“Mr. Maskelyne, I sometimes think that the world really believes in the sort of thing underlying your question—that there is wisdom in what it so complacently repeats as indisputable. And I am sent here phrase-gathering—to carry off small packages of words put up in little flat, portable sentences, alternatives ready for daily use. But there are gains you cannot invest in lands and stocks—columns with statues at the top as well as columns whose sums are at the bottom. Wasn’t ‘Le Barbier’ a better investment than any in Roderigue Hortales et Cie., and what could John Ballantyne & Co. show beside ‘Guy Mannering?’ If the world says what it does, it mustn’t do as it does. It’s inconsistent. Who will undertake to strike the balance between fame and fortune; what mathematician will undertake to say that x, the unknown quantity of fame, does not equal the dollar-mark?” Then he added, after a moment’s pause, “Mr. Maskelyne, don’t you think it is true that
“‘One crowded hour of glorious life,
Is worth a world without a name,’—
don’t you really?”
It was hard to resist such enthusiasm, such unquestioning certainty. The old lawyer did not even smile as he lay back in his chair, a new life shooting through every nerve, his gaze fixed on the flushing face of the young man.
“And the consciousness of best employing the best that is in you,” he continued. “Who dare shorten the reach or blunt the nicety of man’s wit, make purblind the imagination, stiffen the cunning hand? Tell men that in some Indian sea, fathoms deep, lie hid forever Spanish galleons in which doubloons and moidores, as when honey more than fills the comb, almost drip from their sacks, and you will see in their sudden thoughtfulness how quickly they appreciate such loss; tell them, if you can, what, through poverty, erring endeavor, uncongenial occupation, the world with each year loses in intellectual riches, and they will stand heedless.”
Speaking with the incomparable confidence of youth, its own glorious nonsense, the young man’s voice sent old Maskelyne’s blood hastening through his veins in almost audible pulsations.
“What if I do not wish great wealth,” the speaker continued, “must I be made to have it? I want but little. Give me food, clothing, habitation, sufficient that my eyes may see the delights this world has to show, that my ears may catch the whispered harmonies of all things beautiful, gladden me with the radiance of common joy, and that’s all I want. Who is unreasonable when what he wants is all he wants? Are the worldly so insecure that, as the frightened kings sought to still beneath their tread the first throb of the French Revolution, they must stamp out the first symptom of revolt against the almighty dollar?
“‘Chi si diverte di poco, è ricco di molto.’
Mr. Maskelyne, must I eat when I am only thirsty, drink when I am only hungry?”