"The Isles of Greece" may stand beside the finest lines of Homer, and not be shamed.
What does all Italy, and particularly Florence, make chief boast of to-day? Not commerce, not wealth—simply Dante! In his lifetime he was made a subject for hatred and derision—he was scorned, cast out, and exiled by his fellow-towns-*folk—yet now he is the great glory of his native city which claims respect from all the world for having been the birthplace of so supreme a soul. So, even after death, the Power of the Pen takes its revenge, and ensures its just recognition.
Yet there are many workers in Literature who say that the Power of the Pen gives them no joy at all,—that it is a "grind,"—that it is full of disappointment and bitterness, and that they never get paid enough for what they do. This last is always a very sore point with them. They brood on it, and consider it so often, that by and by the question of how much or how little payment they get, becomes the only way in which they regard their profession. It is the wrong way. It is the way that leads straight to biliousness and chronic dyspepsia. It is not my way. To me, what little power of the pen I possess, is a magic talisman which I would not exchange for millions of money. It makes life beautiful for me—it intensifies and transfigures all events and incidents—it shows me a whole history in the face of a child—a whole volume of poetry and philosophy in the cup of a flower. It enables me to see the loveliness of nature with keener and more appreciative gratitude—and it fills me with an inward happiness which no outward circumstance can destroy.
