“Well，“sighedtheelder，whofilledhisarmchairquitefull，andquiveredwithacomfortablejelly-liketremorinit，ateverypulsationoftheengine，“Iwasafraidofsomethingofthekind。Asyousay，Benjamin，hedon’tseemtohavenopentforit。AndyetIproughdhimuptothebusiness；Idrainedhimtoit，myself。“
Besidesthesetalkers，therewerescatteredsingly，orgroupedaboutintwosandthreesandfours，thevariouspeopleoneencountersonaHudsonRiverboat，whoareonthewholedifferentfromthepassengersonotherrivers，thoughtheyallhavefeaturesincommon。Therewasthatmanofthesuddengains，whohasalreadybeentypified；andtherewasalsothesmootherrichmanofinheritedwealth，fromwhomyoucansomehowknowtheformersoreadily。Theywereeachattendedbytheirseveralretinuesofwomankind，thedaughtersallmuchalike，butthemotherssomewhatdifferent。TheyweregoingtoSaratoga，whereperhapstheexigenciesoffashionwouldbringthemacquainted，andwherethebluebloodofaquarterofacenturywouldbekindtotheyesterday’sfluidofwarmerhue。Therewassomethingpleasanterinthefaceofthehereditaryaristocrat，butnotsostrong，nor，altogether，soadmirable；
particularlyifyoureflectedthathereallyrepresentednothingintheworld，nogreatculture，nopoliticalinfluence，nocivicaspiration，notevenapecuniaryforce，nothingbutasocialset，analienclub-life，atraditionofdining。Weliveinatruefairylandafterall，wherethehoardedtreasureturnstoaheapofdryleaves。Thealmightydollardefeatsitself，andfinallybuysnothingthatamancarestohave。TheveryhighestpleasurethatsuchanAmerican’smoneycanpurchaseisexile，andtothisrichmandoubtlessEuropeisatwice-toldtale。Letusclapouremptypockets，dearestreader，andbeglad。
Wecanbeasglad，apparently，andwiththesamereasonasthepoorlydressedyoungmanstandingnearbesidetheguard，whosefaceBasilandIsabelchosetofancythatofapoet，andconcerningwhom，theyromancedthathewasgoinghome，whereverhishomewas，withthemanuscriptofarejectedbookinhispocket。Theyimaginedhimnogreatthingsofapoet，tobesure，buthispensivefaceclaimeddelicatefeelingforhim，andagraceful，sombrefancy，andtheyconjecturedunconsciouslycaughtflavorsofTennysonandBrowninginhisverse，withamodernertintfromMorris:forwasitnotastoryoutofmythology，withgodsandheroesofthenineteenthcentury，thathewasnowcarryingbackfromNewYorkwithhim？Basilsketchedfromthecolorsofhisownlong-accepteddisappointmentsamovinglittlepictureofthispoorimaginedpoet’sadventures；withwhatkindnessandunkindnesshehadbeenputtoshamebypublishers，andhow，descendingfromhishigh，hopesofabook，hehadtriedtoselltothemagazinessomeoftheshorterpiecesoutofthe“AndotherPoems“whichweretohavefilledupthevolume。“He’sgoingbackratherstunnedandbewildered；butit’ssomethingtohavetastedthecity，anditsbittermayturntosweetonhispalate，atlast，tillhefindshimselflongingforthetumultthatheabhorsnow。Poorfellow！
onecompassionatecut-throatofapublisherevenaskedhimtolunch，beingstruck，asweare，withsomethingfineinhisface。Ihopehe’sgotsomebodywhobelievesinhim，athome。Otherwisehe’dbemorecomfortable，forthepresent，ifhewentovertherailingthere。“