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I WALKED out one summer afternoon, to amuse
myself after the troubles of a long and toilsome
day, spent in poring over musty volumes of the law.
As I rose from my fatiguing studies, and breathed
the fresh, free air of heaven, I enjoyed that natural
cheerfulness which is always felt when the elastic
mind soars from the object to which it has been
bound down, and sports away at pleasure through
the regions of fancy. After having groped among
the shadowy labyrinths of ambiguous science, wearied
and bewildered in its mazy path, I rejoiced to
be in a lighter sphere, amid merriment and bustling
adventure—where the brilliant confusion of Broadway
gave a livelier character to my meditations,
and the rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed girls who passed
by me imparted a sweeter sensation to my mind.

It had been extremely warm and sultry, but now

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a light breeze cooled the air; the pigeons pecked
and cooed and sported about in the shade; a privileged
dog might now and then be observed trotting
along behind his master, panting and tired, with
his tongue hanging from his unclosed mouth, and
those unpoetical animals in the records of our Common
Council, denominated—hogs, grunted through
their long and dreamless slumber, in all the glory
of independence and mud.

It is an old maxim that something may be learned
in whatever situation we are placed. The darkness
of a solitary dungeon improves the contemplative
disposition, and the mid-day splendor of the
city is replete with instruction.

The vast and wonderful variety of face and
figure which on every side met my view, afforded
an amusement for my ramble, of which I did not
fail to take advantage.

Sometimes brushed by me the smart beau, ready
dressed, and polished for his lady's eye; his new,
shining hat, upon a head each particular hair of
which possessed its assigned station, like well disciplined
soldiers at a military post. In dark contrast
behind him dragged the lazy sweep—wrapping his
dusky mantle around his gloomy form, the personification
of a moonless night. The man of broad
dimensions waddled before the thin, consumptive,
meagre wretch—poverty and plenty, emblematic of
the rapid vicissitudes of life. Bullies, thinking of
thunder and lightning—Dandies, thinking of nothing
but themselves—and fools, thinking of nothing

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at all, went one after another before my observing
sight. Editors, composing extemporaneous editorial
articles—Players, conning over their half-learned
parts—Lawyers, calculating what no one
but lawyers could calculate—and Doctors in rueful,
but resigned anticipation of their patient's demise,
passed by, and disappeared like Macbeth's visions
in the regions of Hecate. Now came a crowd of
“Noisy children, just let loose from school,” in high glee at having escaped from the vicissitudes
of their mimic world—some from the troubles
of incomprehensible ancient languages, and lines
terrible to scan—and other young literary Bonapartes,
who “had fought and conquered” whole
troops of mathematical problems, who had surmounted
obstacles seemingly insurmountable, and
labored far up the rugged hill of science in spite of
the brambles and shadows with which it so plentifully
abounds. Then I beheld the philosopher, in
his ordinary habiliments, scrupulously plain, careful
to owe no portion of his celebrity to the vanities of
dress—his brow clouded with a sublime frown,
which spoke of crucibles, air-pumps, powerful acids,
and electrical machines—pacing his steady way,
with measured strides—all science and severity from
head to foot. After him came the poet, in a poetical
dress, with short sleeves to his coat, short legs to his
pantaloons, and short allowances for his hunger—
his hat was put back from his forehead in negligent

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grace—there was no awkwardness in his moving
attitudes—no rose upon his thoughtful cheek—and
no cravat around his neck; but bewildered, Byronlike,
and brimfull of imagination, and wrapped up
in splendid visions, invisible to all but himself—
through the various multitude he pursued his unerring
career
“In lofty madness, meditating song,” The richly dressed, fashionable belle dashed by me
like a blazing meteor, sparkling and flashing in
transitory brightness—and in bashful beauty, like
some softly-passing dream, followed the sylph-like
figure of a charming girl, with eyes cast down in
the modesty of merit, and cheeks blushing at the
earnest gaze which their loveliness attracted. It
passed away from before me like the evanescent
hopes of youth, and gave place to a person who
monopolized all my attention. It was the short,
prim form of a middle-aged, negligently dressed
man, who wore an air of drollery, entirely irresistible.
As he passed, maiden purity and philosophic
sternness lent the tribute of a smile, and the little
boys paused from the fascinations of their hoops and
marbles to look and laugh. The clouded visage of
misfortune, by his ludicrous appearance, was cheated
into a temporary illumination, and in the wildness
of my disenthralled fancy, methought the very
birds of the air, and the beasts of the field, or, in
plain English, the pigeons and the pigs, gave a

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glance of merry astonishment upon the object of
my notice.

