SILENCE (1894-1898)
The convulsion of 1893 left its victims in dead-water, and closed much
education. While the country braced itself up to an effort such as no
one had thought within its powers, the individual crawled as he best
could, through the wreck, and found many values of life upset. But for
connecting the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the four years, 1893
to 1897, had no value in the drama of education, and might be left out.
Much that had made life pleasant between 1870 and 1890 perished in the
ruin, and among the earliest wreckage had been the fortunes of Clarence
King. The lesson taught whatever the bystander chose to read in it; but
to Adams it seemed singularly full of moral, if he could but understand
it. In 1871 he had thought King's education ideal, and his personal
fitness unrivalled. No other young American approached him for the
combination of chances--physical energy, social standing, mental scope
and training, wit, geniality, and science, that seemed superlatively
American and irresistibly strong. His nearest rival was Alexander
Agassiz, and, as far as their friends knew, no one else could be
classed with them in the running. The result of twenty years' effort
proved that the theory of scientific education failed where most theory
fails--for want of money. Even Henry Adams, who kept himself, as he
thought, quite outside of every possible financial risk, had been
caught in the cogs, and held for months over the gulf of bankruptcy,
saved only by the chance that the whole class of millionaires were more
or less bankrupt too, and the banks were forced to let the mice escape
with the rats; but, in sum, education without capital could always be
taken by the throat and forced to disgorge its gains, nor was it helped
by the knowledge that no one intended it, but that all alike suffered.
Whether voluntary or mechanical the result for education was the same.
The failure of the scientific scheme, without money to back it, was
flagrant.
The scientific scheme in theory was alone sound, for science
should be equivalent to money; in practice science was helpless without
money. The weak holder was, in his own language, sure to be frozen out.
Education must fit the complex conditions of a new society, always
accelerating its movement, and its fitness could be known only from
success. One looked about for examples of success among the educated of
one's time--the men born in the thirties, and trained to professions.
Within one's immediate acquaintance, three were typical: John Hay,
Whitelaw Reid, and William C. Whitney; all of whom owed their free hand
to marriage, education serving only for ornament, but among whom, in
1893, William C. Whitney was far and away the most popular type.
Newspapers might prate about wealth till commonplace print was
exhausted, but as matter of habit, few Americans envied the very rich
for anything the most of them got out of money. New York might
occasionally fear them, but more often laughed or sneered at them, and
never showed them respect. Scarcely one of the very rich men held any
position in society by virtue of his wealth, or could have been elected
to an office, or even into a good club. Setting aside the few, like
Pierpont Morgan, whose social position had little to do with greater or
less wealth, riches were in New York no object of envy on account of
the joys they brought in their train, and Whitney was not even one of
the very rich; yet in his case the envy was palpable. There was reason
for it. Already in 1893 Whitney had finished with politics after having
gratified every ambition, and swung the country almost at his will; he
had thrown away the usual objects of political ambition like the ashes
of smoked cigarettes; had turned to other amusements, satiated every
taste, gorged every appetite, won every object that New York afforded,
and, not yet satisfied, had carried his field of activity abroad, until
New York no longer knew what most to envy, his horses or his houses. He
had succeeded precisely where Clarence King had failed.
Barely forty years had passed since all these men started in a
bunch to race for power, and the results were fixed beyond reversal;
but one knew no better in 1894 than in 1854 what an American education
ought to be in order to count as success. Even granting that it counted
as money, its value could not be called general. America contained
scores of men worth five millions or upwards, whose lives were no more
worth living than those of their cooks, and to whom the task of making
money equivalent to education offered more difficulties than to Adams
the task of making education equivalent to money. Social position
seemed to have value still, while education counted for nothing. A
mathematician, linguist, chemist, electrician, engineer, if fortunate
might average a value of ten dollars a day in the open market. An
administrator, organizer, manager, with mediaeval qualities of energy
and will, but no education beyond his special branch, would probably be
worth at least ten times as much. Society had failed to discover what
sort of education suited it best. Wealth valued social position and
classical education as highly as either of these valued wealth, and the
women still tended to keep the scales even. For anything Adams could
see he was himself as contented as though he had been educated; while
Clarence King, whose education was exactly suited to theory, had
failed; and Whitney, who was no better educated than Adams, had
achieved phenomenal success.
