offered his youth at the shrine of Plutus, that is, left off studying and took to business.  He became what they call a “clerk” in what they call a “store” up in the huckleberry districts, and kept such accounts as were required by the business of the establishment.  His principal occupation was, however, to attend to the details of commerce as it was transacted over the counter.  This industry enabled him, to his great praise be it spoken, to assist his excellent parent, to clothe himself in a becoming manner, so that he made a really handsome figure on Sundays and was always of presentable aspect, likewise to purchase a book now and then, and to subscribe for that leading periodical which furnishes the best models to the youth of the country in the various modes of composition.

Though Master Gridley was very kind to the young man, he was rather disposed to check the exuberance of his poetical aspirations.  The truth was, that the old classical scholar did not care a great deal for modern English poetry.  Give him an Ode of Horace, or a scrap from the Greek Anthology, and he would recite it with great inflation of spirits; but he did not think very much of “your Keatses, and your Tennysons, and the whole Hasheesh crazy lot,” as he called the dreamily sensuous idealists who belong to the same century that brought in ether and chloroform.  He rather shook his head at Gifted Hopkins for indulging so largely in metrical composition.

“Better stick to your ciphering, my young friend,” he said to him, one day.  “Figures of speech are all very well, in their way; but if you undertake to deal much in them, you’ll figure down your prospects into a mighty small sum.  There’s some danger that it will take all the sense out of you, if you keep writing verses at this rate.  You young scribblers think any kind of nonsense will do for the public, if it only has a string of rhymes tacked to it.  Cut off the bobs of your kite, Gifted Hopkins, and see if it does n’t pitch, and stagger, and come down head-foremost.  Don’t write any stuff with rhyming tails to it that won’t make a decent show for itself after you’ve chopped all the rhyming tails off.  That’s my advice, Gifted Hopkins.  Is there any book you would like to have out of my library?  Have you ever read Spenser’s Faery Queen?”

He had tried, the young man answered, on the recommendation of Cyprian Eveleth, but had found it rather hard reading.

Master Gridley lifted his eyebrows very slightly, remembering that some had called Spenser the poet’s poet.  “What a pity,” he said to himself, “that this Gifted Hopkins has n’t got the brains of that William Murray Bradshaw!  What’s the reason, I wonder, that all the little earthen pots blow their covers off and froth over in rhymes at such a great rate, while the big iron pots keep their lids on, and do all their simmering inside?”

That is the way these old pedants will talk, after all their youth and all their poetry, if they ever had any, are gone.  The smiles of woman, in the mean time, encouraged the young poet to smite the lyre.  Fame beckoned him upward from her templed steep.  The rhymes which rose before him unbidden were as the rounds of Jacob’s ladder, on which he would climb to a heaven of-glory.