occasions there were a large number of noncombatants, who stood as
spectators around those who were engaged in the campaign of the evening.
Mr. Byles Gridley looked on gravely, thinking of the minuets and the
gavots of his younger days. Mr. Gifted Hopkins, who had never acquired
the desirable accomplishment of dancing, gazed with dazzled and admiring
eyes at the wonderful evolutions of the graceful performers. The music
stirred him a good deal; he had also been introduced to one or two young
persons as Mr. Hopkins, the poet, and he began to feel a kind of
excitement, such as was often the prelude of a lyric burst from his pen.
Others might have wealth and beauty, he thought to himself, but what were
these to the gift of genius? In fifty years the wealth of these people
would have passed into other hands. In fifty years all these beauties
would be dead, or wrinkled and double-wrinkled great-grandmothers. And
when they were all gone and forgotten, the name of Hopkins would be still
fresh in the world's memory. Inspiring thought! A smile of triumph rose
to his lips; he felt that the village boy who could look forward to fame
as his inheritance was richer than all the millionnaires, and that the
words he should set in verse would have an enduring lustre to which the
whiteness of pearls was cloudy, and the sparkle of diamonds dull.

He raised his eyes, which had been cast down in reflection, to look upon
these less favored children of Fortune, to whom she had given nothing but
perishable inheritances. Two or three pairs of eyes, he observed, were
fastened upon him. His mouth perhaps betrayed a little
self-consciousness, but he tried to show his features in an aspect of
dignified self-possession. There seemed to be remarks and questionings
going on, which he supposed to be something like the following:--

Which is it? Which is it?--Why, that one, there,--that young
fellow,--don't you see?--What young fellow are you two looking at? Who is