Had Adams in 1894 been starting in life as he did in 1854, he
must have repeated that all he asked of education was the facile use of
the four old tools: Mathematics, French, German, and Spanish. With
these he could still make his way to any object within his vision, and
would have a decisive advantage over nine rivals in ten. Statesman or
lawyer, chemist or electrician, priest or professor, native or foreign,
he would fear none.
King's breakdown, physical as well as financial, brought the
indirect gain to Adams that, on recovering strength, King induced him
to go to Cuba, where, in January, 1894, they drifted into the little
town of Santiago. The picturesque Cuban society, which King knew well,
was more amusing than any other that one had yet discovered in the
whole broad world, but made no profession of teaching anything unless
it were Cuban Spanish or the danza; and neither on his own nor on
King's account did the visitor ask any loftier study than that of the
buzzards floating on the trade-wind down the valley to Dos Bocas, or
the colors of sea and shore at sunrise from the height of the Gran
Piedra; but, as though they were still twenty years old and revolution
were as young as they, the decaying fabric, which had never been solid,
fell on their heads and drew them with it into an ocean of mischief. In
the half-century between 1850 and 1900, empires were always falling on
one's head, and, of all lessons, these constant political convulsions
taught least. Since the time of Rameses, revolutions have raised more
doubts than they solved, but they have sometimes the merit of changing
one's point of view, and the Cuban rebellion served to sever the last
tie that attached Adams to a Democratic administration. He thought that
President Cleveland could have settled the Cuban question, without war,
had he chosen to do his duty, and this feeling, generally held by the
Democratic Party, joined with the stress of economical needs and the
gold standard to break into bits the old organization and to leave no
choice between parties. The new American, whether consciously or not,
had turned his back on the nineteenth century before he was done with
it; the gold standard, the protective system, and the laws of mass
could have no other outcome, and, as so often before, the movement,
once accelerated by attempting to impede it, had the additional, brutal
consequence of crushing equally the good and the bad that stood in its
way.
The lesson was old--so old that it became tedious. One had
studied nothing else since childhood, and wearied of it. For yet
another year Adams lingered on these outskirts of the vortex, among the
picturesque, primitive types of a world which had never been fairly
involved in the general motion, and were the more amusing for their
torpor. After passing the winter with King in the West Indies, he
passed the summer with Hay in the Yellowstone, and found there little
to study. The Geysers were an old story; the Snake River posed no vital
statistics except in its fordings; even the Tetons were as calm as they
were lovely; while the wapiti and bear, innocent of strikes and
corners, laid no traps. In return the party treated them with
affection. Never did a band less bloody or bloodthirsty wander over the
roof of the continent. Hay loved as little as Adams did, the labor of
skinning and butchering big game; he had even outgrown the sedate,
middle-aged, meditative joy of duck-shooting, and found the trout of
the Yellowstone too easy a prey. Hallett Phillips himself, who managed
the party loved to play Indian hunter without hunting so much as a
fieldmouse; Iddings the geologist was reduced to shooting only for the
table, and the guileless prattle of Billy Hofer alone taught the simple
life. Compared with the Rockies of 1871, the sense of wildness had
vanished; one saw no possible adventures except to break one's neck as
in chasing an aniseed fox. Only the more intelligent ponies scented an
occasional friendly and sociable bear.
When the party came out of the Yellowstone, Adams went on alone
to Seattle and Vancouver to inspect the last American railway systems
yet untried. They, too, offered little new learning, and no sooner had
he finished this debauch of Northwestern geography than with desperate
thirst for exhausting the American field, he set out for Mexico and the
Gulf, making a sweep of the Caribbean and clearing up, in these six or
eight months, at least twenty thousand miles of American land and water.
He was beginning to think, when he got back to Washington in
April, 1895, that he knew enough about the edges of life--tropical
islands, mountain solitudes, archaic law, and retrograde types.
Infinitely more amusing and incomparably more picturesque than
civilization, they educated only artists, and, as one's sixtieth year
approached, the artist began to die; only a certain intense cerebral
restlessness survived which no longer responded to sensual stimulants;
one was driven from beauty to beauty as though art were a
trotting-match. For this, one was in some degree prepared, for the old
man had been a stage-type since drama began; but one felt some
perplexity to account for failure on the opposite or mechanical side,
where nothing but cerebral action was needed.
