University of Virginia Library

17. XVII.
THE FATE OF THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAD.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 235. In-line Illustration. Image of two men sitting and talking while a little girl stands behind the chair and listens.]

PUNCTUAL to his engagement,
Martin called on Mr.
Drove in the afternoon, and
read to him three articles designed
for the editorial columns
of the Streamer.

“Quite respectable,” said
the publisher, nodding and
winking, as usual. “I will use
one of them this week, and
keep the other two for future
emergencies, if you say so.”

“I could n't have asked anything better,” replied Martin, gratified,
“for I am decidedly hard up, as the saying is.”

“Our rule is to pay for articles when published,” observed Mr.
Drove.

Martin was astonished and indignant; but, managing somehow
to suppress his feelings, he made a simple statement of his case to
the responsible editor, and appealed to his generosity.

“I borrowed five dollars on Saturday which MUST be returned
this evening,” he said, with passionate earnestness, and with tears
in his eyes. “I raised a part of it this morning; and, if you can

possibly spare me three dollars, I shall remember the favor with
gratitude.”

Mr. Drove said that he had his regular bills to pay, and that
he could not advance money on articles without great inconvenience.
However, if Martin chose to accept of three dollars as
payment in full for the three editorials, the sketch of “White
Hairs and Auburn Tresses,” and the puffs for the daily papers, he
did n't know but he could let him have the money. The young
author, who expected not less than ten dollars, at the lowest estimate,
for his labors, looked aghast at the proposition. How Mr.
Drove could have made it, immediately after hearing those brilliant
and glowing articles on the “Tyranny of Capital,” “Injustice
to the Laborer,” and the “Meanness of Employers,” was a
mystery. But he had made it; he had no better terms to offer;
and the exasperated Martin was compelled to receive his petty fee
from the hand which he could have spat upon in his burning sense
of wrong. What rendered the humiliation the more bitter was
the fact that Mr. Drove, smiling, nodding and winking, patted
Martin on the shoulder, and seemed to consider that he was doing
him an extraordinary favor.

One source of satisfaction, however, Martin had, which almost
compensated him for the disappointment and chagrin which he had
that day been led to suffer. The money, loaned him by the good
Miss Tomes, which had already occasioned him a world of uneasiness,
causing him to feel like a thief and a swindler, he was able
now to return; and, in the joyful sense of freedom attendant upon
that happy circumstance, he resolved never again, on any account,
to make use of the hard-earned wages of a poor book-folder. In
all his life he had not felt so anxious about the future, nor experienced
such a morbid fear of death, as during the last eight-and-forty

hours, when tortured by the thought that some unforeseen
calamity might clip his thread of existence, or paralyze his efforts,
and thus prevent the honorable restoration of the precious little
sum which weighed so heavily upon his conscience. Once he
came near being run over by an omnibus. “What if I had been
killed!” thought he, with a shudder, his mind reverting immediately
to Miss Tomes. “I must manage to pay her, before I cross
the street again.”

The first thing he did, therefore, on leaving the office of the
Streamer, was to find a broker, sell his forty fourpences, received
from Killings, and buy a five-dollar note. This done, he had enough
change left to pay Mr. Toplink's washerwoman for doing up two
shirts and a pair of socks, and also to make a modest purchase of
fruit for Alice and Miss Tomes.

The week, thus commenced, proved to be one of sore trouble
and distress. All Martin's endeavors to earn money were fruitless.
Moreover, Mr. Dime, the book-publisher, neglected to read
the manuscript of the Beggar of Bagdad, with the exception of a
few pages here and there; and, with his characteristic indecision,
continued to put Martin off, alleging, in melancholy tones, that
the publication of new books was attended with such risks that he
still wanted a day or two to make up his mind on the subject.
On Friday, however, in consequence of Martin's earnest solicitation,
he advanced five dollars on the romance, with great reluctance
and many groans, so that the young man was saved the
mortification of being dunned again by Mr. Wormlett.

In the mean time, Martin wrote sketches, and endeavored to sell
them to the weekly newspapers. But he met with little encouragement,
and with no satisfactory success. One editor read a story he
left with him, and approved of it, but could not afford to pay for

it. Another rejected a carefully-written manuscript, because it
was not sufficiently thrilling and dramatic for his columns. One
sketch was refused because it was too long, and one because it
was too short, while the third was politely returned with the
remark that it was void of merit.

