e mind is only a small Central American
republic, can't live on the revenues of the spirit. The fact is, Clay,
you've read too much Emerson. I went into that myself once, but I soon
found out that it wouldn't wear. I want mine thicker. The worst thing
about the career of a literary man or an artist is that if he fails
there are no compensations; and success is mighty uncertain. Nobody
doubts that you are smart enough, Clay, and I am sure we expect great
things of you, whatever line you take up. But, for the sake of the
argument, suppose you have grubbed along in a small way, living on
crusts and water, till you are fifty, without doing any really good
work. Then where are you? You haven't had any fun. You've no other
string to your bow. You haven't that practical experience of the world
which would enable you to turn your hand to something else. You have
no influence or reputation; for, of all poor things, poor art of any
kind is the worst--hateful to gods and men and columns. In short,
where are you? You're out of the dance; you don't count."

"Yes," added Armstrong, "and you've no professional success or solid
standing in the community; and, what's worse, you've no money, which
might make up for the want of all the rest."

"I don't think you get my meaning. I may fail," said Clay, proudly; "I
may never even try to succeed, in your sense of the word. I decline
all mean competitions and all low views of success. The noblest ideal
of life--at least, the noblest to me--is self-culture in the high
meaning of the word; the harmonious development of one's whole nature.
Armstrong has drawn a picture of his future in the likeness of old
Tulkinghorn. I suppose we are all accustomed to put our anticipations
into some such concrete shape before our mind's eye. The typical
situation which I am fond of imagining is something like this: I like
to fancy myself sitting in a dark old upper room in some remote
farm-house, at the close of a winter day, after three or four hours of
steady reading or writing. The room is full of books--the _best_
books. There is a little fire on the hearth, there is a dingy curtain
at the window. It is solitary and still, and when the light gets too
scant to let me read any more, I fill my pipe, and go and stand in the
window. Outside, there is a row of leafless elms, and beyond that a
dim, wide landscape of lakes and hills, and beyond that a red, windy
sunset. I can sit in that window and smoke my pipe a