His coat (for although he was an author he had
a coat) had once been of handsome black cloth, but
its charms had vanished “like fairy gifts fading
away”—many winters had scattered their snows
upon the shoulder-blades and elbows, from the pinnacles
of the latter of which peeped something not
very white, concerning which I had my own peculiar
calculation. The collar, I mean of his coat,
for that of his shirt had long since retired to the
dignity of private life, beneath the complicated folds
of his slovenly cravat—by the by, it would be well
if some of our political dirty shirt collars would
follow its examples—I say, the collar of his coat, by
long acquaintance with the rim of a hat, venerable
on account of its antiquity, had assumed a gloss
which was by no means the gloss of novelty, and
a dark brown waistcoat was buttoned carelessly
around a body that seemed emptier than the head
upon which it had depended for support. His pantaloons,

“Weak, but intrepid—sad, but unsubdued,” were shrivelled tightly over a brace of spindleshanks,
withered, weary, and forlorn, that would
have put Daddy Longlegs to the blush. Uncleaned
pumps covered every part of his feet but the toes,
which came forth to enjoy the fresh summer breezes,
shoes and stockings to the contrary notwithstanding.
A pair of tattered kid gloves, “neat but not

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gaudy,” fluttered about his hands, so that it would
be difficult immediately to discover whether the
glove held the hand or the hand the glove.

But it was not the dress which gained him so
many broad stares and oblique glances, for our city
annually receives a great increase of literary inhabitants,
but the air—the “Je ne sais quoi”—the
nameless something—dignity in rags, and self-importance
with holes at the elbow. It was the
quintessence of drollery which sat upon his thin,
smirking lip—which was visible on his crooked,
copper-tinged, and snuff-bedaubed organ of smelling,
and existed in the small eyes of piercing gray.

As I love to study human nature in person, and
have always believed the world was the best book
to read, I formed a determination to become acquainted
with him of the laughable aspect, and
proceeded to act in conformity thereto. I was striving
to hit upon some plausible method of entering
into conversation with him, when fate being in a
singularly good humor, took it into her whimsical
head to favor my design. As I walked by him
near the end of the pavement, when the multitude
were by no means so numerous, and their place
was supplied by the warbling birds, the bleating
lambs, and all those sounds which constitute the
melody of country breezes, with a slight inclination
of his pericranium he turned towards me and
spoke.

“Pray, sir, can you favor me with the hour?”

“It is four o'clock,” answered I, “I believe—but

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am not sure; walk on with me, and we will inquire
of yonder gentleman.”

“You are excessively good,” said he, with a smile,
which gave much more expression to his face—“I
am afraid I give you an infinite degree of trouble;
you are enjoying rural felicity, poetically correct—
pray, do not let me interrupt you.”

As he spoke the clock struck.

“Fortune favors the deserving,” I remarked, as
a continuation of the converse so happily commenced.

He spoke with more familiarity—“Upon my
honor, sir, you are very complimentary: if every
body thought of me as you do, or at least, if they
thought as much of my productions, I flatter myself
I should have had a watch for myself.”

“I'll warrant me,” I replied, “many have the
means of ascertaining time better than yourself,
who know not how to use it half so well.”

“Sir,” said he with a bow, “if you will buckle
fortune to my back—but you don't flatter me—no,
no. My excellent, good friend, you have much
more penetration than people in general. Sir, I
have been abused—vilely, wretchedly, da—, but
I won't swear—I don't follow the fashions so much
as to make a fool of myself; but on the honor of a
perfect gentleman, I do assure you, sir, I have been
very strangely used, and abused, too.”