And so Martin, driven to a point of desperation which he had
never reached before, went home one day, nearly three weeks
after his arrival in town, sick at heart, crushed in spirit, and
utterly hopeless of success in the literary profession.

He entered his room, and, to his surprise, found Alice sitting
before a grate full of blazing coal.

“Where did you get this fire, my little fairy?” he asked, in a
tone half playful and half sad.

“You cannot guess!” exclaimed the happy child. “Is n't it
nice? The days are getting so cold now.”

“Is it Mrs. Wormlett's doings?”

“O, no, — not exactly. I 'll tell you. I heard somebody
come into the room, and thought of course it was you; and said,
how sorry I was that you were obliged to sit and write here in the
cold; I suppose I cried a little too; for I had been thinking how
hard you have to work, and how much trouble you have —”

“Why, Alice,” said Martin, pressing the child's cheek, “I
am getting along bravely. By next week, or the week after, I
shall be earning something — if ever. But tell me who it was
that came into the room.”

“I did not know at first; although I might have told well
enough, if I had not been worrying so all the morning.”

“Worrying, my dear child?”

“I had been thinking how everything has seemed to go wrong
with me since my mother died. O, I was very naughty; I hope

my poor father will forgive me for having selfish thoughts, when
I should only have loved him the more, and prayed for him the
more.”

“Darling heart! don't cry now. You have loved your father,
and prayed for him, like a little angel, as you are! And you
may love him and pray for him still; and we will hope that we
may find him before many days; but do not worry about him, nor
about yourself, nor about me. Come, cheer up, and tell me where
the fire came from. Ah! how good it seems to sit down by it
with you!”

The heart of Alice was cheered, and she made haste to tell her
story.

“The person did not say anything — whoever it was — when I
spoke so; and then I knew it was not you, but Mr. Leviston. I
was sorry I said what I did, for he went away as if he was
angry. But in a little while Mrs. Wormlett came in and made
the fire; it was for Mr. Leviston, who had come home sick, she
said; and she told me I had better go up stairs, or down to the
kitchen, for he would not want me in the way. I said I would;
but he met me at the door, and led me back, and made me sit
down, and told me I might stay here all day if I liked. He sat
down too, — not very near me, though; and he did not say anything;
but now and then I heard him sigh — O, so pitifully!
Then I felt that he was very unhappy; and I saw that there was
so much goodness away down in his heart, covered up! and I
thought you did wrong to dislike him, without understanding him
better; and before I knew what I was doing, I had got down at
his feet, and was crying for him, more than I ever cried for myself
in my life. The next I knew, he had taken me on his knee,
— who would have thought I could ever sit on his knee? —

and I was telling him things which seemed to come to me, and say
themselves, — for I am sure I did n't know what I was talking
about.”

“And what did you tell him?” eagerly asked Martin.

“I told him how all his life long he had met with disappointments;
how hungry his heart had always been for love, and
how the world had given it stones instead of bread. I saw a picture
for him too. He was making preparations for a journey.
He went out of a grand city, which seemed to be the world, and
put all his treasure on board a beautiful ship. But he had
still one friend left in the city; and he went and told him what he
had done. Then that friend set out by night and stole his treasure,
and took possession of the ship, and went a mad, wild,
wicked voyage in her, and finally left her a wreck upon a desolate
shore. When I said the name of the ship was The Clara, Mr.
Leviston held me out from him with his hands; he trembled all
over; and I could feel his eyes looking into me. I wonder if I
told him anything that ever really happened?”

“Mr. Toplink says that Leviston was once engaged to be married,”
said Martin, “and that his intended bride ran away with a
friend of his.”

“That must be what it all meant!” exclaimed Alice.

“Did he say anything?”

“Not then; but he sobbed for a long time. At last he became
quiet; and he told me that I had done him more good than all
the ministers he had ever heard preach. It was very strange;
for I had only just been telling him that suffering had made him
feel more deeply than other people; and that, while he thought he
hated everybody, and tried to hate everybody, he had a whole
ocean of love shut up in his heart.”

“My little angel!” said Martin, tenderly; “how do you manage
to make every one that comes near you better and happier?”

“Do I?”

“Indeed you do, my child. You think you are a great
trouble to me; but let me tell you that you have been my guardian
angel. Your influence is so purifying and softening, Alice,
even when you do not speak; and when you do, I derive comfort,
and strength, and encouragement, from your words. When I
come to you full of bitterness, you make me overflow with love.”

