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Chapter 21

           TheheapofgoldonwhichIsatasonathrone,dividedmegraduallyfromeventhebackcourtsandlowerpassagesleadingtotheTempleofFame—andalmostunconsciouslytomyselfIretreatedstepbystep,shadingmyeyesasitwerefromthesun,andseeingtheglitteringturretsinthedistance,withawoman’sslightfigureenteringtheloftyportico,turningbackherlaurelledheadtosmilesorrowfullyandwithdivinestpityuponme,erepassingintosalutethegods.Yet,ifaskedaboutit,everyoneonthepresswouldhavesaidthatIhadhadagreatsuccess.I—onlyI—realizedthebitternessandtruthofmyfailure.Ihadnottouchedtheheartofthepublic;—Ihadnotsucceededinsowakingmyreadersoutofthetorporoftheirdullandcommonplaceevery-daylives,thattheyshouldturntowardsmewithoutstretchedhands,exclaiming—"More—moreofthesethoughtswhichcomfortandinspireus!—whichmakeushearGod’svoiceproclaiming‘All’swell!’abovethestormsoflife!"Ihadnotdoneit—Icouldnotdoit.AndtheworstpartofmyfeelingonthispointwastheideathatpossiblyImighthavedoneithadIremainedpoor!Thestrongestandhealthiestpulseinthecompositionofaman—thenecessityforhardwork—hadbeenkilledinme.IknewIneednotwork;thatthesocietyinwhichInowmovedthoughtitridiculousifIdidwork;thatIwasexpectedtospendmoneyand‘enjoy’myselfintheidioticfashionofwhatthe‘upperten’termenjoyment.

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