The Argosy — page 379: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Penalty of Genius. 365 man of genius? for, being one, he knew it most assuredly. A bright flash of happiness, with romantic dreams of fame and fortune, followed by the stern reality of years of toil and obscurity. During these long, fearful years, Burns knew that he was great: he felt that he was the cleverest ploughboy in the world; yet he must go on ploughing, and see others do badly what he could do well. While such thoughts soothe, they madden, and at once bring consolation and sorrow to the troubled heart of genius. It is the torture of Tantalus applied to the intellect. What wonder, then, if Burns fell down and worshipped John Barleycorn ? After many years, Burns took his place at table with lords and ladies ; where, instead of behaving like a ploughboy, he showed the manners of a modest, though self-possessed, gentleman. Here he proved his genius, by rising equal to the occasion. People tried to impress him with their grandeur, but the inspired ploughboy firmly, but respectfully, declined to be astonished. He knew that he was superior to his superiors, and that the guest was at once far above and far beneath the host. Still he was not happy. He had wearied for grand society; but now that he had it, he found it vanity. People were disappointed in Burns, because Burns was disappointed in them. He felt himself alone in the world: he was a solitary man in a great crowd: he had lrved over thirty years and had literally never seen a fellow-creature— and he never did see one. Every man of genius feels this dreadful sense of loneliness more or less. It caused Byron much misery: John Stuart Mill suffered from it for years; and Dickens, when near the end, complains that he feels that he has missed a some one he has never seen. The ideal of such men is seldom realized. Unknown to themselves, they create a creature in their heart and brain whom they eagerly seek in flesh and blood, and too often in vain. It doesnot follow—indeed, it seldom happens—that this ideal conception of the man of genius is a perfect creature, or ‘one like unto himself, but generally of a contrary nature, and possessing the very qualities which are most wanting in him. Some few have found this ideal, and always in the form of woman: others have found her only to lose her, like Walter Scott and Byron ; not a few have found her in the wife of another man, like Petrarch and Sterne ; others have fondly imagined that they have found her, but, too late, have discovered their mistake. These last are they whose married lives have proved failures. The wives of men of genius separated from their husbands are a long and fearfullist. Who isto blame? Certainly not the wives, for they are human, and very feminine; and as for their husbands, they are more than human : so let not us men sit in judgment upon them. Byron had all the restlessness and contempt for the world peculiar to Burns. Their natures were much alike. The peer and the peasant unite in the common temperament of the poet. Byron was very near CORnniclooolkks a) (CO)