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Chapter 21

           TheheapofgoldonwhichIsatasonathrone,dividedmegraduallyfromeventhebackcourtsandlowerpassagesleadingtotheTempleofFameandalmostunconsciouslytomyselfIretreatedstepbystep,shadingmyeyesasitwerefromthesun,andseeingtheglitteringturretsinthedistance,withawoman’sslightfigureenteringtheloftyportico,turningbackherlaurelledheadtosmilesorrowfullyandwithdivinestpityuponme,erepassingintosalutethegods.Yet,ifaskedaboutit,everyoneonthepresswouldhavesaidthatIhadhadagreatsuccess.IonlyIrealizedthebitternessandtruthofmyfailure.Ihadnottouchedtheheartofthepublic;Ihadnotsucceededinsowakingmyreadersoutofthetorporoftheirdullandcommonplaceevery-daylives,thattheyshouldturntowardsmewithoutstretchedhands,exclaiming"Moremoreofthesethoughtswhichcomfortandinspireus!whichmakeushearGod’svoiceproclaiming‘All’swell!’abovethestormsoflife!"IhadnotdoneitIcouldnotdoit.AndtheworstpartofmyfeelingonthispointwastheideathatpossiblyImighthavedoneithadIremainedpoor!Thestrongestandhealthiestpulseinthecompositionofamanthenecessityforhardworkhadbeenkilledinme.IknewIneednotwork;thatthesocietyinwhichInowmovedthoughtitridiculousifIdidwork;thatIwasexpectedtospendmoneyand‘enjoy’myselfintheidioticfashionofwhatthe‘upperten’termenjoyment.

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