he hurt, or caring how
deep he thrust.

As to the paucity of ideality in his mind, that can scarcely be called a
fault: a fine ear for music, a correct eye for colour and form, left him
the quality of taste; and who cares for imagination? Who does not think
it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute, akin to weakness, perhaps
partaking of frenzy--a disease rather than a gift of the mind?

Probably all think it so but those who possess, or fancy they possess,
it. To hear them speak, you would believe that their hearts would be
cold if that elixir did not flow about them, that their eyes would be
dim if that flame did not refine their vision, that they would be lonely
if this strange companion abandoned them. You would suppose that it
imparted some glad hope to spring, some fine charm to summer, some
tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation to winter, which you do not
feel. An illusion, of course; but the fanatics cling to their dream, and
would not give it for gold.

As Mr. Yorke did not possess poetic imagination himself, he considered
it a most superfluous quality in others. Painters and musicians he could
tolerate, and even encourage, because he could relish the results of
their art; he could see the charm of a fine picture, and feel the
pleasure of good music; but a quiet poet--whatever force struggled,
whatever fire glowed, in his breast--if he could not have played the man
in the counting-house, of the tradesman in the Piece Hall, might have
lived despised, and died scorned, under the eyes of Hiram Yorke.

And as there are many Hiram Yorkes in the world, it is well that the
true poet, quiet externally though he may be, has often a truculent
spirit under his placidity, and is full of shrewdness in his meekness,
and can measure the whole stature of those who look down on him, and
correctly ascertain the weight and value of the pursuits they disdain
him for not having followed. It is happy that he can have his own bliss,
his own society with his great friend and goddess Nature, quite
independent of those who find little pleasure in him, and in whom he
finds no pleasure at all. It is just that while the world and
circumstances often turn a dark, cold side to him--and properly, too,
because he first turns a dark, cold, careless side to them--he should be
able to maintain a festal brightness and cherishing glow in his bosom,
which makes all bright and genial for him; while strangers, perhaps,
deem his existence a Pol