it imparted some glad hope to spring,
some fine charm to summer, some tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation to
winter, which you do not feel. All illusion, of course; but the fanatics cling
to their dream, and would not give it for gold.
    As Mr. Yorke did not possess poetic imagination himself, he considered it a
most superfluous quality in others. Painters and musicians he could tolerate,
and even encourage, because he could relish the results of their art; he could
see the charm of a fine picture, and feel the pleasure of good music; but a
quiet poet - whatever force struggled, whatever fire glowed, in his breast - if
he could not have played the man in the counting-house, or the tradesman in the
Piece Hall, might have lived despised, and died scorned, under the eyes of Hiram
Yorke.
    And as there are many Hiram Yorkes in the world, it is well that the true
poet, quiet externally though he may be, has often a truculent spirit under his
placidity, and is full of shrewdness in his meekness, and can measure the whole
stature of those who look down on him, and correctly ascertain the weight and
value of the pursuits they disdain him for not having followed. It is happy that
he can have his own bliss, his own society with his great friend and goddess,
Nature, quite independent of those who find little pleasure in him, and in whom
he finds no pleasure at all. It is just, that while the world and circumstances
often turn a dark, cold side to him - and properly, too, because he first turns
a dark, cold, careless side to them - he should be able to maintain a festal
brightness and cherishing glow in his bosom, which makes all bright and genial
for him; while strangers, perhaps, deem his existence a Polar winter never
gladdened by a sun. The true poet is not one whit to be pitied; and he is apt to
laugh in his sleeve, when any misguided sympathizer whines over his wrongs. Even
when utilitarians sit in judgment on him, and pronounce him and his art useless,
he hears the sentence with such a hard derision, such a broad, deep,
comprehensive, and merciless contempt of the unhappy Pharisees who pronounce it,
that he is rather to be chidden than condoled with. These, however, are not Mr.
Yorke's reflections, and it is with Mr. Yorke we have at present to do.
    I have told you some of his faults, reader; as to his good points,