If that garret was bare,
cold, and dark, it was only like others, in which many a man before
and since has pined away years of neglect and penury, at the very
moment when his genius was cheering, enriching, enlightening his
country and his race. That the individual whose steps we have
followed was indeed a man of genius, could not be doubted by one
who had met the glance of that deep, clear, piercing eye, clouded
though it was at that moment by misery of body and mind that
amounted to the extreme of anguish. The garret of the stranger
contained no food, no fuel, no light; its occupant was suffering from
cold, hunger, and wretchedness. Throwing himself on a broken chair,
he clenched his fingers over the manuscript, held within a pale and
emaciated hand.
"Shall I die of hunger--or shall I make one more effort?" he
exclaimed, in a voice in which bitterness gave a momentary power to
debility.
"I will write once more to my patron--possibly--" without waiting to
finish the sentence, he groped about in the dull twilight for ink and
paper; resting the sheet on a book, he wrote in a hand barely
legible:
"Nov. 20th 16--,
"MY LORD--I have no light, and cannot see to write--no fire and my
fingers are stiff with cold--I have not tasted food for eight and forty
hours, and I am faint. Three times, my lord, I have been at your door
to day, but could not obtain admittance.
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