Diogenes Lillie, Esq., sat in his study. Around him were gathered all those powerful incentives necessary to call forth that great masterly genius which lay hid somewhere in his brain—somewhere—from whence, though many times coaxed and flattered, it had as yet resolutely refused to stir.
Upon the table before him, bearing at each corner respectively a bust of Plato, of Shakspeare, Homer, and Milton, were pamphlets, reviews, folios, quartos and duodecimos, thickly strewn—but what was more to the purpose, there was drawn up close to the elbow of Mr. Lillie, a quire of hot-pressed letter-paper, with edges of gold—a silver standish, bearing the golden pen ingrafted in a feather of pearl, and the cerulean ink with which genius should indite the virgin page, whenever said genius should deign to issue from its dark hiding-place.
The lips of Diogenes were closely pressed together—his eyes upturned with a frenzied glare to the ceiling, and deep indentations, like the rind of a musk-melon, corrugated his brow.
Reader—he was conceiving.
Bringing down his clinched hand with a force which made old Homer nod, he exclaimed:
“I will write. Yes, I will write a poem—I will astonish the world—my talents shall no longer remain under a bushel, but shall go forth like the sword of Gideon to hew down all minor poets! Upon what theme shall I first spend my genius—let me consider,” (drawing the paper still nearer and dipping the golden pen into the flowing liquid,) “gold—the Age of Gold—the Golden Age—yes, ‘The Golden Age’ it shall be. My sublimity shall throw Milton into the shade,” (with a look at the blind bard)—“my glowing pictures of rural life shall startle the lovers of Homer,” (a bow to the god)—“my wit shall cut with the keen sarcasm of Shakspeare,” (looking glorious Will full in the face)—“while the tout-ensemble shall form such a completeness of wisdom, as might honor even the head of a Plato!” (a triumphant glance at the old philosopher.)
And thus encouraged, the gold pen capered, and flashed, and flourished from side to side like a mad thing—pointing notes of admiration here, dotting and scratching there, and then diving deep into the sea of ink, plumed its pearly pinion for new and higher flights.
For three weeks did the poet bury himself in his library with dead and living authors.
And every morning he kissed his pretty May-flower as she tied on her little bonnet:
“There, there—go along child; be a good girl and obey the master.”