“Here is another of your ilk, only he was poor, and had more excuse. See his fingers, smeared with ink. See his nervous eye, dodging us lest we read his secret. He has a little money now; he can buy food and raiment, yet even when he is physically most at ease, he is still uncomfortable. He wrote what he did not want to write. He wrote what he did not believe. He had to please or starve, so he pleased. Ah, sir, I do not want to examine you, for you know yourself. I knew your twin brother once, years ago, he had genius, whereas you have talent. Why did he cut his throat? “Who is that pompous one over there? Let him step forward. He looks the part of self-made success. He comes nigh to the World’s Conception of Complete Rapture, only he speaks fairly bad grammar. He is the practical ideal of the present-day American, industrious, self-reliant, not embarrassed by his past, confident in his contempt for others--we almost hear the conquering music as he advances. But do we know him? Let him come closer. You struggled all your youth and manhood and middle life, did you not? He nods. You slaved for your children and for your children’s children, to perpetuate your name above want and in respectability. Ah yes, I think I know you. Your children? They are not what you willed them to be. He hung his head. And sadder than that, you imagined that you outgrew the wife of your struggles. You may take your stand under the Banner of Success for Others; it is just ahead of the Banner of Success. The band plays a little sweetly for you, but it does not thrill you. The zest is gone.” Charity, charity, I pray God for charity toward the Other’s Self and toward myself. Charity! For, sirs, I, too, have had Macbeth’s vaulting ambition which o’erlept itself. I, too, have horsed the clouds with Kaiser Peer Gynt, and ridden under the stars. Ozymandias, king of kings, never looked upon grander works than those on my demense. And I have dropped from poetry into fact. I have sailed the sea and cried, “Fear not. You carry Caesar!” Macbeth became a murderer; Peer Gynt something worse. Ozymandias has been forgotten; and we know not where Julius Caesar lies. On such a night as this, the heavens seem aglow with brilliants. Stars, moons, planets, suns, worlds--how many of you are inhabited as ours is? Or do you reckon at all of such atoms as men and women? You have shone upon a mighty host of leaders and their followers. You shine indifferently upon our passing shows and remain to shine when we are gone, mocking our longest efforts. Ah, how does that Eternity of the Past outdo the little Eternity of the Future of which poor man has dreamed! Tell us, Moon, did the mastodons shed their heavy hair when the ice receded? And did the Aztecs have a written alphabet? Was Helen of Troy sweet to look upon? Or was she bold and brazen? Was Shakespeare a drunkard? And did he consider Marlowe a failure?