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Joy died with the loved one: “The disenchanted earth Lost all her lustre. Where her glitt’ring towers? Her golden mountains, where? All darkened down To naked waste; a dreary vale of tears: The great magician’s dead!”
As I look back upon these stupendous undertakings, accomplished in so short a time, it seems as though we had realised in our generation the fabled powers of the magician’s wand.
He reached the magician’s shoulders, and shooting yet higher threw back his head. Curling Smoke, looking upon him, saw to his amazement the face of Prince Ember; a giant now in size, and grey-robed, but still Prince Ember.
Supplied with such a magician’s wand no effect was denied: all things seemed possible. Gratified by recognition in a new realm the new associations should be strengthened. Whereas photography had been spanned by the simple compass of Mr. and Mrs. A. and their daughter, in figures; or topographical accuracies in landscape, revellers in the new art talked of Rembrandt and Titian, Corot and Diaz.
How can the darkness hope to overcome the light, how can a magician’s cords hold fast ‘a serpent plain for all to see’? ‘Then lo! It swallowed up their lying wonders.’ Alas for them! They have deluded themselves with a fable, and to indulge their appetites they have done away with their own selves.
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