store for you, much kicking of heels. You will rise early, and stand long
before your patron's closed door; you will be jostled; you will hear
occasional comments on your impudence. You will be exposed to the vile
gabble of a Syrian porter, and to the extortions of a Libyan nomenclator,
whose memory must be fee'd, if he is not to forget your name. You must
dress beyond your means, or you will be a discredit to your patron; and
select his favourite colours, or you will be out of harmony with your
surroundings. Finally, you will be indefatigable in following his steps,
or rather in preceding them, for you will be thrust forward by his
slaves, to swell his triumphal progress. And for days together you will
not be favoured with a glance.

But one day the best befalls you. You catch his eye; he beckons you to
him, and puts a random question. In that supreme moment what cold sweats,
what palpitations, what untimely tremors are yours! and what mirth is
theirs who witness your confusion! 'Who was the king of the Achaeans?' is
the question: and your answer, as likely as not, 'A thousand sail.' With
the charitable this passes for bashfulness; but to the impudent you are a
craven, and to the ill-natured a yokel. This first experience teaches you
that the condescensions of the great are not unattended with danger; and
as you depart you pronounce upon yourself a sentence of utter despair.
Thereafter,

many a sleepless night,
Many a day of strife shall be thy lot--

not for the sake of Helen, not for the towers of Troy, but for the
sevenpence halfpenny of your desire. At length some heaven-sent protector
gives you an introduction: the scholar is brought up for examination. For
the great man, who has but to receive your flatteries and compliments,