"Yet may I look with heart unshook
On blow brought home or missed--
Yet may I hear with equal ear
The clarions down the List;
Yet set my lance above mischance
And ride the barriere--
Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis,
My Lady is not there!"

A verse, in this connection, which may be a perversion of Mr. Kipling's
meaning, but not so far from it, after all. And yet, would the eagle
attempt the great flights if contentment were on the plain? Find the
mainspring of achievement, and you hold in your hand the secret of the
world's mechanism. Some aver that it is woman.

Do the gods ever confer the rarest of gifts upon him to whom they have
given pinions? Do they mate him, ever, with another who soars as high as
he, who circles higher that he may circle higher still? Who can answer?
Must those who soar be condemned to eternal loneliness, and was it a
longing they did not comprehend which bade them stretch their wings
toward the sun? Who can say?

Alas, we cannot write of the future of Austen and Victoria Vane! We can
only surmise, and hope, and pray,--yes, and believe. Romance walks with
parted lips and head raised to the sky; and let us follow her, because
thereby our eyes are raised with hers. We must believe, or perish.

Postscripts are not fashionable. The satiated theatre goer leaves before
the end of the play, and has worked out the problem for himself long
before the end of the last act. Sentiment is not supposed to exist in the
orchestra seats. But above (in many senses) is the gallery, from whence
an excited voice cries out when the sleeper returns to life, "It's Rip
Van Winkle!" The gallery, where are the human passions which make this
world our world; the gallery, played upon by anger, vengeance, derision,
triumph, hate, and love; the gallery, which lingers and applauds long
after the fifth curtain, and then goes reluctantly home--to dream. And he
who scorns the gallery is no artist, for there lives the soul of art. We
raise our eyes to it, and to it we dedicate this our play;--and for it we
lift the curtain once more after those in the orchestra have departed.

It is obviously impossible, in a few words, to depict the excitement in
Ripton, in Leith, in the State at large, when it became known that the
daughter of Mr. Flint was to marry Austen Vane,--a fitting if unexpected
climax to a drama. How would Mr. Flint take it? Mr. Flint, it may b