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ealize
dimly that somehow the goal has been missed in his life race。 His chase
after the material has left him so little time to cultivate the ideal； that he
has prepared himself a sad and aimless old age； unless he can find
pleasure in doing as did a man I have been told about； who； receiving half
a dozen millions from his father's estate； conceived the noble idea of
increasing them so that he might leave to each of his four children as much
as he had himself received。 With the strictest economy； and by suppressing
out of his life and that of his children all amusements and superfluous
outlay； he has succeeded now for many years in living on the income of
his income。 Time will never hang heavy on this Harpagon's hands。 He is a
perfectly happy individual； but his conversation is hardly of a kind to
attract； and it may be doubted if the rest of the family are as much to be
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envied。
An artist who had lived many years of his life in Paris and London was
speaking the other day of a curious phase he had remarked in our
American life。 He had been accustomed over there to have his studio the
meeting…place of friends； who would drop in to smoke and lounge away an
hour； chatting as he worked。 To his astonishment； he tells me that since he
has been in New York not one of the many men he knows has ever passed
an hour in his rooms。 Is not that a significant fact？ Another remark which
points its own moral was repeated to me recently。 A foreigner visiting here；
to whom American friends were showing the sights of our city； exclaimed
at last： 〃You have not pointed out to me any celebrities except millionaires。
'Do you see that man？ he is worth ten millions。 Look at that house！ it cost
one million dollars； and there are pictures in it worth over three million
dollars。 That trotter cost one hundred thousand dollars；' etc。〃 Was he not
right？ And does it not give my reader a shudder to see in black and white
the phrases that are； nevertheless； so often on our lips？
This levelling of everything to its cash value is so ingrained in us that
we are unconscious of it； as we are of using slang or local expressions
until our attention is called to them。 I was present once at a farce played in
a London theatre； where the audience went into roars of laughter every
time the stage American said； 〃Why； certainly。〃 I was indignant； and began
explaining to my English friend that we never used such an absurd phrase。
〃Are you sure？〃 he asked。 〃Why； certainly；〃 I said； and stopped； catching
the twinkle in his eye。
It is very much the same thing with money。 We do not notice how
often it slips into the conversation。 〃Out of the fullness of the heart the
mouth speaketh。〃 Talk to an American of a painter and the charm of his
work。 He will be sure to ask； 〃Do his pictures sell well？〃 and will lose all
interest if you say he can't sell them at all。 As if that had anything to do
with it！
Remembering the well…known anecdote of Schopenhauer and the gold
piece which he used to put beside his plate at the TABLE D'HOTE； where
he ate； surrounded by the young officers of the German army； and which
was to be given to the poor the first time he heard any conversation that
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was not about promotion or women； I have been tempted to try the
experiment in our clubs； changing the subjects to stocks and sport； and feel
confident that my contributions to charity would not ruin me。
All this has had the result of making our men dull companions； after
dinner； or at a country house； if the subject they love is tabooed； they talk
of nothing！ It is sad for a rich man （unless his mind has remained entirely
between the leaves of his ledger） to realize that money really buys very
little； and above a certain amount can give no satisfaction in proportion to
its bulk； beyond that delight which comes from a sense of possession。
Croesus often discovers as he grows old that he has neglected to provide
himself with the only thing that 〃is a joy for ever〃 … a cultivated intellect …
in order to amass a fortune that turns to ashes； when he has time to ask of
it any of the pleasures and resources he fondly imagined it would afford
him。 Like Talleyrand's young man who would not learn whist； he finds
that he has prepared for himself a dreadful old age！
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CHAPTER 16 … A Holy Land
NOT long ago an article came under my notice descriptive of the
neighborhood around Grant's tomb and the calm that midsummer brings to
that vicinity； laughingly referred to as the 〃Holy Land。〃
As careless fingers wandering over the strings of a violin may
unintentionally strike a chord； so the writer of those lines； all
unconsciously； with a jest； set vibrating a world of tender memories and
associations； for the region spoken of is truly a holy land to me； the
playground of my youth； and connected with the sweetest ties that can
bind one's thoughts to the past。
Ernest Renan in his SOUVENIRS D'ENFANCE； tells of a Brittany
legend； firmly believed in that wild land； of the vanished city of 〃Is；〃
which ages ago disappeared beneath the waves。 The peasants still point
out at a certain place on the coast the site of the fabled city； and the
fishermen tell how during great storms they have caught glimpses of its
belfries and ramparts far down between the waves； and assert that on calm
summer nights they can hear the bells chiming up from those depths。 I also
have a vanished 〃Is〃 in my heart； and as I grow older； I love to listen to the
murmurs that float up from the past。 They seem to come from an infinite
distance； almost like echoes from another life。
At that enchanted time we lived during the summers in an old wooden
house my father had re…arranged into a fairly comfortable dwelling。 A
tradition； which no one had ever taken the trouble to verify； averred that
Washington had once lived there； which made that hero very real to us。
The picturesque ol