Gifts of Genius Part 15

That Truth, Love and Religion From the earth are vanished quite-- And now so dear is coffee, And money is so tight!

But gone are childish gambols, And all things fleeting prove-- Money, the world, our young days, Religion, Truth and Love.

PAID FOR BY THE PAGE.

BY EDWARD S. GOULD.

The labourer is worthy of his hire. A man who produces an available "article" for a newspaper or a periodical, is as properly ent.i.tled to a pecuniary recompense, as a doctor, or a lawyer, or a clergy-man, for professional services; or, as a merchant or a mechanic for his transferable property. This is a simple proposition, which n.o.body disputes. The rate of such compensation must be a matter of agreement. As between author and publisher, custom seems to have fixed on what an arithmetician would call "square measure," as the basis of the bargain; and the question of adjustment is simplified down to "how much by the column, or the page?"

This system has its advantages in a business point of view; because, when the price, or rate, is agreed on, nothing remains but to count the pages.

Whether the publisher or the writer is benefited by this plan of computation, in a literary point of view, may, however, be doubted.

A man who is paid _by the page_ for his literary labour, has every inducement but one to expand lines into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into extravagant dimensions. An idea, to him, is a thing to be manufactured into words, each of which has a money value; and if he can, by that simplest of all processes--a verbal dilution--give to one idea the expansive power of twelve; if he can manage to spread over six pages what would be much better said in half a page, he gains twelve prices for his commodity, instead of one; and he sacrifices nothing but the quality of his commodity--and _that_ is no sacrifice, so long as his publisher and his readers do not detect it.

When a man writes for reputation, he has a very different task before him; for no one will gain high and permanent rank as an author, unless his ideas bear some tolerable proportion to his words. He who aims to write _well_, will avoid diffuseness. _Multum in parvo_ will be his first consideration; and if he achieves that, he will have secured one of the prime requisites of literary fame.

In the earlier days of our republic, a discussion was held by several of the prominent statesmen of the period, on the expediency of extending the right of suffrage to others than freeholders. Some of the debaters made long speeches; others made short ones. At length, Mr. JAY was called on for his views of the matter. His brief response was: "Gentlemen, in my opinion, _those who own the country ought to rule it."_ If that distinguished patriot had been writing for the bleeding Kansas Quarterly, at the rate of a dollar a page, he would probably have expanded this remark. He might have written thus:

"Every man is born free and independent; or, if he is not, he ought to be.

_E pluribus unum._ He is, moreover, the natural proprietor of the soil; for the soil, without him, is nothing worth. He came from the soil; he lives on the soil; and he must return to the soil. _De gustibus, non est disputandum._ So much for man in his natural state, breathing his natural air, surrounded by his natural horizon, and luxuriating in his natural prerogatives. But this is a very limited view of the question. Man is expansive, aggressive, acquisitive. _Vox populi, vox Dei._ Having acquired, he wills to acquire. Acquisition suggests acquisition. Conquest promotes conquest. And, speaking of conquests, the greatest of all conquests is that which a man obtains over himself--provided always that he does obtain it. This secured, he may consider himself up to anything.

_Arma virumque cano._ Owning the soil by right of possession; owning himself by right of conquest; and, being about to establish a form of government conformable to his own views of right and wrong; let him protect the right, confound the wrong, and make his own selection of subordinate officers. _Mus cucurrit plenum sed._"

This, by way of ill.u.s.tration. The Jay style sounds the best: the dollar-a-page style pays the best. But the dollar-a-page system is a very bad one for the well-being of our newspaper and periodical literature, simply because the chief inducement is on the wrong side. If an author receives twice as much pay for a page as for half a page, he will write a page as a matter of course; and, as a matter of course, the quality of what he writes will be depreciated in geometrical proportion. For the same thing, said in few words, is ten times more effectual than when said in many words.

No doubt, different subjects require different handling, and more s.p.a.ce is needed for some than for others. An essay is not necessarily too long because it fills five columns, or fifty pages; but periodical and newspaper writing demands compactness, conciseness, concentration; and the fact of being paid by measurement, is a writer's ever-present temptation to disregard this demand.

The conceit of estimating the value of an article by its length and rating the longest at the highest price, is about as wise as to estimate a man by his inches instead of his intellect.

Certain names there are in the literary world, which carry great weight in a reader's regard, independently of the quality of the contributions. If a Sir Walter Scott were to write for the _North American Review_, he would temporarily elevate the reputation of the Review, however carelessly he might throw his sentences together. But, theoretically, the articles in our periodical literature are anonymous; and, practically, they stand on their intrinsic merits. And it is out of the question that a system which offers a money premium for the worst fault in periodical writing--to wit, prolixity--should not deteriorate the character of such writing.

Much more might be said on this subject; but, to the wise, a word is sufficient. And it would ill become one who is endeavouring to recommend conciseness, to disfigure that very endeavour by diffuseness.

WORDS FOR MUSIC.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

I.

I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye, Who was born in the shade The witch-hazel-tree made, Where the brook sang a song All the summer-day long, And the moments, like birdlings went by,-- Like the birdlings the moments flew by.

