The Birth-place of Genius.
It is one of the mysteries of life, that genius, that noblest gift of God, is nourished by poverty. Its greatest works have been achieved by the sorrowing ones of the world, in tears and in despair. Not in the brilliant saloon, furnished with every comfort and elegance—not in the library, well fitted, softly carpeted, and looking out upon a smooth, green lawn, or a broad expanse of scenery—not in ease and competence, is genius born and nurtured, but more frequently in adversity and destitution, amidst the harassing cares of a straitened household, in bare and fireless garrets, with the noise of squalid children, in the midst of the turbulence of domestic contentions, and in the deep gloom of uncheered despair, is genius born and reared. This is its birthplace, and in scenes like these, unpropitious, repulsive, wretched men have labored, studied, and trained themselves until they have at last eliminated out of the gloom of that obscurity, the shining lights of their times—become the companions of kings, the guides and teachers of their kind, and exercised an influence upon the thought of the world amounting to a species of intellectual legislation.