But alas, Frank Darling had just discovered that even
that eminence was not his, except as a desert out of human sight. For
he had in his pocket a letter from his publishers, received that dreary
morning, announcing a great many copies gone gratis, six sold to the
trade at a frightful discount, and six to the enterprising public. All
these facts combined to make him feel uncommonly sad and sore to-day.
A man of experience could have told him that this disappointment was for
his good; but he failed to see it in that light, and did not bless the
blessing. Slowly and heavily he went on, without much heed of anything,
swinging his clouded cane now and then, as some slashing reviews
occurred to him, yet becoming more peaceful and impartial of mind under
the long monotonous cadence and quiet repetitions of the soothing sea.
For now he was beyond the Haven head--the bulwark that makes the bay a
pond in all common westerly weather--and waves that were worthy of the
name flowed towards him, with a gentle breeze stepping over them.
The brisk air was like a fresh beverage to him, and the fall of the
waves sweet music. He took off his hat, and stopped, and listened, and
his eyes grew brighter. Although the waves had nothing very distinct to
say in dying, yet no two (if you hearkened well), or at any rate no two
in succession, died with exactly the same expression, or vanished with
precisely the same farewell.
Pages:
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350