,
when the sleepless city, as from hive, swarms
orth its drOnes and lepers-some bent on plea
sure, others ON crime some, branded with the
wearyipg cnrae of pursuing shadows that ever
seem to fly them. At night poverty quits its toll
ing, sordd abode, to jostle elbows witt, wealth,
which, in the, garish light OF daSk would
smile, disdainfully upon its rusty sarb and
pallid features, 10 breath the cool, Fresh air.
TO dream and banquet on the falacies of hope
II is al night tie battle of humanity RACES most
iicrcey Step into that nondescript unfinished
monstrosity, the Palace Of Westminster grotesQue
monument Of English taste and English gold, that
conglomcraton Of absurdi'ies stolen from the
h)tels de vile Of Belgium aad flanders, and plas
tered over with ford detail to concea, the petty
larceny what shall We behold? Age holding is
own against manhood, clingiDg to power with the
tenacty of the deashgrip forcing the brain to ua-
equal contest. Hoary statesmen, the veterans of
the arena, know no repOse: it is luxury denied
them. Like the city Spectator, they dare not
sleep, lest younger hands should hurl them from
their seat and grasp the reins The signal for de-
the trurapet's cang, they take their places in the
foremost rank, and fight like gladiators chained to
the stake-for whaU Wealth! They have more
thar hey can enjoy. Ambition: 1t has long since
pali.d upon them. Party holds them. They dare
not abandon that, but die in harness.
Poetry again!
Look at the man of letters-few know his pangs
trials and privations-the agony o: hope deferred,
the hard necessity Of keeping up al appearance,
the daily ttruggle to spin bread from his aching
brains. When imagination fails, he must descend
to the recesses Of his own sad heart and sift the
still burning ashes for incidents to amnsc the
lhought.css million, who read and forget them
Perhaps he has some loved being, some solitary
tie, which binds him to the world dependent upon
his exertions, and dares not shrink from his iron
dread of failure creeps upon him, para
lyzes his worn energies till sensitiveness verges
upon madness. But what do the critics care !?
They, too, n,ust live. With pitiless nerve they
apply the caustic to yet uncicatrized wounds,
smile at his contOrtions, and immediate victim
rather than eat their mutton cold.
If, by chance, We encounter such lone one,
worn, wild and haggard, smartng with recent
wrong, let us not judge him harshly. The fiery
draught is not the only cause of the flushed cheek
and burning bow; disappointment and hunger
ay, hunger! although his coat be whole, and his
boots well polshed-may have painted them.
All literary men are not the reckless baccba-
nails Of the cup and lip, the wouldbe mora'ists Of
the world suppose.
Midnight hes struck. Walk into the Haymar
ket the mart Of vice and suffering masked beneath
hollow pleasures. Gaze on the wreck Of beauty
listen to the forced mirth, the reckless laugh rea
son contending against Excitement, and if ever
angels tears have fallen on earth they sure must
shed them there. Regard the youth, his fathers
hope and pride, fresh from his village home, be-
wildcred, precept struggling. against aurement,
yielding to evil companionship, yet ashamed of
his own weakness. Stung by the mo king speers
OF his " friends he forgets the mother who at
that n nent may be praying for him, and punges
into sin 70 escape from ridicule.
A few short weeks Of such ife and the blush
ol< 4, (,I, -, Ill