seemed to him a jewel, dim at the best, hidden in a dunghill, a taper
burning low in an air thick with vulgarity. It was hedged about with
sordid approaches, it was not worth sacrifice and suffering. The man
of letters, in dealing with it, would have to put off all literature,
which was like asking the bearer of a noble name to forego his
immemorial heritage. Aspects change, however, with the point of
view: Wayworth had waked up one morning in a different bed
altogether. It is needless here to trace this accident to its
source; it would have been much more interesting to a spectator of
the young man's life to follow some of the consequences. He had been
made (as he felt) the subject of a special revelation, and he wore
his hat like a man in love. An angel had taken him by the hand and
guided him to the shabby door which opens, it appeared, into an
interior both splendid and austere. The scenic idea was magnificent
when once you had embraced it--the dramatic form had a purity which
made some others look ingloriously rough. It had the high dignity of
the exact sciences, it was mathematical and architectural. It was
full of the refreshment of calculation and construction, the
incorruptibility of line and law. It was bare, but it was erect, it
was poor, but it was noble; it reminded him of some sovereign famed
for justice who should have lived in a palace despoiled. There was a
fearful amount of concession in it, but what you kept had a rare
intensity. You were perpetually throwing over the cargo to save the
ship, but what a motion you gave her when you made her ride the
waves--a motion as rhythmic as the dance of a goddess! Wayworth took
long London walks and thought of these things--London poured into his
ears the mighty hum of its suggestion. His imagination glowed and
melted down material, his intentions multiplied and made the air a
golden haze. He saw not only the thing he should do, but the next
and the next and the next; the future opened before him and he seemed