y pleasure, and tells you that it has not the true
ring; who checks capering Fancy and stops her caracoling by the whip of
reality, is not to be envied. "In the life of the dreariest alderman,
Fancy enters into all details, and colors them with a rosy hue," says
Emerson. "He imitates the air and action of people whom he admires, and
is raised in his own eyes.... In London, in Paris, in Boston, in San
Francisco, the masquerade is at its height. Nobody drops his domino. The
chapter of fascinations is very long. Great is paint; nay, God is the
painter; and we rightly accuse the critic who destroys too many
illusions."

Happy are they with whom this domino is never completely dropped! Happy,
thrice happy, they who believe, and still maintain that belief, like
champion knights, against all comers, in honor, chastity, friendship,
goodness, virtue, gratitude. It is a long odds that the men who do not
believe in these virtues have none themselves; for we speak from our
hearts, and we tell of others that which we think of ourselves. The
French, a mournful, sad, and unhappy nation--even at the bottom of all
their external gaiety--have a sad word, a participle, _desillusionne_,
disillusioned; and by it they mean one who has worn out all his youthful
ideas, who has been behind the scenes, and has seen the bare walls of
the theater, without the light and paint, and has watched the ugly
actors and gaunt actresses by daylight. The taste of life is very bitter
in the mouth of such a man; his joys are Dead Sea apples--dust and ashes
in the mouths of those who bite them. No flowers spring up about his
path; he is very melancholy and suspicious, very hard and incredulous;
he has faith neither in the honesty of man nor in the purity of woman.
He is _desillusionne_--by far too wise to be taken in with painted toys.
Every one acts with self-interest! His doctor, his friend, or his valet
will be sorry for his death merely from the amount of money interest
that they have in his life. Bare and grim unto tears, even if he had
any, is the life of such a man. With him, sadder than Lethe or the Styx,
the river of time runs between stony banks, and, often a calm suicide,
it bears him to the Morgue. Happier by far is he who, with whitened hair
and wrinkled brow, sits crowned with the flowers of illusion; and who,
with the ear of age, still remains a charmed listener to the songs which
pleased his youth, trusting "his heart and what the world calls
il