Taking for granted that the alternative to art was arithmetic, he
plunged deep into statistics, fancying that education would find the
surest bottom there; and the study proved the easiest he had ever
approached. Even the Government volunteered unlimited statistics,
endless columns of figures, bottomless averages merely for the asking.
At the Statistical Bureau, Worthington Ford supplied any material that
curiosity could imagine for filling the vast gaps of ignorance, and
methods for applying the plasters of fact. One seemed for a while to be
winning ground, and one's averages projected themselves as laws into
the future. Perhaps the most perplexing part of the study lay in the
attitude of the statisticians, who showed no enthusiastic confidence in
their own figures. They should have reached certainty, but they talked
like other men who knew less. The method did not result in faith. Indeed,
every increase of mass--of volume and velocity--seemed to bring in new
elements, and, at last, a scholar, fresh in arithmetic and ignorant of
algebra, fell into a superstitious terror of complexity as the sink of
facts. Nothing came out as it should. In principle, according to
figures, any one could set up or pull down a society. One could frame
no sort of satisfactory answer to the constructive doctrines of Adam
Smith, or to the destructive criticisms of Karl Marx or to the
anarchistic imprecations of Elisee Reclus. One revelled at will in the
ruin of every society in the past, and rejoiced in proving the
prospective overthrow of every society that seemed possible in the
future; but meanwhile these societies which violated every law, moral,
arithmetical, and economical, not only propagated each other, but
produced also fresh complexities with every propagation and developed
mass with every complexity.
The human factor was worse still. Since the stupefying
discovery of Pteraspis in 1867, nothing had so confused the student as
the conduct of mankind in the fin-de-siecle. No one seemed very much
concerned about this world or the future, unless it might be the
anarchists, and they only because they disliked the present. Adams
disliked the present as much as they did, and his interest in future
society was becoming slight, yet he was kept alive by irritation at
finding his life so thin and fruitless. Meanwhile he watched mankind
march on, like a train of pack-horses on the Snake River, tumbling from
one morass into another, and at short intervals, for no reason but
temper, falling to butchery, like Cain. Since 1850, massacres had
become so common that society scarcely noticed them unless they summed
up hundreds of thousands, as in Armenia; wars had been almost
continuous, and were beginning again in Cuba, threatening in South
Africa, and possible in Manchuria; yet impartial judges thought them
all not merely unnecessary, but foolish--induced by greed of the
coarsest class, as though the Pharaohs or the Romans were still robbing
their neighbors. The robbery might be natural and inevitable, but the
murder seemed altogether archaic.
At one moment of perplexity to account for this trait of
Pteraspis, or shark, which seemed to have survived every moral
improvement of society, he took to study of the religious press.
Possibly growth in human nature might show itself there. He found no
need to speak unkindly of it; but, as an agent of motion, he preferred
on the whole the vigor of the shark, with its chances of betterment;
and he very gravely doubted, from his aching consciousness of religious
void, whether any large fraction of society cared for a future life, or
even for the present one, thirty years hence. Not an act, or an
expression, or an image, showed depth of faith or hope.
The object of education, therefore, was changed. For many years
it had lost itself in studying what the world had ceased to care for;
if it were to begin again, it must try to find out what the mass of
mankind did care for, and why. Religion, politics, statistics, travel
had thus far led to nothing. Even the Chicago Fair had only confused
the roads. Accidental education could go no further, for one's mind was
already littered and stuffed beyond hope with the millions of chance
images stored away without order in the memory. One might as well try
to educate a gravel-pit. The task was futile, which disturbed a student
less than the discovery that, in pursuing it, he was becoming himself
ridiculous. Nothing is more tiresome than a superannuated pedagogue.
For the moment he was rescued, as often before, by a woman.
