s silently, by countless, uncounted little acts. David
was of the ephemera, the pleasure-loving insects. Now these will
settle for a time; but race will tell, and they are not the race of
quiet labor.

One almost wonders, in these futureless times, that so many of the
former still remain. For the profession of pleasure is so easy, so
remunerative; even of money it often has no lack. St. Clair came of a
family that, from horse-racing, bar-keeping, betting, had found money
easier to get than ever had Jamie's people, and (when they had chosen
to invest it) had invested it in less reputable but more productive
ways. One fears the spelling-books mislead in their promise of
instant, adequate reward and punishment. The gods do not keep a
dame-school for us here on earth, and their ways are less obvious than
that. One hazards the suggestion, it is fortunate if our multitudes
(in these socialistic, traditionless times) do not yet discover how
comfortable, for hedonistic ends, their sons and daughters still may
be without respectability and reputability.

St. Clair lived before them, and his mind was never analytic. The word
"bore" had not yet been imported, nor the word "ennui" naturalized in
a civilization whence two hundred years of Puritans had sought to
banish it. But although Adam set the example of falling to the primal
woman, it may be doubted whether Eve, at least, had not a foretaste of
the modern evil. And more souls go now to the devil (if they could
hope there were one!) for the being bored than any other cause.

David did not know what ailed him. He loved his wife (not too
exclusively: that was not in his shallow nature); he had a fine house
and the handling of money. To his friends he was a banker. They were
at first envious of his reputability, and that pleased him while it
lasted. But it annoyed him that it had not dawned on their untutored
minds that handling money was not synonymous with possession. A
banker! At least he had the control of money; could lend it; might
lend it to his friends.

There was, in those days, an outpost of Satan--overrated perhaps in
importance by the college authorities, with proportionate overawing
effect upon the students--on the riverside, over against Cambridge.
Here "trials of speed," trotting speed, were held; bar-rooms existed;
it was rumored pools were sold. Hither the four hundred, the liberal
four hundred, of Boston's then existent vice, were wont to repair and
witness c