I spent nearly all the night in the chapel, alone. The place was full of
things. I felt there all the gods that ever were worshipped ... and all
the great spirits of mankind. And I perceived fully how silly, weak,
grotesque, and vain I was; and yet, how big and wonderful, it would be
to swim counter, as I meant, to the huge, swollen, successful currents
of the commercial, bourgeois practicality of present-day America.
* * * * *
I pinned up a sign on the bulletin board in the hall, in rhyme,
announcing, that, that afternoon, at four o'clock, John Gregory would
hold an auction of his books of poetry.
* * * * *
My room was crowded with amused students. I mounted the table, like an
auctioneer, while they sat on my cot and on the floor, and crowded the
door.
At first the boys jeered and pushed. But when I started selling my copy
of Byron and telling about his life, they fell into a quiet, and
listened. After I had made that talk, they clapped me. Byron went for a
dollar, fetching the largest price. I sold my Shelley, my Blake, my
Herrick, my Marvell, my Milton ... all....
My Keats I could not bring myself to sell. I kept that like a treasure.
What I could not sell I gave away.
My entire capital was ten dollars ... one suit of clothes ... a change
of underwear ...
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