In the eternal skies.
Forty thousand words!
Forty thousand tears—
All out of two sad eyes.
CONTENTS
[A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN]
[SPRING BY PARCEL POST]
[THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND]
[THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET]
[VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT]
[THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE]
[ABOUT THE SECURITIES]
[THE BOOM IN YELLOW]
[LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN]
[A POET IN THE CITY]
[BROWN ROSES]
[THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR]
[ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES]
[THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE]
[THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX]
[THE FALLACY OF A NATION]
[THE GREATNESS OF MAN]
[DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS]
[A SEAPORT IN THE MOON]
[A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN]
At one end of the city that I love there is a tall, dingy pile of offices that has evidently seen more prosperous fortunes. It is not the aristocratic end. It is remote from the lordly street of the fine shops of the fair women, where in the summer afternoons the gay bank clerks parade arm-in-arm in the wake of the tempestuous petticoat. It lies aside from the great exchange which looks like a scene from Romeo and Juliet in the moonlight, from the town-hall from whose clocked and gilded cupola ring sweet chimes at midnight, and whence, throned above the city, a golden Britannia, in the sight of all men, is seen visibly ruling the waves—while in the square below the death of Nelson is played all day in stone, with a frieze of his noble words about the pedestal. England expects! What an influence that stirring
challenge has yet upon the hearts of men may be seen by any one who will study the faces of the busy, imaginative cotton-brokers, who, in the thronged and humming mornings, sell what they have never seen to a customer they will never see.
In fact, the end I mean is just the very opposite end to that. It is the end where the cotton that everybody sells and nobody buys is seen, piled in great white stacks, or swinging in the air from the necks of mighty cranes, cranes that could nip up an elephant with as little ado, and set him down on the wharf, with a box on his ugly ears for his cowardly trumpeting. It is the end that smells of tar, the domain of the harbourmasters, where the sailor finds a 'home,'—not too sweet, and where the wild sea is tamed in a maze of granite squares and basins; the end where the riggings and buildings rise side by side, and a clerk might swing himself out upon the yards from his top-floor desk. Here is the Custom House, and the conversation that shines is full of freightage and dock dues; here are the shops that sell nothing but