mily out of himself, as it were, to things altogether beyond
himself,--that the dim and shadowy ocean was like the vast Unknown which
we call Death,--which we look upon tremblingly,--afraid of its darkness,
and unable to realise that the sun of Life will ever rise again to
pierce its gloom with glory. And the little world--the only world that
can be called a world,--namely, that special corner of the planet which
holds the hearts that love us--a world which for him, the
multi-millionaire, was just a tiny village with one sweet woman living
in it--resembled a garland of flowers flung down from the rocks as
though to soften their ruggedness,--a garland broken asunder at the
shoreline, even as all earthly garlands must break and fade at the touch
of the first cold wave of the Infinite. As for the further road in which
he was about to turn and go, that, to his fancy, was a nearer similitude
of an approach to hell than any scene ever portrayed in Dante's _Divine
Comedy_. For it led to the crowded haunts of men--the hives of greedy
business,--the smoky, suffocating centres where each human unit seeks
to over-reach and outrival the other--where there is no time to be
kind--no room to be courteous; where the passion for gain and the
worship of self are so furious and inexhaustible, that all the old fair
virtues which make nations great and lasting, are trampled down in the
dust, and jeered at as things contemptible and of no value,--where, if a
man is honourable, he is asked "What do you get by it?"--and where, if a
woman would remain simple and chaste, she is told she is giving herself
"no chance." In this whirl of avarice, egotism, and pushfulness,
Helmsley had lived nearly all his life, always conscious of, and longing
for, something better--something truer and more productive of peace and
lasting good. Almost everything he had touched had turned to
money,--while nothing he had ever gained had turned to love. Except
now--now when the end was drawing nigh--when he must soon say farewell
to the little earth, so replete with natural beauty--farewell to the
lovely sky, which whether in storm or calm, ever shows itself as a
visible reflex of divine majesty and power--farewell to the sweet birds,
which for no thanks at all, charm the ear by their tender songs and
graceful winged ways--farewell to the flowers, which, flourishing in the
woods and fields without care, lift their cups to the sun, and fill the
air with fragrance,--and ab