nes,
Nor to be seen: my crown is called content;
A crown it is, that seldom kings enjoy.
SHAKESPEARE.

Many a man is rich without money. Thousands of men with nothing in
their pockets are rich.

A man born with a good, sound constitution, a good stomach, a good
heart and good limbs, and a pretty good head-piece is rich.

Good bones are better than gold, tough muscles than silver, and nerves
that carry energy to every function are better than houses and land.

"Heart-life, soul-life, hope, joy, and love, are true riches," said
Beecher.

Why should I scramble and struggle to get possession of a little
portion of this earth? This is my world now; why should I envy others
its mere legal possession? It belongs to him who can see it, enjoy it.
I need not envy the so-called owners of estates in Boston or New York.
They are merely taking care of my property and keeping it in excellent
condition for me. For a few pennies for railroad fare whenever I wish
I can see and possess the best of it all. It has cost me no effort, it
gives me no care; yet the green grass, the shrubbery, and the statues
on the lawns, the finer sculptures and the paintings within, are always
ready for me whenever I feel a desire to look upon them. I do not wish
to carry them home with me, for I could not give them half the care
they now receive; besides, it would take too much of my valuable time,
and I should be worrying continually lest they be spoiled or stolen. I
have much of the wealth of the world now. It is all prepared for me
without any pains on my part. All around me are working hard to get
things that will please me, and competing to see who can give them the
cheapest. The little that I pay for the use of libraries, railroads,
galleries, parks, is less than it would cost to care for the least of
all I use. Life and landscape are mine, the stars and flowers, the sea
and air, the birds and trees. What more do I want? All the ages have
been working for me; all mankind are my servants. I am only required
to feed and clothe myself, an easy task in this land of opportunity.

A millionaire pays a big fortune for a gallery of paintings, and some
poor boy or girl comes in, with open mind and poetic fancy, and carries
away a treasure of beauty which the owner never saw. A collector
bought at public auction in London, for one hundred and fifty-seven
guineas, an autograph of Shakespeare; but for nothing a schoolboy can
re