ok 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 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.

There is scarcely an idea more infectious or potent than the love of
money. It is a yellow fever, decimating its votaries and ruining more
families in the land, than all the plagues or diseases put together.
Instances of its malevolent power occur to every reader. Almost every
square foot of land of our continent during the early buccaneer period
(some call it the march of civilization), has been ensanguined through
the madness for treasure. Read the pages of our historian Prescott, and
you will see that the whole anti-Puritan history of America resolves
itself into an awful slaughter for gold. Discoveries were only side
issues.

Speak, history, who are life's victors? Unroll thy long scroll and say,
have they won who first reached the goal, heedless of a brother's
rights? And has he lost in life's great race who stopped "to raise a
fallen child, and place him on his feet again," or to give a fainting
comrade care; or to guide or assist a feeble woman? Has he lost who
halts before the throne when duty calls, or sorrow, or distress? Is
there no one to sing the paean of the conquered who fell in the battle of
life? of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife? of
the low and humble, the weary and broken-hearted, who strove and who
failed, in the eyes of men, but who did their duty as God gave them to
see it?

"We have yet no man who has leaned _entirely_ on his character, and
eaten angel's food," said Emerson; "who, trusting to his sentiments,
found life made of miracles; who, working for _universal aims_, found
himself fed, he knew not how; clothed, sheltered