It seemed bitterly unfair that Charlie's memory should fail me
when I needed it most.
Great Powers above--I looked up at them through the fog smoke--did the Lords
of Life and Death know what this meant to me? Nothing less than eternal fame
of the best kind; that comes from One, and is shared by one alone. I would be
content--remembering Clive, I stood astounded at my own moderation,--with the
mere right to tell one story, to work out one little contribution to the light
literature of the day. If Charlie were permitted full recollection for one
hour--for sixty short minutes--of existences that had extended over a thousand
years--I would forego all profit and honor from all that I should make of his
speech. I would take no share in the commotion that would follow throughout
the particular corner of the earth that calls itself "the world." The thing
should be put forth anonymously. Nay, I would make other men believe that they
had written it. They would hire bull-hided self-advertising Englishmen to
bellow it abroad. Preachers would found a fresh conduct of life upon it,
swearing that it was new and that they had lifted the fear of death from all
mankind. Every Orientalist in Europe would patronize it discursively with
Sanskrit and Pali texts.
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