_Private life_ still fills the measure of his yearning. “Retirement” is still the goal of his desire. This is but the weakness; the crime of Mr. Parasite is revealed further on. The long suspense over, safely ensconced in that official chair, while its cushions are a new delight, its honors are fresh, its powers unwonted, perhaps a consciousness of gratitude remains with Mr. Parasite. It’s a pleasant office, very. Carpeted, cushioned, curtained, pictured, secluded. It is pleasant, very. This ever-acknowledged honor of official state, messengers flying at your bid, doors swinging noiselessly at your approach, hats springing into air as you pass by, _lorgnettes_ lifted by fair hands in great assemblies, the crowd peering and shouting, “There goes the great Mr. Parasite!” Sweet, also, are the newly-found uses of official power—sweeter even than to die for one’s country. The privileges of patronage, the consciousness of power over the fate of others, the uses of power in ministering to self—first sought and last relinquished—of all the gifts of office. While all these retain the charm of newness, a sense of gratitude may remain with Mr. Parasite towards those who led and lifted him to his high estate. Rarely strong in any man, the sense of gratitude with continued office is sure to die out. When he first enters, and the memory of fresh services remains with him, he may feel, at least faintly, that he owes something to somebody besides himself; but the longer he remains, the surer he is that all is his by right, all due to his own exalted merit. There comes a time when it seems as if that cushioned chair, that luxurious office, those muffled doors, those cringing messengers, were all made especially for him and to do him service. With a growing sense of security in his position, comes, perhaps, an unconscious indifference toward those who, in the beginning, helped to lift him toward it. There is no intentional ingratitude, only it is so easy for some natures to forget others when they cease to need them. Then, too, official place, even in a republican government, hourly feeds in a man his love of power, and his sense of personal importance. It feeds the vanity and self-satisfaction of poor human nature, when its fellows are dependent upon it even for the smallest favors. Few meet this test and survive it their noblest selves. It is astonishing how soon Mr. Parasite forgets that, a short time since, he was a seeker of favors himself, and is sure to be again, before old age strands him amid things gone by in the long-deferred haven of private life. While a feeling of dependence on others survives, an emotion of gratitude lingers, Mr. Parasite will try to treat other applicants for office as he desired to be treated a few short months since himself. But these emotions were never known to live through a single stress of a single term of office.