ot,
and so spare myself the pangs of disappointment and disgust. I have no
ventures at sea, and, consequently, do not fear the arrival of evil
tidings. I have no desire to act any prominent part in the world, but
I am devoured by an unappeasable curiosity as to the men who do act. I
am not an actor, I am a spectator only. My sole occupation is
sight-seeing. In a certain imperial idleness, I amuse myself with the
world. Ambition! What do I care for ambition? The oyster with much
pain produces its pearl. I take the pearl. Why should I produce one
after this miserable, painful fashion? It would be but a flawed one,
at best. These pearls I can pick up by the dozen. The production of
them is going on all around me, and there will be a nice crop for the
solitary man of the next century. Look at a certain silent emperor,
for instance: a hundred years hence _his_ pearl will be handed about
from hand to hand; will be curiously scrutinised and valued; will be
set in its place in the world's cabinet. I confess I should like to
see the completion of that filmy orb. Will it be pure in colour? Will
its purity be marred by an ominous bloody streak? Of this I am
certain, that in the cabinet in which the world keeps these peculiar
treasures, no one will be looked at more frequently, or will provoke a
greater variety of opinions as to its intrinsic worth. Why should I be
ambitious? Shall I write verses? I am not likely to surpass Mr.
Tennyson or Mr. Browning in that walk. Shall I be a musician? The
blackbird singing this moment somewhere in my garden shrubbery puts me
to instant shame. Shall I paint? The intensest scarlet on an artist's
palette is but ochre to that I saw this morning at sunrise. No, no,
let me enjoy Mr. Tennyson's verse, and the blackbird's song, and the
colours of sunrise, but do not let me emulate them. I am happier as it
is. I do not need to make history,--there are plenty of people willing
to save me trouble on that score. The cook makes the dinner, the guest
eats it; and the last, not without reason, is considered the happier
man.

In my garden I spend my days; in my library I spend my nights. My
interests are divided between my geraniums and my books. With the
flower I am in the present; with the book I am in the past. I go into
my library, and all history unrolls before me. I breathe the morning
air of the world while the scent of Eden's roses yet lingered in it,
while it vibrated