“Don't tell me that,” murmured Alice, weeping; “for I
know it can't be so; I am such a weak and foolish child!”

“Weak and foolish? I only wish a few more persons I could
name were weak and foolish just the same! Your little heart is
a fountain of love, — not a mere cistern, with walls of selfishness,
holding so much and no more, but a spring, whose sources reach
deep down into the infinite love of God. This is the secret of
your character, Alice. You are so simple, and humble, and so
truly pious, that, if there is such a thing, the Holy Spirit moves
within you, when you speak; just as the winds of heaven blow
amid green leaves, making music. O, my child! you shame me
for my narrow and selfish thoughts. You make me blush for my
disobedience to the spirit which is within me, as within every
man whom God has formed in his image. You interpret to me
the character of Christ, — so ineffably grand and lovely, that,
when I think of him, I want to throw myself upon my face and
cover my head with ashes. You awaken within me longings which
lift my soul high above all the meannesses of this outside life.
Yet I am miserably weak!” said Martin, mournfully. “I feel
in my heart that there is but one thing absolutely beautiful, and
that is truth. I know — I am assured that there is but one kingdom

worthy of man's ambition, and that is the heaven of love
within the soul. For these I resolve to strive continually and
forevermore. When I am by your side, I wish for nothing else.
But there are clamorous voices at my gate; the world calls to
me, and I go out, and lose myself in the games it makes me play,
and become frivolous, mean and infidel, like the world. What a
life I have led since I have known you! What people I have
met! With what base labors I have soiled my hands! It seems
that all the hours of Sabbath peace I have enjoyed, I owe to
you.”

Alice hid her face in Martin's bosom, and answered only with
sighs of gratitude and love.

“If there was a little of your spirit in the world, my child!”
he continued. “Only in two or three do I find anything at all
like it; while, on the other hand, it seems to me that such men
as Mr. Wormlett and Mr. Killings are utterly devoid of souls.”

“Don't talk so, — don't feel so!” pleaded Alice. “I am sorry
for Mr. Wormlett. O, I could forgive him for anything he might
do to me. I have heard you say yourself that a person born with
such a disposition, and educated like him, could not be different.”

“True,” said Martin. “There are two grand factors of every
man's character; his birth and the circumstances by which he is
surrounded.”

“Then is not the bad man to be pitied and loved, rather than
hated?” quietly asked Alice.

“To be sure. But it requires such love as few men have ever
conceived of, to love our enemies. Had I your heart, my child,
perhaps I might love Mr. Wormlett, — even Mr. Killings.”

“When you said you doubted if they had souls, I saw a picture
so distinct and clear, that I seemed to comprehend the whole

of it in an instant. There were great crowds of people passing in
the streets. Some were finely-dressed, and many were in rags;
but I could look through their clothes, and through their faces
and forms; and in the brain of each I saw a light, like a star.
In some it was blue, in some it was yellow, or green, or red. Now
and then it was bright, and pure, and dazzling, and it gave a beautiful
light all around. But in a few it was so dim and misty
that it was scarcely to be seen; yet it was in the darkest, and
nothing could put it out. One thing was singular. The clothes,
whether finery or rags, made no difference with the star; for
it often appeared brightest under the poorest dress.”

“The star is the soul,” said Martin; “and the darkness is the
cloudy selfishness which benights the mind. How dim and misty
must be the light in some whom I could name!”

“It is their misfortune,” murmured the child. “I see angels
blowing away the clouds, and kindling the star in all, with their
breath. It brightens, and brightens, — O, how beautiful!” Her
features lighted up with an ecstatic smile. “It makes me glad
and happy, for this is something that is to be. The star will
burn out clear and bright in every one, some day.”

At that moment Leviston, who had been standing in the door,
came forward softly, and, with a gentle touch, laid his hand upon
the child's fair head.

“Some good little angel has been blowing the clouds away from
my heart, and kindling the star, which was almost dead,” said he
with suffused features.

Martin arose, shook hands with his room-mate, and endeavored
to speak to him; but his heart was too full for words, and the
emotion visible in his face was left to express his sympathy. In
a moment, however, he made an effort, and, with a tremulous smile

and tearful eyes, managed to tell Leviston that he was sorry to
learn that he was ill.