“I have no doubt, sir,” observed I, “but that
your biography would be interesting.”

“My biography—you've hit the mark; I wish I

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had a biographer—a Dunlap, a Boswell, a Virgil, or
a Homer—he should begin his book with the line
—“Multum ille et terris, jactatus et alto,
Vi superum.” I have been a very football, sir, for the gods to play
with.”
“Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ,” said I, willing to humor the pedantry which I already
began to discover, “but the race is not always
to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.”

“Aha! sir,” he exclaimed with a gentle squeeze
of my hand, “I know what you are—some kindred
spirit—one of those kind, high beings who come
upon this world `like angel visits, few and far between.
' I see it, sir, in your eye,” continued he,
with a gesture that might have spurred even Miss
Kemble to new exertions. “I see it in your eye—
charity, benevolence, affection, philosophy, and science.
Ah! my dear sir, I know you are better
than the rest of mankind; you've done a great
deal of good in the world, and will do a great deal
more—


“You portioned maids—apprenticed orphans blest—
The old who labor, and the young who rest:
Is there a contest? enter but your door,
Balked are the courts, and contest is no more;
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now a useless race.”

“Sir?” ejaculated I, not very well pleased with
this last slash at my beloved profession—

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—“Or, perhaps,” continued he with increasing
rapidity of speech, “you are a lawyer, my dear
sir,—the grand path to political glory—sweet occupation;
to put out the strong arm, and save drowning
innocence; to hurl the thunderbolt of eloquence
against proud and wealthy oppression; to weave a
charm of safety around defenceless beauty; and
catch clumsy, and otherwise unconquerable power
in your mazy net of law—Pray, sir, can you lend
me a shilling?”

I handed him the money, and he turned to be
off, when I seized him by the arm, and asked him
where he was going? He laid one hand upon his
receptacle for food, and with the other pointed to a
tavern, before which hung the sign “Entertainment
for Man and Horse.”

“My dinner—my dinner—my dinner!” said he,
“I haven't eaten a particle these three weeks; poverty
and poetry, sir, go arm and arm, sworn friends
and companions, through this vale of tears; one
starves the body and the other rarefies the soul—
my way has been rough and rugged as the Rock-away
turnpike road, and misfortune jerks me along
as if life went upon badly made cog-wheels. Will
you be so kind as to lend me another shilling?
I want a dinner for once in my life—beefsteaks and
onions, butter, gravy, and potatoes—


“Hæc olim meminisse juvabit.”
It will be a grand era in my poetical career.”

There was something so exquisitely whimsical

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in the fellow's demeanor, that I determined to spend
the afternoon in his company. I never shall forget
the look and squeeze which he bestowed upon me
when I proposed that we should adjourn to the inn,
and dine together at my expense. He seized hold
of my hand, and drew himself up erect in all the
enthusiasm of poetic madness—

“Sir,” said he, informing me that he could not
speak, with a rapidity of pronunciation, which reminded
me of a horse running away—“Sir, Mr.
a-a-a—my dear, dear friend—my tongue falters—
I can't speak—I'm dumb—gratitude has shut up
the sluices of my heart; and the cataract of my
oratorical powers is dried up—pro tem. But it
will come directly—Stop till I get in the house—
“Arma virumque cano.” that is to say, I'll tell you my history; but just at
this moment,” continued he, smacking his lips, and
his little eyes dilating with the eager anticipation
of epicurean delights, yet to come—“just at this
crisis,


“Oh! guide me from this horrid scene,
These high arched walks, and alleys green.”
then with a slight pause and smile,


“Let's run the race—he be the winner,
Who gets there first, and eats his dinner.”

As he spoke, he pulled me forcibly by the arm,
and I found myself in a neat, clean room, with the

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hungry poet fastened close to my side. The conversation
which occurred between us, and the history
of his literary vicissitudes, must be the subject
of the next chapter.