who were now apparently so fortunately placed. In the 
fumes of the witches' pot, or the depths of the radiant 
crystal, might have been revealed cities, cities, cities; a 
world of mansions, carriages, jewels, beauty; a vast 
metropolis outraged by the power of one man; a great 
State seething with indignation over a force it could not 
control; vast halls of priceless pictures; a palace un- 
rivaled for its magnificence; a whole world reading with 
wonder, at times, of a given name. 
And sorrow, sorrow, sorrow. 
The three witches that hailed Macbeth upon the 
blasted heath might in turn have called to Cowperwood, 
" Hail to thee, Frank Cowperwood, master of a great 
railway system! Hail to thee, Frank Cowperwood, builder 
of a priceless mansion! Hail to thee, Frank Cowperwood, 
patron of arts and possessor of endless riches! Thou shalt 
be famed hereafter." But like the Weird Sisters, they 
would have lied, for in the glory was also the ashes of 
Dead Sea fruit—an understanding that could neither be 
inflamed by desire nor satisfied by luxury; a heart that was 
long since wearied by experience; a soul that was as 
bereft of illusion as a windless moon. And to Aileen, as 
to Macduff, they might have spoken a more pathetic 
promise, one that concerned hope and failure. To have 
and not to have! All the seeming, and yet the sorrow 
of not having! Brilliant society that shone in a mirage, 
yet locked its doors; love that eluded as a will-o'-the-wisp 
and died in the dark. " Hail to thee, Frank Cowperwood, 
master and no master, prince of a world of dreams whose 
reality was sorrow!" So might the witches have called, 
the bowl have danced with figures, the fumes with vision, 
and it would have been true. What wise man might not 
read from such a beginning, such an end?