Better! What a mockery to a man who could once row, and ride, and shoot, and walk his thirty miles, and play his part in any sport you chose! It was absinthe to him.
He could not stoop to turn the churn—he had to sip milk in the presence of strong men drinking strong drink; to be despised; the very servant-maid talking of him as in a decline.
And before Amaryllis; before whom he wished to appear a man.
And full of ideas, too; he felt that he had ideas, that he could think, yet he could scarce set one foot safely before the other, not without considering first and feeling his way.
Rough-headed Jearje, without a thought, was as strong as the horses he led in the waggon.
Round-headed Bill Nye, without an idea, could mow all day in the heat of July.
He, with all his ideas, his ambitions, his exalted hopes, his worship of Amaryllis—he was nothing. Less than nothing—a shadow.
To despise oneself is more bitter than absinthe.
Let us go to Al Hariri once again, and hear what he says. The speaker has been very, very ill, but is better:—
And he prostrated himself long in prayer: then raised his head, and said:—