Mammon.  Come on, sir.  Now, you set your foot on shore
In Novo Orbe; here’s the rich Peru: 
And there within, sir, are the golden mines,
Great Solomon’s Ophir!——­

                                                  B. Jonson

The supper at Col.  Sellers’s was not sumptuous, in the beginning, but it improved on acquaintance.  That is to say, that what Washington regarded at first sight as mere lowly potatoes, presently became awe-inspiring agricultural productions that had been reared in some ducal garden beyond the sea, under the sacred eye of the duke himself, who had sent them to Sellers; the bread was from corn which could be grown in only one favored locality in the earth and only a favored few could get it; the Rio coffee, which at first seemed execrable to the taste, took to itself an improved flavor when Washington was told to drink it slowly and not hurry what should be a lingering luxury in order to be fully appreciated—­it was from the private stores of a Brazilian nobleman with an unrememberable name.  The Colonel’s tongue was a magician’s wand that turned dried apples into figs and water into wine as easily as it could change a hovel into a palace and present poverty into imminent future riches.

Washington slept in a cold bed in a carpetless room and woke up in a palace in the morning; at least the palace lingered during the moment that he was rubbing his eyes and getting his bearings—­and then it disappeared and he recognized that the Colonel’s inspiring talk had been influencing his dreams.  Fatigue had made him sleep late; when he entered the sitting room he noticed that the old hair-cloth sofa was absent; when he sat down to breakfast the Colonel tossed six or seven dollars in bills on the table, counted them over, said he was a little short and must call upon his banker; then returned the bills to his wallet with the indifferent air of a man who is used to money.  The breakfast was not an improvement upon the supper, but the Colonel talked it up and transformed it into an oriental feast.  Bye and bye, he said: 

“I intend to look out for you, Washington, my boy.  I hunted up a place for you yesterday, but I am not referring to that,—­now—­that is a mere livelihood—­mere bread and butter; but when I say I mean to look out for you I mean something very different.  I mean to put things in your way than will make a mere livelihood a trifling thing.  I’ll put you in a way to make more money than you’ll ever know what to do with.  You’ll be right here where I can put my hand on you when anything turns up.  I’ve got some prodigious operations on foot; but I’m keeping quiet; mum’s the word; your old hand don’t go around pow-wowing and letting everybody see his k’yards and find out his little game.  But all in good time, Washington, all in good time.  You’ll see.  Now there’s an operation in corn that looks well.  Some New York men are trying to get me to go into