CHAPTER XII.
If I do not pass more rapidly over these early scenes, I shall never finish my book.
Book!--am I writing a book?
No, indeed! This is only a record of my heart's life, written at random and carelessly thrown aside, sheet after sheet, sibylline leaves from the great book of fate.

The wind may blow them away, a spark consume them.

I may myself commit them to the flames.
I am tempted to do so at this moment.
I once thought it a glorious thing to be an author,--to touch the electric wire of sentiment, and know that thousands would thrill at the shock,--to speak, and believe that unborn millions would hear the music of those echoing words,--to possess the wand of the enchanter, the ring of the genii, the magic key to the temple of temples, the pass-word to the universe of mind.

I once had such visions as these, but they are passed.
To touch the electric wire, and feel the bolt scathing one's own brain,--to speak, to hear the dreary echo of one's voice return through the desert waste,--to enter the temple and find nothing but ruins and desolation,--to lay a sacrifice on the altar, and see no fire from heaven descend in token of acceptance,--to stand the priestess of a lonely shrine, uttering oracles to the unheeding wind,--is not such too often the doom of those who have looked to fame as their heritage, believing genius their dower?
Heaven save me from such a destiny.

Better the daily task, the measured duty, the chained-down spirit, the girdled heart.
A year after Mrs.Linwood pointed out to me the path of duty, I began to walk in it.