It is
a cold and a bitterly selfish work that lies before you,--to be covered
over with such borrowed show of smiles as men call affability. The heart
wears a stout, brazen screen; its inclinations grow to the habit of your
ambitious projects.
In such mood come swift dreams of wealth,--not of mere accumulation, but
of the splendor and parade which in our Western world are, alas! its
chiefest attractions. You grow observant of markets, and estimate
percentages. You fondle some speculation in your thought, until it grows
into a gigantic scheme of profit; and if the venture prove successful,
you follow the tide tremulously, until some sudden reverse throws you
back upon the resources of your professional employ.
But again as you see this and that one wearing the blazonry which wealth
wins, and which the man of the world is sure to covet,--your weak soul
glows again with the impassioned desire, and you hunger, with brute
appetite and bestial eye, for riches. You see the mania around you, and
it is relieved of odium by the community of error. You consult some gray
old veteran in the war of gold, scarred with wounds, and crowned with
honors, and watch eagerly for the words and the ways which have won him
wealth.
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