More and worse than this; I found my character and self-respect Eroded by the canker of conceit, Poisoned by jealousy, and made the prey Of meanest passions. Harlequins in mask, Who live upon the laughter of the throng That crowds their reeking amphitheatres; Light-footed dancing-girls, who sell their grace To gaping lechers of the pit, to win That which shall feed their shameless vanity; The mimics of the buskin--baser still, The mimics of the negro--minstrel-bands. With capital of corks and castanets And threadbare jests--Ah! who and what was I But brother of all these--in higher walk, But brother in the motive of my life, In jealousy, in recompense for toil, And, last, in destiny? My wife had caught Stray silver in her hair in these long years; And the sweet maiden springing from our lives Had grown to womanhood. In my pursuits, Which drank my time and my vitality, I had neglected them. I worked at home, But lived in other scenes, for other lives, Or, rather, for my own; and though my pride Shrank from the deed, I had the tardy grace To call them to me, and confess my shame, And beg for their forgiveness. Once again-- All explanations passed--I sat beside My faithful wife, and canvassed as of old New plans of life. I found her still the same In purpose and in magnanimity; For she dealt no upbraidings and no blame; Cast in my teeth no old-time prophecies Of failure; felt no triumph which rejoiced To mock me with the words, "I told you so," Calmly she sat, and tried, with gentlest speech, To heal the bruises of my fall; to wake A better feeling in me toward the world, And soothe my morbid self-contempt. The world, She said, is apt to take a public man At his own estimate, and yield him place According to his choice. I had essayed To please the world, and gather in its praise; And, certainly, the world was pleased with me, And had not stinted me in its return Of plauditory payment. As the world Had taken me according to my rate, And filled my wish, it had a valid claim On my good nature. Then, beyond all this, The world was not a fool. Those books of mine, That I had come to look upon as trash, Were not all trash. My motive had been poor, And that had vitiated them for me; But there was much in them that yielded strength To struggling souls, and, to the wounded, balm. Indeed, she had been helped by them, herself. They were all pure; they made no foul appeal To baseness and brutality; they had An element of gentle chivalry, Such as must have a place in any man Shrinking with sensitiveness, like myself, From a fine reputation, scorning it For motive which had won it.