“I am better now,” said the latter. “There was too much pent
up here,” laying his hand upon his breast. “The door has been
flung open for the first time in years, and this child has walked in
among the cold damps with a sheaf of sunbeams.”

Leviston's great heart seemed quite melted; and the light of
those sunbeams still shone in his reserved and moody face.

“I hope we shall know each other now,” returned Martin.

“I hope we shall. I have often wished that we were friends,
Mr. Merrivale; for it has seemed to me that you are not like
other men. But I have shut out all the world from my heart so
long, that I could not let you in; nor was I sure that you would
enter, if invited. I was conscious of appearing in an ugly character
to you.”

“Alice's sheaf of sunbeams shows you as you are. Here is my
hand again. Thank you, — thank you!” murmured Martin, as
Leviston embraced him cordially; “I have been so much in need
of such a friend!”

Leviston's eyes overflowed. Half ashamed of his emotion, he
turned away, and began to poke the fire vigorously; after which,
he fumbled in his pockets for some moments in an embarrassed
manner, looking as if there was something he wished to say, but
did not know how to express it. Suddenly he relieved himself
by taking out his pocket-book, and thrusting it abruptly into
Martin's hand.

“There!” said he; “that 's what I mean. I shall feel better
now. Help yourself, and oblige me.”

“No, no! This is too much. I can't stand this,” articulated
Martin, returning the pocket-book.

I do things rudely,” replied Leviston, in a low tone. “It is
my way; so don't be offended. I know what you need at the
present time more than anything else; so I put my pocket-book
in your hands, without any words, just as a friend should have a
right to do.”

“This kindness! — it is something I am not accustomed to,”
said Martin, wringing his hand again. “I don't know how to
take it, or what to say. But I believe you sincere, and I will
tell you frankly how I am situated. To-morrow my board-bill
comes due; and how I shall pay it I do not know, unless I accept
the money of you. So, if you will lend me five dollars —”

“Five dollars? I don't believe I 've got five dollars,” responded
Leviston, bluntly.

“O, well — never mind,” faltered Martin.

“I will see.” Leviston opened a small roll of bank-notes.
“No, I have not a five; nothing smaller than tens; and I
insist on your taking at least two of these, so that you won't forget
to return the loan, some day, — ten is so small a sum.”

“Ah, Alice!” said Martin, his heart all stirred within him,
“how much I owe to you! This is a friend indeed whom you
have brought me.” The blind girl nestled to his bosom, weeping
with deep joy. “It will be paying you a poor compliment to
thank you, Mr. Leviston.”

“I am glad you think so. And we pay human nature a poor
compliment,” added Leviston, with something of his old bitterness,
“when we look with surprise and distrust upon trifling acts
of friendship, as if they were something quite out of the common
course of events. So, if you would please me, make use of my
purse as freely as if it were your own.”

“If I promise you that,” cried Martin, “you must let me

off with ten dollars to-day. I dare not trust myself with
more.”

Martin was decided, and Leviston permitted him to have his
own way. Thus, between those two individuals, so unlike in disposition,
tastes, temperament, everything, there was established a
strong magnetic current of sympathy and friendship, whose
circling forces flowed to each from the mighty little love-battery
of the blind girl's heart.

With the ten dollars obtained from his new friend, Martin, on
the following morning, paid a week's board, and also redeemed
the manuscript of the Beggar of Bagdad, left in the hands of Mr.
Dime. The latter had “just about decided” not to publish the
romance, and was feeling anxious concerning the sum he had
advanced on such poor security; but the moment our author,
impatient of delay, refunded the money, and took the manuscript
under his arm to carry it away, the bookseller appeared to change
his mind. The idea struck him that he was about to lose a popular
and profitable book, which some more sagacious publisher was
eager to obtain. He accordingly called Martin back, asked him
if he thought he could do better than leave the romance with
him a few days longer; talked as encouragingly about undertaking
its publication as he could possibly do without committing
himself; and, unrolling the manuscript once more, glanced his
hungry but doubting eye over the bill-of-fare set forth in the
chapter-headings. Martin brightened a little at this; but soon,
perceiving that no definite arrangement could be made with such
a weak and wavering mind, he resolved to waste no more words
on the subject, and hurried abruptly away.

