not something to be able to make an honest resolution and carry
it out? I have heard strange voices in prison; I have hearkened
to them; but I find that one must have sound lungs, at least, to
be able to do the will of the immortal gods. And even if he had,
I doubt if he could do much to suit them in America. O, my
greatest enemy and benefactor in the whole world is this
dumb-hearted mother, this America, in whose iron loins I have
been spiritually conceived. Paradoxical, this? But is it not
true? Was not the Khalid, now writing to you, born in the
cellar? Down there, in the very loins of New York? But alas,
our spiritual Mother devours, like a cat, her own children. How
then can we live with her in the same house?

"I need not tell you now that the ignominious task I set my
hands to, was never to my liking. But the ox under the yoke is
not asked whether he likes it or not. I have been yoked to my
push-cart by the immortal gods; and soon my turn and trial will
end. It must end. For our country is just beginning to speak,
and I am her chosen voice. I feel that if I do not respond, if I
do not come to her, she will be dumb forever. No; I can not
remain here any more. For I can not be strenuous enough to be
miserably happy; nor stupid enough to be contentedly miserable.
I confess I have been spoiled by those who call themselves
spiritual sisters of mine. The huris be dam'd. And if I don't
leave this country soon, I'll find myself sharing the damnation
again--in Bohemia.--

"The power of the soul is doubled by the object of its love,
or by such labor of love as it undertakes. But, here I am,
with no work and nobody I can love; nay, chained to a task
which I now abominate. If a labor of love doubles the power of
the soul, a labor of hate, to use an antonym term, warps it,
poisons it, destroys it. Is it not a shame that in this great
Country,--this Circe with her golden horns of plenty,--one can
not as much as keep his blood in circulation without damning
the currents of one's soul? O America, equally hated and
beloved of Khalid, O Mother of prosperity and spiritual
misery, the time will come when you shall see that your gold
is but pinchbeck, your gilt-edge bonds but death decrees, and
your god of wealth a carcase enthroned upon a dung-hill. But
you can not see this now; for you are yet in the false dawn,
floundering tumultuously, worshippin