II.

I knew a fair maid, soul enchanting in grace, Who replied to my vow, Neath the hazel-tree bough: "Like the brook to the sea, Oh, I yearn, love, for thee."

And she hid in my bosom her face-- In my bosom her beautiful face.

III.

I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide; Wooed and won in the shade The witch-hazel tree made, Where the brook sings its song All the summer day long, And the moments in harmony glide, Like our lives they in harmony glide.

"THE CHRISTIAN GREATNESS."

(Pa.s.sAGES FROM A Ma.n.u.sCRIPT SERMON.)

BY THE REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D.

THE OFFERING OF CONTRITION.

That deepest lowliness of all--the prostration before G.o.d, the prostration in penitence--is the highest honor that humanity can achieve. It is the first great cardinal requisition in the Gospel; and it is not meant to degrade, but to exalt us. Self-condemnation is the loftiest testimony that can be given to virtue. It is a testimony paid at the expense of all our pride. It is no ordinary offering. A man may sacrifice his life to what he calls honor, or conceives to be patriotism, who never paid the homage of an honest tear for his own faults. That was a beautiful idea of the poet, who made the boon that was to restore a wandering shade to the bliss of humanity--a boon sought through all the realm of nature and existence--to consist, not in wealth or splendor, not in regal mercy or canonized glory, but in a tear of penitence. Temple and altar, charity and pity, and martyrdom, sunk before that.

I have seen the magnificence of all ceremonial in worship; and this was the thought that struck me then. Permit me to describe the scene, and to express the thought that rose in my mind, as I gazed upon it. It was in the great cathedral church of the world; and it brings a kind of religious impression over my mind to recall its awfulness and majesty. Above, far above me, rose a dome, gilded and covered with mosaic pictures, and vast as the pantheon of old Rome; the four pillars which supported it, each of them as large as many of our churches; and the entire ma.s.s, lifted to five times the height of this building--its own height swelling far beyond; no dome so sublime but that of heaven was ever spread above mortal eye. And beyond this dome, beneath which I stood, stretched away into dimness and obscurity the mighty roofing of this stupendous temple--arches behind arches, fretted with gold, and touched with the rays of the morning sun.

Around me, a wilderness of marble; with colors, as variegated and rich as our autumnal woods; columns, pillars, altars, tombs, statues, pictures set in ever-during stone; objects to strike the beholder with neverceasing wonder. And on this mighty pavement, stood a mult.i.tude of many thousands; and through bright lines of soldiery, stretching far down the majestic nave, slowly advanced a solemn and stately procession, clothed with purple, and crimson, and white, and blazing with rubies and diamonds; slowly it advanced amidst kneeling crowds and strains of heavenly music; and so it compa.s.sed about the altar of G.o.d, to perform the great commemorative rite of Christ's resurrection. Expect from me no sectarian deprecation; it was a goodly rite, and fitly performed. But, amidst solemn utterances, and lowly prostrations, and pealing anthems, and rising incense, and all the surrounding magnificence of the scene, shall I tell you what was my thought? One sigh of contrition, one tear of repentance, one humble prayer to G.o.d, though breathed in a crypt of the darkest catacomb, is worth all the splendors of this gorgeous ceremonial and this glorious temple.

VIRTUE IN OBSCURITY.

And let me add, that upon many a lowly bosom, the gem of virtue shines more bright and beautiful than it is ever likely to shine in any court of royalty or crown of empire: and this, for the very reason that it shines in loneliness and obscurity, and is surrounded with no circlet of gazing and flattering eyes. There _are_ positions in life, in society, where all loveliness is seen and noted; chronicled in men's admiring comments, and perhaps celebrated in adulatory sonnets and songs. And well, perhaps, that it is so. I would not repress the admiration of society toward the lovely and good. But there is many a lowly cottage, many a lowly bedside of sickness and pain, to which genius brings no offering; to which the footsteps of the enthusiastic and admiring never come; to which there is _no_ cheering visitation--but the visitation of angels! _There_ is humble toil--_there_ is patient a.s.siduity--_there_ is n.o.ble disinterestedness--_there_ is heroic sacrifice and unshaken truth. The great world pa.s.ses by, and it toils on in silence; to its gentle footstep, there are no echoing praises; around its modest beauty, gathers no circle of admirers. It never thought of honor; it never asked to be known.

Unsung, unrecorded, is the labor of its life, and shall be, till the heavens be no more; till the great day of revelation comes; till the great promise of Jesus is fulfilled; till the last shall be first, and the lowliest shall be loftiest; and the poverty of the world shall be the riches and glory of heaven.

THE BABY AND THE BOY MUSICIAN.

BY LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

A cherub in its mother's arms, Look'd from a cas.e.m.e.nt high-- And pleasure o'er the features stray'd, As on his simple organ play'd A boy of Italy.

So, day by day, his skill he plied, With still increasing zeal, For well the glittering coin he knew, Those fairy fingers gladly threw, Would buy his frugal meal.

But then! alas, there came a change Unheeded was his song, And in his upraised, earnest eye There dwelt a silent wonder, why The baby slept so long.