uld sit and watch the lights wheel past in orderly
procession as the fruit steamer swept around the great crescent which
gives New Orleans its unofficial name.

While the comfortable feeling of elation, born of his unexpected bit of
good fortune, was still uppermost to lend complacency to his
reflections, he yet found room for a compassionate underthought having
for its object the man from whom he had lately parted. He was honestly
sorry for Griswold; sorry, but not actually apprehensive. He had known
the defeated one in New York, and was not unused to his rebellious
outbursts against the accepted order of things. Granting that his
theories were incendiary and crudely subversive of all the civilized
conventions, Griswold the man was nothing worse than an impressionable
enthusiast; a victim of the auto-suggestion which seizes upon those who
dwell too persistently upon the wrongs of the wronged.

So ran Bainbridge's epitomizing of the proletary's case; and he knew
that his opinion was shared with complete unanimity by all who had known
Griswold in Printing House Square. To a man they agreed in calling him
Utopian, altruistic, visionary. What milder epithets should be applied
to one who, with sufficient literary talent--not to say genius--to make
himself a working name in the ordinary way, must needs run amuck among
the theories and write a novel with a purpose? a novel, moreover, in
which the purpose so overshadowed the story as to make the book a mere
preachment.

As a matter of course, the publishers would have nothing to do with the
book. Bainbridge remembered, with considerable satisfaction, that he had
confidently predicted its failure, and had given Griswold plentiful good
advice while it was in process of writing. But Griswold, being quite as
obstinate as he was impressionable, had refused to profit by the
advice, and now the consequences of his stubbornness were upon him. He
had said truly that his literary gift was novelistic and nothing else;
and here he was, stranded and desperate, with the moribund book on his
hands, and with no chance to write another even if he were so minded,
since one can not write fasting.

Thus Bainbridge reflected, and was sorry that Griswold's invincible
pride had kept him from accepting a friendly stop-gap in his extremity.
Yet he smiled in spite of the regretful thought. It was amusing to
figure Griswold, who, as long as his modest patrimony had lasted had
been most emphatically