New-York tribune., 1874-08-25

Sindbad, says Scheherazade. carried about
with him for a time the Old Man of the Sea-
who kept a tight hold on his back arms, and
legs, so that he could by no means get about
conveniently or make his living by trading in
in rOcs' eggs or diamonds, or even bow to
people if he met them. Now a good many
people have been unearthed from their homes
this August and brought to light in Summer
resorts who have been born with just such
monster on their backs,-always, curiOusly
enough, an exaggerated likeness of them
selves. The consciousness of it goes with
them when they eat or sleep, talk, laugh,
or cry. They cannot walk on the level
street with other men because of it; it so
hampers and grips them, and possesses their
bodies and brains cannot earn their living de-
Gently, love their wives, mourn for their dead.
or even kneel to God without first hosting
this great al" into sight They have the
worst of it, too, compared with Sindbad, for
he by no means presented his incubus to his
acduaintances as an agreeable fellow for any
body to know, but lOathcd his burden, and
would have been glad any day to kick him
off and have done with him; but they make
an idol of theirs, and not only are perpetually
offering up sacrifices to it, as a Chinaman be-
fore his joss. but foist it on other people, in
sisting that they shall do likewise.
1t is amazing to see the number of victims
who shoulder and carry this monstrOus Self
in the sight of all men, and strut under the
weight of it, Not famous men, celebrated
soldiers, doctors, divines. and women of soci
ety. all of whom have lived in an atmosphere
of fiattery impure enough to urge the growth
of such a deplOrable object; in fact in spite
of flattery, it is among these it is most fire.
quently missing; the world is not often mis-
taken in its great men, and the great
man is always single-minded and lives
outside of himself. But the little he
roes are all abroad now in the
light of day, like ants turned out of their
hills, running here and there: the demigod in
country politics, the capitalist of the manu-
featuring town, the squire of the village, who
lives in the painted board villa at the top of
the hill, the prime dOnne of small opera
troups, painters, musicians poets, with pre-
sentation copies of their Leaflets published
at the authors risk in their pockets ready
for you, and lady writers by the score, who
refer frequently to their last book or article,
and have grown sallOw and thin, they tell
you, from inc OVerWOTh VI idSt w inter.
American human nature is prone to hero
worship, and usually gOod-naturedly accepts
these people at their own valuation. When a
man or woman tells us that this overgrOwn
"In of theirs, which cumbers their every
movement, has succeeded in doing anything
whateyer-painting a picture, hOneyfuglng
the votes of a county. writing magazine story,
or even earning money faster than other Job
bers or traders-we doff our hats to him
lovaly, and make room for him on the beach
or in the ballroom to air and sun his little
branch of laurel. 1t all fOOts up satisfactorily
i'm the sum of American greatness. But the
people who have done nothing and so far as
we can learn, never tried to do anything
when they each parade before us with this
hybrid creature which they call themselves,
held up for us to pay homage to-what are
we to do then I
Here is young Dutton who descends into
farm house full of girls, surrounded by their
sweethearts, all coloress and wasp WASTED as
American girls usually are. but running over
with fun and good-humor; boating, fishing,
acting charades, and flirting through the
August days, their cheeks grown brown, and
their hearts lighter with every hour. Dutton
comes, gloomy. fastidous, high-bred, accord
ing to his own showing. His breeding hath
the moldy flavor about it, and the weight of
all his dead ancestors. All the life of