must
abandon the variegated delights of yesterday and settle down, to-day
and forever, to the same old thing. In this connection I recall an
epigram of Professor Woodrow Wilson's. He was lecturing to us young
Princetonians about Gladstone's ability to make any subject of
absorbing interest, even a four hours' speech on the budget. "Young
gentlemen," cried the professor, "it is not the subject that is dry.
It is _you_ that are dry!" Similarly, it is not achievement that is
dry; it is the achievers, who fondly suppose that now, having
achieved, they have no further use for the exuberance of body, mind,
and spirit, or the self-restraint which helped them toward their goal.

Particularly the self-restraint. One chief reason why the thing
attained palls so often and so quickly is that men seek to enjoy it
immoderately. Why, if Ponce de Leon had found the fountain of youth
and drunk of it as bibulously as we are apt to guzzle the cup of
achievement, he would not only have arrested the forward march of
time, but would have over-reached himself and slipped backward through
the years of his age to become a chronic infant in arms. Even
traveling hopefully would pall if one kept at it twenty-four hours a
day. Just feast on the rich food of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony
morning, noon, and night for a few months, and see how you feel. There
is no other way. Achievement must be moderately indulged in, not made
the pretext for a debauch. If one has achieved a new cottage, for
example, let him take numerous week-end vacations from it. And let not
an author sit down and read through his own book the moment it comes
from the binder. A few more months will suffice to blur the memory of
those irrevocable, nauseating foundry proofs. If he forbears--instead
of being sickened by the stuff, no gentle reader, I venture to
predict, will be more keenly and delicately intrigued by the volume's
vigors and subtleties.

If you have recently made a fortune, be sure, in the course of your
Continental wanderings, to take many a third-class carriage full of
witty peasants, and stop at many an "unpretending" inn "Of the White
Hind," with bowered rose-garden and bowling-green running down to the
trout-filled river, and mine ample hostess herself to make and bring
you the dish for which she is famous over half the countryside. Thus
you will increase by at least one Baedekerian star-power the luster
of the next Grand Hotel Royal de l'Univers which may receiv