Downward and toward the back; through servants' apartments; through workroom, scullery and stable; out to the last and least and meanest little yard; narrow and dark, stone-paved, stone-walled, shadowed by caves of barns; there, huddled in a barrel, they pointed out a man.
They bowed to him, they called him master. They told me he was the owner of this vast estate.
I could not believe it—but they stood bowing—and he ordered them away.
"What!" I cried. "You!—you are the owner—the master of all this wealth of beauty—this beauty of wealth! You own these miles of breezy upland and rich valley—still forests and bright lakes! You own these noble trees—those overflowing flowers—those glades of browsing deer! You own this palace—a joy to the eye and uplift to the soul! This majesty and splendor—this comfort, beauty, form, you own all this—and are living—here."
He regarded me superciliously, with a weary expression.
"Young man," he said, "you are a dreamer—a visionary—a Utopian!—an idealist! You should consider Facts, my young sir; fix your mind on Facts! The Fact is that I live in this Barrel."
It was a fact;—he did visibly live in the Barrel.
It was also a fact that he owned that vast estate.
And there was no lid on the Barrel.
OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; or, THE MAN-MADE WORLD