in the morning, that now useless bulk, the Genius of Muskegon, was ever present to my eyes.  Poor stone lady! born to be enthroned under the gilded, echoing dome of the new capitol, whither was she now to drift? for what base purposes be ultimately broken up, like an unseaworthy ship? and what should befall her ill-starred artificer, standing, with his thousand francs, on the threshold of a life so hard as that of the unbefriended sculptor?

It was a subject often and earnestly debated by myself and Pinkerton.  In his opinion, I should instantly discard my profession.  “Just drop it, here and now,” he would say.  “Come back home with me, and let’s throw our whole soul into business.  I have the capital; you bring the culture.  Dodd & Pinkerton—­I never saw a better name for an advertisement; and you can’t think, Loudon, how much depends upon a name.”  On my side, I would admit that a sculptor should possess one of three things—­capital, influence, or an energy only to be qualified as hellish.  The first two I had now lost; to the third I never had the smallest claim; and yet I wanted the cowardice (or perhaps it was the courage) to turn my back on my career without a fight.  I told him, besides, that however poor my chances were in sculpture, I was convinced they were yet worse in business, for which I equally lacked taste and aptitude.  But upon this head, he was my father over again; assured me that I spoke in ignorance; that any intelligent and cultured person was Bound to succeed; that I must, besides, have inherited some of my father’s fitness; and, at any rate, that I had been regularly trained for that career in the commercial college.

“Pinkerton,” I said, “can’t you understand that, as long as I was there, I never took the smallest interest in any stricken thing?  The whole affair was poison to me.”

“It’s not possible,” he would cry; “it can’t be; you couldn’t live in the midst of it and not feel the charm; with all your poetry of soul, you couldn’t help!  Loudon,” he would go on, “you drive me crazy.  You expect a man to be all broken up about the sunset, and not to care a dime for a place where fortunes are fought for and made and lost all day; or for a career that consists in studying up life till you have it at your finger-ends, spying out every cranny where you can get your hand in and a dollar out, and standing there in the midst—­one foot on bankruptcy, the other on a borrowed dollar, and the whole thing spinning round you like a mill—­raking in the stamps, in spite of fate and fortune.”

To this romance of dickering I would reply with the romance (which is also the virtue) of art:  reminding him of those examples of constancy through many tribulations, with which the role of Apollo is illustrated; from the case of Millet, to those of many of our friends and comrades, who had chosen this agreeable mountain path through life, and were now bravely clambering among rocks and brambles, penniless and hopeful.