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454 his career, and looked about him before he died. For he had quite clear-minded states in the intervals of his delirium.

He knew he was almost certainly dying. In a way that took the burthen of his cares off his mind. There was no more Neal to face, no more flights or evasions, no punishments.

"It has been a great career, George," he said, "but I shall be glad to rest. Glad to rest! Glad to rest."

His mind ran rather upon his career, and usually, I am glad to recall, with a note of satisfaction and approval. In his delirious phases he would most often exaggerate this self-satisfaction, and talk of his splendours. He would pluck at the sheet and stare before him, and whisper half-audible fragments of sentences.

"What is this great place, these cloud-capped towers, these airy pinnacles? Ilion. Sky-y-pointing.  Ilion House, the residence of one of our great merchant princes.  Terrace above terrace. Reaching to the Heavens.  Kingdoms Cæsar never knew.  A great poet, George. Zzzz. Kingdoms Cæsar never knew.  Under entirely new management.

"Greatness. Millions.  Universities.  He stands on the terrace—on the upper terrace—directing—directing—by the globe—directing—the trade"

It was hard at times to tell when his sane talk ceased and his delirium began. The secret springs of his life, the vain imaginations, were revealed. I sometimes think that all the life of man sprawls abed, careless and unkempt, until it must needs clothe and