Towards midsummer, 1895, Mrs. Cabot Lodge bade him follow her to Europe
with the Senator and her two sons. The study of history is useful to
the historian by teaching him his ignorance of women; and the mass of
this ignorance crushes one who is familiar enough with what are called
historical sources to realize how few women have ever been known. The
woman who is known only through a man is known wrong, and excepting one
or two like Mme. de Sevigne, no woman has pictured herself. The
American woman of the nineteenth century will live only as the man saw
her; probably she will be less known than the woman of the eighteenth;
none of the female descendants of Abigail Adams can ever be nearly so
familiar as her letters have made her; and all this is pure loss to
history, for the American woman of the nineteenth century was much
better company than the American man; she was probably much better
company than her grandmothers. With Mrs. Lodge and her husband, Senator
since 1893, Adams's relations had been those of elder brother or uncle
since 1871 when Cabot Lodge had left his examination-papers on
Assistant Professor Adams's desk, and crossed the street to Christ
Church in Cambridge to get married. With Lodge himself, as scholar,
fellow instructor, co-editor of the North American Review, and
political reformer from 1873 to 1878, he had worked intimately, but
with him afterwards as politician he had not much relation; and since
Lodge had suffered what Adams thought the misfortune of becoming not
only a Senator but a Senator from Massachusetts--a singular social
relation which Adams had known only as fatal to friends--a
superstitious student, intimate with the laws of historical fatality,
would rather have recognized him only as an enemy; but apart from this
accident he valued Lodge highly, and in the waste places of average
humanity had been greatly dependent on his house. Senators can never be
approached with safety, but a Senator who has a very superior wife and
several superior children who feel no deference for Senators as such,
may be approached at times with relative impunity while they keep him
under restraint.
Where Mrs. Lodge summoned, one followed with gratitude, and so it
chanced that in August one found one's self for the first time at Caen,
Coutances, and Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy. If history had a chapter
with which he thought himself familiar, it was the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries; yet so little has labor to do with knowledge that
these bare playgrounds of the lecture system turned into green and
verdurous virgin forests merely through the medium of younger eyes and
fresher minds. His German bias must have given his youth a terrible
twist, for the Lodges saw at a glance what he had thought unessential
because un-German. They breathed native air in the Normandy of 1200, a
compliment which would have seemed to the Senator lacking in taste or
even in sense when addressed to one of a class of men who passed life
in trying to persuade themselves and the public that they breathed
nothing less American than a blizzard; but this atmosphere, in the
touch of a real emotion, betrayed the unconscious humor of the
senatorial mind. In the thirteenth century, by an unusual chance, even
a Senator became natural, simple, interested, cultivated, artistic,
liberal--genial.
Through the Lodge eyes the old problem became new and personal;
it threw off all association with the German lecture-room. One could
not at first see what this novelty meant; it had the air of mere
antiquarian emotion like Wenlock Abbey and Pteraspis; but it expelled
archaic law and antiquarianism once for all, without seeming conscious
of it; and Adams drifted back to Washington with a new sense of
history. Again he wandered south, and in April returned to Mexico with
the Camerons to study the charms of pulque and Churriguerresque
architecture. In May he ran through Europe again with Hay, as far south
as Ravenna. There came the end of the passage. After thus covering once
more, in 1896, many thousand miles of the old trails, Adams went home in
October, with every one else, to elect McKinley President and start the
world anew.
For the old world of public men and measures since 1870, Adams
wept no tears. Within or without, during or after it, as partisan or
historian, he never saw anything to admire in it, or anything he wanted
to save; and in this respect he reflected only the public mind which
balanced itself so exactly between the unpopularity of both parties as
to express no sympathy with either. Even among the most powerful men of
that generation he knew none who had a good word to say for it. No
period so thoroughly ordinary had been known in American politics since
Christopher Columbus first disturbed the balance of American society;
but the natural result of such lack of interest in public affairs, in a
small society like that of Washington, led an idle bystander to depend
abjectly on intimacy of private relation. One dragged one's self down
the long vista of Pennsylvania Avenue, by leaning heavily on one's
friends, and avoiding to look at anything else. Thus life had grown
narrow with years, more and more concentrated on the circle of houses
round La Fayette Square, which had no direct or personal share in power
except in the case of Mr. Blaine whose tumultuous struggle for
existence held him apart. Suddenly Mr. McKinley entered the White House
and laid his hand heavily on this special group. In a moment the whole
nest so slowly constructed, was torn to pieces and scattered over the
world. Adams found himself alone. John Hay took his orders for London.
Rockhill departed to Athens. Cecil Spring-Rice had been buried in
Persia. Cameron refused to remain in public life either at home or
abroad, and broke up his house on the Square. Only the Lodges and
Roosevelts remained, but even they were at once absorbed in the
interests of power. Since 1861, no such social convulsion had occurred.
