but still I thought on, thought on. At last, tired Nature asserted herself; I fell asleep in the big chair from which I had in imagination seen the magnates of the monetary world feverishly awaiting, in my ante-room, my pleasure as to how much information I would accord them, on my own terms. I slept, to dream of dictatorship of two continents, compelled by my exclusive knowledge of the things to come; but while I ruled as with a rod of iron the doings and the comings and goings of both hemispheres, it seemed as though war’s alarms sounded in my ears--the rebellion of a nation from tyranny, be it ever so mild, from dictation, be it ever so wise. The clang of the multitude seeking relief from the oppression of ignorance by knowledge, rang in my ears; I started to my feet to wake and find the fire-brigade jangling and rumbling past my dwelling--the sparks from the steamer’s stack streaming upwards and backwards in the black night as the great engine thundered by. To the west, a ruddy glow extended up through the murky midnight sky, while lurid flashes rose and fell in horrid alternation. From time to time an angry flame arose, while the harsh clangor of more engines speeding through the almost deserted streets, gave greater terror to the scene. Fear filled my mind--I knew not why--lest that awful holocaust should be the pyre of my hopes and fortunes. Rushing from my room, and spurred by anxious fears, I soon traversed the distance between my home and the quiet street in which for so many years Brathwaite had labored in the accomplishment of his end and aim--and for my great and ultimate benefit. Hot though the pace, my heart thumped high and hard against my chest, less from the unwonted exercise than from anxiety lest the cup of prosperity had been dashed from my lips before I had tasted its contents. My fears were but too well grounded. Tearing past the blue-coated guardian of the peace who sought to restrain me, I rushed to a spot where without actual danger, I could best see the ruin which the fire-fiend was working to me--and of course to Brathwaite--but how can man, born of woman, feel more for his fellows than for himself? Why affect a nobility not of the nineteenth century? Why lay claim to emotions which may belong to those to come--which may have belonged to those gone by--but not of the genius of this eager, selfish present? True, I felt for Brathwaite; but for Ainsworth--for Ainsworth again--and for Ainsworth still again, the pity, the regret, the mad sense of baffled ambition, rose ever up and obscured the finer feelings.