He was delighted. He instantly wrote an ode to "Hallowed Misery," dated
from the "House of Woe," sent it off to the Atlantic Monthly of Paris,
and lay in bed dreaming he should find himself famous next morning, and
receive the visits of all Paris, from Monsieur Guizot, then
Prime-Minister, to the most callous poetaster of the Latin Quarter, and
be besieged by every publisher, armed with bags full of money. He woke
the next morning to find himself in perfect health, and to hear the
physician order him to clear out of the hospital. He had no news from
the magazine nor from Monsieur Guizot.
'Tis ill playing with edge-tools! The hospital is not to be coquetted
with. There is no such thing as romping with misery. One might as well
amuse himself toying with the rattlesnake or playing with fluoric acid.
Wait a moment, and the hospital will reappear in the story of his life,
sombre, pitiless, fatal, as it is in reality. A little patience, and
misery will come, in its gaunt, wolf-like shape, to harry and to harass.
Play not with fire!
Distress soon came. The young poet fell into bad company. He came home
late one night. His father scolded: 'tis a porter's infirmity to fret at
late-comers.
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