Even this was not quite the worst. To one whose interests lay
chiefly in foreign affairs, and who, at this moment, felt most strongly
the nightmare of Cuban, Hawaiian, and Nicaraguan chaos, the man in the
State Department seemed more important than the man in the White House.
Adams knew no one in the United States fit to manage these matters in
the face of a hostile Europe, and had no candidate to propose; but he
was shocked beyond all restraints of expression to learn that the
President meant to put Senator John Sherman in the State Department in
order to make a place for Mr. Hanna in the Senate. Grant himself had
done nothing that seemed so bad as this to one who had lived long
enough to distinguish between the ways of presidential jobbery, if not
between the jobs. John Sherman, otherwise admirably fitted for the
place, a friendly influence for nearly forty years, was notoriously
feeble and quite senile, so that the intrigue seemed to Adams the
betrayal of an old friend as well as of the State Department. One might
have shrugged one's shoulders had the President named Mr. Hanna his
Secretary of State, for Mr. Hanna was a man of force if not of
experience, and selections much worse than this had often turned out
well enough; but John Sherman must inevitably and tragically break down.
The prospect for once was not less vile than the men. One can
bear coldly the jobbery of enemies, but not that of friends, and to
Adams this kind of jobbery seemed always infinitely worse than all the
petty money bribes ever exploited by the newspapers. Nor was the matter
improved by hints that the President might call John Hay to the
Department whenever John Sherman should retire. Indeed, had Hay been
even unconsciously party to such an intrigue, he would have put an end,
once for all, to further concern in public affairs on his friend's
part; but even without this last disaster, one felt that Washington had
become no longer habitable. Nothing was left there but solitary
contemplation of Mr. McKinley's ways which were not likely to be more
amusing than the ways of his predecessors; or of senatorial ways, which
offered no novelty of what the French language expressively calls
embetement; or of poor Mr. Sherman's ways which would surely cause
anguish to his friends. Once more, one must go!
Nothing was easier! On and off, one had done the same thing
since the year 1858, at frequent intervals, and had now reached the
month of March, 1897; yet, as the whole result of six years' dogged
effort to begin a new education, one could not recommend it to the
young. The outlook lacked hope. The object of travel had become more
and more dim, ever since the gibbering ghost of the Civil Law had been
locked in its dark closet, as far back as 1860. Noah's dove had not
searched the earth for resting-places so carefully, or with so little
success. Any spot on land or water satisfies a dove who wants and finds
rest; but no perch suits a dove of sixty years old, alone and
uneducated, who has lost his taste even for olives. To this, also, the
young may be driven, as education, and the lesson fails in humor; but
it may be worth knowing to some of them that the planet offers hardly a
dozen places where an elderly man can pass a week alone without ennui,
and none at all where he can pass a year.
Irritated by such complaints, the world naturally answers that
no man of sixty should live, which is doubtless true, though not
original. The man of sixty, with a certain irritability proper to his
years, retorts that the world has no business to throw on him the task
of removing its carrion, and that while he remains he has a right to
require amusement--or at least education, since this costs nothing to
any one--and that a world which cannot educate, will not amuse, and is
ugly besides, has even less right to exist than he. Both views seem
sound; but the world wearily objects to be called by epithets what
society always admits in practice; for no one likes to be told that he
is a bore, or ignorant, or even ugly; and having nothing to say in its
defence, it rejoins that, whatever license is pardonable in youth, the
man of sixty who wishes consideration had better hold his tongue. This
truth also has the defect of being too true. The rule holds equally for
men of half that age Only the very young have the right to betray their
ignorance or ill-breeding. Elderly people commonly know enough not to
betray themselves.
Exceptions are plenty on both sides, as the Senate knew to its
acute suffering; but young or old, women or men, seemed agreed on one
point with singular unanimity; each praised silence in others. Of all
characteristics in human nature, this has been one of the most abiding.
Mere superficial gleaning of what, in the long history of human
expression, has been said by the fool or unsaid by the wise, shows
that, for once, no difference of opinion has ever existed on this.
