ir
literature is the weekly newspaper from the county town. But take the
majority of educated men even. What a rusty, small kind of existence
they lead! They are in a rut, just the same as the others, only the
rut is a trifle wider. If I had my way I would never do the same work
or talk with the same people--hardly live in the same place for two
days running. Life is too short to do a thing twice. When I come to
the end of mine I don't want to say _J'ai manque la vie_; but make my
brag, with the Wife of Bath,

'Unto this day it doth myn herte bote
That I have had my world as in my time.'"

"Well, how are you going to do all those fine things?" inquired
Armstrong. "For instance, that about not living in one place two days
running. I'm afraid you'll find that inconvenient, not to say
expensive."

"Oh, you mustn't take me too literally. I may have to travel on foot
or take a steerage passage, but I shall keep going all the same. I
haven't made any definite plans yet. I shall probably strike for
something in the diplomatic line,--secretary of legation, or some
small consulship perhaps. But the principle is the main thing, and the
principle is: Don't do anything because it's the nearest and easiest
and most obvious thing to do, but make up your mind to get the best.
Look at the lazy way in which men accept their circumstances. There is
the matter of acquaintance, for instance--we let chance determine it.
We know the men that we can't help knowing,--the ones in the next
house, cousins and second cousins, business connections, etc. Here at
college, now, we get acquainted with the fellows at the eating club or
in the same society, or those who happen to sit next us in the
class-room, because their names begin with the same letter. That's it;
it's just a sample of our whole life. Our friendships, like everything
else about us, are determined by the alphabet. We go with the Z's
because some arbitrary system of classification has put us among them,
instead of fighting our way up to the A's, where we naturally belong.
The consequence is that one's friends are mostly dreadful bores."

"I'm sure we are all much obliged to you," murmured Clay,
parenthetically.

"There are about two or three thousand people in the world," continued
Berkeley, "supremely worth knowing. Why shouldn't _I_ know them?---- I
will! Everybody knows two or three thousand people,--mostly very
stupid people,--or, rather, he lets them know him. Why