Mr. Dime's suspicions were, in fact, correct. Martin had in
view a publisher for the Beggar of Bagdad. That publisher was

Mr. Drove, of the Streamer of the Free. He had proposed to
Martin to write a novelette for his paper; and, on hearing the
story of the Oriental romance, had expressed a curiosity to see it.
Into his hands, therefore, Martin delivered the immortal manuscript,
and was told that in three days he should know its fate.

At the appointed time he returned to the office of the Streamer.
He found Mr. Drove at his desk. Mr. Chaffer, the assistant, who
had some time since quietly resumed his editorial duties, was also
present. Martin received a complacent smile from the former,
who was always patronizing, and a slight nod from the latter, who
was generally cold and reserved, except when his heart had been
opened with a corkscrew; and sat down to hear what was going
to be done with the Beggar of Bagdad.

“Was you aware,” began Mr. Drove, producing the manuscript,
“that your story is about twice as long as it should be
for our columns?”

“I was not; but I am not surprised,” replied Martin, with sad
humor. “The fates are against it. I knew well enough that
you would find some insuperable objection to it.”

“O, it 's no objection, — it 's rather an advantage.”

“How so?” asked the eager author.

“You see, our readers want everything condensed, rapid,
dramatic. Take any ordinary novel, and cut it down one-half,
and it 'll be twice as good as it was before.”

“Do you propose to have the Beggar of Bagdad cut down?”

“Why not? We never run a story over six weeks, and yours
would occupy at least twelve numbers — that 's three months.
Now, if you strike out the weakest parts, and all the descriptions
—”

“But the descriptions, — they are the finest part of it!”

“They 'd better be out, though; nobody cares for descriptions.
Our readers want incident and plot, — the more the better. So,
if you can condense your story one-half, and preserve all the pith
and point, I think I 'd buy it of you. Chaffer has read it, and
says it 's good, only spun out.”

Martin's face darkened, and he looked down moodily for some
seconds. At length, with a desperate air, he struck the manuscript,
and turned to Mr. Drove.

“Supposing I condense it — what will you give me for it?”
he demanded. “That 's the question!”

Mr. Drove wanted him to set a price.

“Very well; I 'll say a hundred dollars.”

“A hundred dollars!” repeated the publisher, with a sarcastic
grin.

“I understand that that is the ordinary price for novelettes,”
said Martin. “Mr. Redwort told me, the other day, that he
never wrote one for less.”

“Redwort tells a big story once in a while, I suppose you
know. A hundred dollars! — he never received fifty for any novelette
he ever wrote. Between you and me, I bought the `Mule-Driver's
Oath' of him for fifteen dollars; and he was glad to
get that for it.”

“I don't see how he can write for so little, and earn, as he says
he does, four thousand dollars a year.”

“Four thousand!” Mr. Drove, for the first time in Martin's
presence, actually laughed aloud. “I 'll bet a hat that Ned
Redwort never received four hundred dollars for writing in his
life! At any rate, he is always so hard up that he will sell
his manuscripts for what he can get, if it is n't a tenth part
what they 're worth.”

“But he has an estate in Brazil —”

“About as much as I have. Ask Chaffer what he thinks.”

“Redwort — are you talking about him?” spoke up Chaffer.

“Yes; you introduced me to him, you remember,” replied the
verdant author.

“Did I! O, it seems to me I have some faint recollection of
the circumstance. I can't guess how I came to, for I scarcely
know him. I have heard him relate the most unique and extravagant
stories about himself, however, that ever man invented.”

Martin was perplexed. Mr. Drove came to his relief.

“Chaffer,” said he, in a whisper, “probably introduced Redwort
to you when he was tight. He is friendly to every one who
will drink with him, when he is in liquor; and Redwort would be
glad enough to treat him. Chaffer reads the manuscripts, you
know, and probably Redwort thinks it pays to help him get
drunk.”

“Well,” cried Martin; “to return to the novelette. What
am I to expect for it, if I abridge it for the Streamer?”

“I 'll pay you a fair price for it, — say about — about, —
what would you say to fifteen dollars?”

“I would burn it first!” exclaimed the impetuous Martin.
“Fifteen dollars!”

It was certainly a mean sum to offer to one who had expected to
make a fortune out of his romance while writing it. The young
man's face flamed up hot and red with shame and indignation.

