I had already seen at the Exchange the martyrs of
money; I now saw a martyr of letters. Monsieur Philoxene Boyer is
neither a fool nor a foundling; he was educated with care; he belongs to
an excellent family of Normandy; he might have been at this very hour an
excellent gentleman-farmer, honored by his neighbors, and leading a
quiet, useful life, while cultivating his paternal acres, and making a
respectable woman happy. But when he graduated at the Law School, the
demon of literature seized and refused to release him. His patrimonial
estate was worth thirty thousand dollars; ignorant of business, he sold
it below its true value, and, instead of placing the capital out at
interest, he put it in his pocket and dissipated it in those taxes, as
varied as old feudal burdens, which the poor, uncomprehended men of
genius levy on their wealthy brethren. One day it went in dinners given
to brethren who deliver diplomas of genius; another day it went in money
lent to Grub-Street penny-a-liners who were starving; again it went to
found petty newspapers established to demolish old reputations and raise
new ones, and to die of inanition at their fifth number for want of a
sixth subscriber.
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