THE PATH OF VISION
I come back to my native country with no ulterior political or maleficent purpose. I am not here to undermine the tottering throne of his Eminence the Patriarch; nor to rival his Excellency the Pasha in his political jobbery and his éclat; nor to supersede any decorated chic Bey in office; nor to erect a filature near that of my rich neighbor; nor to apply for a franchise to establish a trolley-car system in the Lebanons. "Blameless and harmless the sons of God." And I share with them at least the last attribute, Excellencies and worthy Signiors.
I return to my native country on a little—er—private business,—only, perhaps, to see again the cyclamens of the season. And I have brought with me from the Eldorado across the Atlantic a pair of walking shoes and three books published respectively in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York. The good Grey Poet, the Sage of Concord, and the Recluse of Walden are my only companions in this grand congé. Whitman and Emerson and Thoreau are come to pay you
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