Mr. Drove, who liked nothing better than to banter about a
few dollars, began thereupon to talk of money, reputation and
authorship, in a manner which recalled forcibly to Martin's mind
the necessity of selling his romance for something, however small
the price it would command. He accordingly concluded that,

rather than burn it, he would “cut it down” to the prescribed
dimensions, and sell it to Mr. Drove for thirty dollars, which was
that gentleman's last and highest bid.

“By the way,” said the publisher, as Martin was about to
depart, “I shall want you to get a more taking title. `Beggar
of Bagdad' is tame. Call it `Alphiddi, the Disguised
Prince,' or something of that kind, — startling, you know, — for
the reader to ketch at. `The Disguised Prince: or, the Mysteries
of Venice,' — how 's that?”

“The scene is laid in Bagdad, not Venice.”

“You can change it to Venice, easy enough. Venice sounds a
great deal the best for a romance. All you 'll have to do will be
to alter the word Bagdad to Venice, and the what-do-you-call-it
river to the something-or-other sea.”

Dumb with amazement, poor Martin looked at Mr. Drove, to
see if he was in earnest. The latter was never more so in his
life.

“I guess I 'll burn the manuscript, after all,” said the young
man, with a sickly and feeble laugh. “But no!” he added,
quickly; “I may as well go through with the farce, now that it is
begun. I will make a thrilling title for you, and the scene of the
story shall be in Venice. I shall like it better, now I think of it;
for, to tell the truth, I am quite sick of Bagdad.”

Our author spent the remainder of that day and a part of the
next in “cutting down” the great Oriental Romance. Passages
which had been composed in his most inspired moments he coolly
sacrificed to the requirements of Mr. Drove. Descriptions brilliant,
glowing, magnificent, which he had taken days to elaborate, he destroyed
at a stroke. A hundred soft, delicate and poetical phrases,
which he had put into the charming Lillifoo's mouth, he now put

into the fire. Alphiddi's burning declaration of love, too, became
mere burning paper. The magic garden was pressed into a paragraph;
its innumerable circling paths were brought into a line,
and all that was left of the curious animals therein confined was
a mere scratch of the pen. In like manner, the heroine's
enchanted chamber went up the chimney with the sheets that contained
the sleeping beauty.

This was a painful task for our author, but he performed it
faithfully. Notwithstanding all the discouragement and chagrin
which had followed the “Beggar of Bagdad,” he found him a dear
old friend still, — an actual existence, whom he loved with all his
faults. Yet with ruthless hand he stripped him of his wealth of
imagery and words; he hurried him, a poor exile, from his native
city, and dropped him in the streets of Venice. In place of the
glorious story-telling brotherhood of Bagdad beggars, he gave him
Italian lazzaroni for companions. Ah! but it grieved his heart
to subject his great romance to these changes; he came upon eloquent
passages, which he could hardly make up his mind to destroy;
many were the brilliant pages he read aloud to Alice, with
mournful pleasure, previous to committing them to the flames; but
the paltry remuneration must be earned, — there was no alternative,
— and the task — as said before — was faithfully performed.

In this new disguise Martin carried the “Beggar of Bagdad”
to Mr. Drove, and demanded his reward.

“My dear sir,” said the complacent publisher, “I think I told
you our rules. We pay for matter when published.”

Martin was incensed. He snatched his romance from Mr.
Drove's hand, and flung it into the stove. Fortunately there was
no fire; Mr. Drove rescued it, and began to parley; and the
furious author, being reminded of his poverty, smothered the

flames of his wrath, and compromised the matter by accepting
twenty-five dollars in cash for the mutilated manuscript, and giving
a receipt “in full of all accounts.”

Such was the fate of the “Beggar of Bagdad.” The great
Oriental Romance dwindled into an insignificant novelette; the
author's fame reached never beyond the circulation of the Streamer
of the Free; and the wealth which had filled the fertile future,
in his imaginative brain, diminishing like an estate in chancery,
became at last a tangible paltry sum, insufficient to pay two
months' board. And this is the story of that fine airy castle Martin
Merrivale built. How many another has been reared like his,
in golden skies, with banners floating in soft southern breezes, to
meet, like his, disastrous and ridiculous downfall! But arise, O
ye castle-builders, and despair not! Build and build again, on
better foundations, and with nobler aims; and, though failure follow
in your track, ye shall approach nearer and nearer that ideal
which genius sees and pursues with immortal longings evermore,
but never grasps.