"Even a fool," said the wisest of men, "when he holdeth his peace, is
counted wise," and still more often, the wisest of men, when he spoke
the highest wisdom, has been counted a fool. They agreed only on the
merits of silence in others. Socrates made remarks in its favor, which
should have struck the Athenians as new to them; but of late the
repetition had grown tiresome. Thomas Carlyle vociferated his
admiration of it. Matthew Arnold thought it the best form of
expression; and Adams thought Matthew Arnold the best form of
expression in his time. Algernon Swinburne called it the most noble to
the end. Alfred de Vigny's dying wolf remarked:--
"A voir ce que l'on fut sur terre et ce qu'on laisse,
Seul le silence est grand; tout le reste est faiblesse."
"When one thinks what one leaves in the world when one dies,
Only silence is strong,--all the rest is but lies."
Even Byron, whom a more brilliant era of genius seemed to have decided
to be but an indifferent poet, had ventured to affirm that--
"The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen
Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest;"
with other verses, to the effect that words are but a "temporary
torturing flame"; of which no one knew more than himself. The evidence
of the poets could not be more emphatic:--
"Silent, while years engrave the brow!
Silent,--the best are silent now!"
Although none of these great geniuses had shown faith in
silence as a cure for their own ills or ignorance, all of them, and all
philosophy after them, affirmed that no man, even at sixty, had ever
been known to attain knowledge; but that a very few were believed to
have attained ignorance, which was in result the same. More than this,
in every society worth the name, the man of sixty had been encouraged
to ride this hobby--the Pursuit of Ignorance in Silence--as though it
were the easiest way to get rid of him. In America the silence was more
oppressive than the ignorance; but perhaps elsewhere the world might
still hide some haunt of futilitarian silence where content
reigned--although long search had not revealed it--and so the
pilgrimage began anew!
The first step led to London where John Hay was to be
established. One had seen so many American Ministers received in London
that the Lord Chamberlain himself scarcely knew more about it;
education could not be expected there; but there Adams arrived, April
21, 1897, as though thirty-six years were so many days, for Queen
Victoria still reigned and one saw little change in St. James's Street.
True, Carlton House Terrace, like the streets of Rome, actually
squeaked and gibbered with ghosts, till one felt like Odysseus before
the press of shadows, daunted by a "bloodless fear"; but in spring
London is pleasant, and it was more cheery than ever in May, 1897, when
every one was welcoming the return of life after the long winter since
1893. One's fortunes, or one's friends' fortunes, were again in flood.
This amusement could not be prolonged, for one found one's self
the oldest Englishman in England, much too familiar with family jars
better forgotten, and old traditions better unknown. No wrinkled
Tannhauser, returning to the Wartburg, needed a wrinkled Venus to show
him that he was no longer at home, and that even penitence was a sort
of impertinence. He slipped away to Paris, and set up a household at
St. Germain where he taught and learned French history for nieces who
swarmed under the venerable cedars of the Pavillon d'Angouleme, and
rode about the green forest-alleys of St. Germain and Marly. From time
to time Hay wrote humorous laments, but nothing occurred to break the
summer-peace of the stranded Tannhauser, who slowly began to feel at
home in France as in other countries he had thought more homelike. At
length, like other dead Americans, he went to Paris because he could go
nowhere else, and lingered there till the Hays came by, in January,
1898; and Mrs. Hay, who had been a stanch and strong ally for twenty
years, bade him go with them to Egypt.
Adams cared little to see Egypt again, but he was glad to see
Hay, and readily drifted after him to the Nile. What they saw and what
they said had as little to do with education as possible, until one
evening, as they were looking at the sun set across the Nile from
Assouan, Spencer Eddy brought them a telegram to announce the sinking
of the Maine in Havana Harbor. This was the greatest stride in
education since 1865, but what did it teach? One leant on a fragment of
column in the great hall at Karnak and watched a jackal creep down the
debris of ruin. The jackal's ancestors had surely crept up the same
wall when it was building. What was his view about the value of
silence? One lay in the sands and watched the expression of the Sphinx.
Brooks Adams had taught him that the relation between civilizations was
that of trade. Henry wandered, or was storm-driven, down the coast. He
tried to trace out the ancient harbor of Ephesus. He went over to
Athens, picked up Rockhill, and searched for the harbor of Tiryns;
together they went on to Constantinople and studied the great walls of
Constantine and the greater domes of Justinian. His hobby had turned
into a camel, and he hoped, if he rode long enough in silence, that at
last he might come on a city of thought along the great highways of
exchange.