fountains above him, the gorse bright as a golden fleece on the
hill-side, and all the world a shining singing vision, what thought of
the lost warmth then? What warmth were not well lost for this keen
exhilarated sense in every nerve, in limb, in eye, in brain? What potion
has sleep like this crystalline air it almost takes one's breath to
drink, of such a maddening chastity is its grot-cool sparkle? What
intoxication can she give us for this larger better rapture? So did
Narcissus, an old Son of the Morning, figure to himself the struggle,
and pronounce 'the world well lost.'

But I feel as I write how little I can give the Reader of all the
'splendid purpose in his eyes' as he made this resolve. Perhaps I am the
less able to do so as--let me confess--I also shared his dream. One
could hardly come near him without, in some measure, doing that at all
times; though with me it could only be a dream, for I was not free. I
had Scriptural example to plead 'Therefore I cannot come,' though in any
case I fear I should have held back, for I had no such creative instinct
for realisation as Narcissus, and have, I fear, dreamed many a dream I
had not the courage even to think of clothing in flesh and blood; like,
may I say, the many who are poets for all save song--poets in chrysalis,
all those who dream of what some do, and make the audience of those
great articulate ones. But there were one or two trifling doubts to set
at rest before final decision. The Reader has greatly misconceived
Narcissus if he has deemed him one of those simple souls whom any quack
can gull, and the good faith of this mysterious fraternity was a
difficult point to settle. A tentative application through the address
given, an appropriate _nom de mystère_, had introduced the ugly detail
of preliminary expenses. Divine truth has to pay its postage, its rent,
its taxes, and so on; and the 'guru' feeds not on air--although, of
course, being a 'guru,' he comes as near it as the flesh will allow: