Not exactly the sort of thing for an idle fellow to think about, isit? But outsiders, you know, often see most of the game; and sittingin my arbor by the wayside, smoking my hookah of contentment andeating the sweet lotus-leaves of indolence, I can look out musinglyupon the whirling throng that rolls and tumbles past me on the greathigh-road of life.

Never-ending is the wild procession. Day and night you can hear thequick tramp of the myriad feet--some running, some walking, somehalting and lame; but all hastening, all eager in the feverish race,all straining life and limb and heart and soul to reach theever-receding horizon of success.

Mark them as they surge along--men and women, old and young, gentleand simple, fair and foul, rich and poor, merry and sad--all hurrying,bustling, scrambling. The strong pushing aside the weak, the cunningcreeping past the foolish; those behind elbowing those before; thosein front kicking, as they run, at those behind. Look close and seethe flitting show. Here is an old man panting for breath, and there atimid maiden driven by a hard and sharp-faced matron; here is astudious youth, reading "How to Get On in the World" and lettingeverybody pass him as he stumbles along with his eyes on his book;here is a bored-looking man, with a fashionably dressed woman jogginghis elbow; here a boy gazing wistfully back at the sunny village thathe never again will see; here, with a firm and easy step, strides abroad-shouldered man; and here, with stealthy tread, a thin-faced,stooping fellow dodges and shuffles upon his way; here, with gazefixed always on the ground, an artful rogue carefully works his wayfrom side to side of the road and thinks he is going forward; and herea youth with a noble face stands, hesitating as he looks from thedistant goal to the mud beneath his feet.

And now into sight comes a fair girl, with her dainty face growingmore wrinkled at every step, and now a care-worn man, and now ahopeful lad.

A motley throng--a motley throng! Prince and beggar, sinner andsaint, butcher and baker and candlestick maker, tinkers and tailors,and plowboys and sailors--all jostling along together. Here thecounsel in his wig and gown, and here the old Jew clothes-man underhis dingy tiara; here the soldier in his scarlet, and here theundertaker's mute in streaming hat-band and worn cotton gloves; herethe musty scholar fumbling his faded leaves, and here the scentedactor dangling his showy seals. Here the glib politician crying hislegislative panaceas, and here the peripatetic Cheap-Jack holdingaloft his quack cures for human ills. Here the sleek capitalist andthere the sinewy laborer; here the man of science and here theshoe-back; here the poet and here the water-rate collector; here thecabinet minister and there the ballet-dancer. Here a red-nosedpublican shouting the praises of his vats and there a temperancelecturer at 50 pounds a night; here a judge and there a swindler; herea priest and there a gambler. Here a jeweled duchess, smiling andgracious; here a thin lodging-house keeper, irritable with cooking;and here a wabbling, strutting thing, tawdry in paint and finery.

Cheek by cheek they struggle onward. Screaming, cursing, and praying,laughing, singing, and moaning, they rush past side by side. Theirspeed never slackens, the race never ends. There is no wayside restfor them, no halt by cooling fountains, no pause beneath green shades.

On, on, on--on through the heat and the crowd and the dust--on, orthey will be trampled down and lost--on, with throbbing brain andtottering limbs--on, till the heart grows sick, and the eyes growblurred, and a gurgling groan tells those behind they may close upanother space.

And yet, in spite of the killing pace and the stony track, who but thesluggard or the dolt can hold aloof from the course? Who--like thebelated traveler that stands watching fairy revels till he snatchesand drains the goblin cup and springs into the whirling circle--canview the mad tumult and not be drawn into its midst? Not I, for one.

I confess to the wayside arbor, the pipe of contentment, and thelotus-leaves being altogether unsuitable metaphors. They sounded verynice and philosophical, but I'm afraid I am not the sort of person tosit in arbors smoking pipes when there is any fun going on outside. Ithink I more resemble the Irishman who, seeing a crowd collecting,sent his little girl out to ask if there was going to be a row--"'Cos, if so, father would like to be in it."I love the fierce strife. I like to watch it. I like to hear ofpeople getting on in it--battling their way bravely and fairly--thatis, not slipping through by luck or trickery. It stirs one's oldSaxon fighting blood like the tales of "knights who fought 'gainstfearful odds" that thrilled us in our school-boy days.

And fighting the battle of life is fighting against fearful odds, too.

There are giants and dragons in this nineteenth century, and thegolden casket that they guard is not so easy to win as it appears inthe story-books. There, Algernon takes one long, last look at theancestral hall, dashes the tear-drop from his eye, and goes off--toreturn in three years' time, rolling in riches. The authors do nottell us "how it's done," which is a pity, for it would surely proveexciting.

But then not one novelist in a thousand ever does tell us the realstory of their hero. They linger for a dozen pages over a tea-party,but sum up a life's history with "he had become one of our merchantprinces," or "he was now a great artist, with the world at his feet."Why, there is more real life in one of Gilbert's patter-songs than inhalf the biographical novels ever written. He relates to us all thevarious steps by which his office-boy rose to be the "ruler of thequeen's navee," and explains to us how the briefless barrister managedto become a great and good judge, "ready to try this breach of promiseof marriage." It is in the petty details, not in the great results,that the interest of existence lies.

What we really want is a novel showing us all the hidden under-currentof an ambitious man's career--his struggles, and failures, and hopes,his disappointments and victories. It would be an immense success. Iam sure the wooing of Fortune would prove quite as interesting a taleas the wooing of any flesh-and-blood maiden, though, by the way, itwould read extremely similar; for Fortune is, indeed, as the ancientspainted her, very like a woman--not quite so unreasonable andinconsistent, but nearly so--and the pursuit is much the same in onecase as in the other. Ben Jonson's couplet--"Court a mistress, she denies you;Let her alone, she will court you"--puts them both in a nutshell. A woman never thoroughly cares for herlover until he has ceased to care for her; and it is not until youhave snapped your fingers in Fortune's face and turned on your heelthat she begins to smile upon you.

But by that time you do not much care whether she smiles or frowns.

Why could she not have smiled when her smiles would have filled youwith ecstasy? Everything comes too late in this world.

Good people say that it is quite right and proper that it should beso, and that it proves ambition is wicked.

Bosh! Good people are altogether wrong. (They always are, in myopinion. We never agree on any single point.) What would the worlddo without ambitious people, I should like to know? Why, it would beas flabby as a Norfolk dumpling. Ambitious people are the leavenwhich raises it into wholesome bread. Without ambitious people theworld would never get up. They are busybodies who are about early inthe morning, hammering, shouting, and rattling the fire-irons, andrendering it generally impossible for the rest of the house to remainin bed.

Wrong to be ambitious, forsooth! The men wrong who, with bent backand sweating brow, cut the smooth road over which humanity marchesforward from generation to generation! Men wrong for using thetalents that their Master has intrusted to them--for toiling whileothers play!

Of course they are seeking their reward. Man is not given thatgodlike unselfishness that thinks only of others' good. But inworking for themselves they are working for us all. We are so boundtogether that no man can labor for himself alone. Each blow hestrikes in his own behalf helps to mold the universe. The stream instruggling onward turns the mill-wheel; the coral insect, fashioningits tiny cell, joins continents to one another; and the ambitious man,building a pedestal for himself, leaves a monument to posterity.

Alexander and Caesar fought for their own ends, but in doing so theyput a belt of civilization half round the earth. Stephenson, to win afortune, invented the steam-engine; and Shakespeare wrote his plays inorder to keep a comfortable home for Mrs. Shakespeare and the littleShakespeares.

Contented, unambitious people are all very well in their way. Theyform a neat, useful background for great portraits to be paintedagainst, and they make a respectable, if not particularly intelligent,audience for the active spirits of the age to play before. I have nota word to say against contented people so long as they keep quiet.

But do not, for goodness' sake, let them go strutting about, as theyare so fond of doing, crying out that they are the true models for thewhole species. Why, they are the deadheads, the drones in the greathive, the street crowds that lounge about, gaping at those who areworking.

And let them not imagine, either--as they are also fond of doing--thatthey are very wise and philosophical and that it is a very artfulthing to be contented. It may be true that "a contented mind is happyanywhere," but so is a Jerusalem pony, and the consequence is thatboth are put anywhere and are treated anyhow. "Oh, you need notbother about him," is what is said; "he is very contented as he is,and it would be a pity to disturb him." And so your contented partyis passed over and the discontented man gets his place.

If you are foolish enough to be contented, don't show it, but grumblewith the rest; and if you can do with a little, ask for a great deal.

Because if you don't you won't get any. In this world it is necessaryto adopt the principle pursued by the plaintiff in an action fordamages, and to demand ten times more than you are ready to accept.

If you can feel satisfied with a hundred, begin by insisting on athousand; if you start by suggesting a hundred you will only get ten.

It was by not following this simple plan that poor Jean JacquesRousseau came to such grief. He fixed the summit of his earthly blissat living in an orchard with an amiable woman and a cow, and he neverattained even that. He did get as far as the orchard, but the womanwas not amiable, and she brought her mother with her, and there was nocow. Now, if he had made up his mind for a large country estate, ahouseful of angels, and a cattle-show, he might have lived to possesshis kitchen garden and one head of live-stock, and even possibly havecome across that _rara-avis_--a really amiable woman.

What a terribly dull affair, too, life must be for contented people!

How heavy the time must hang upon their hands, and what on earth dothey occupy their thoughts with, supposing that they have any?

Reading the paper and smoking seems to be the intellectual food of themajority of them, to which the more energetic add playing the fluteand talking about the affairs of the next-door neighbor.

They never knew the excitement of expectation nor the stern delight ofaccomplished effort, such as stir the pulse of the man who hasobjects, and hopes, and plans. To the ambitious man life is abrilliant game--a game that calls forth all his tact and energy andnerve--a game to be won, in the long run, by the quick eye and thesteady hand, and yet having sufficient chance about its working out togive it all the glorious zest of uncertainty. He exults in it as thestrong swimmer in the heaving billows, as the athlete in the wrestle,the soldier in the battle.

And if he be defeated he wins the grim joy of fighting; if he lose therace, he, at least, has had a run. Better to work and fail than tosleep one's life away.

So, walk up, walk up, walk up. Walk up, ladies and gentlemen! walkup, boys and girls! Show your skill and try your strength; brave yourluck and prove your pluck. Walk up! The show is never closed and thegame is always going. The only genuine sport in all the fair,gentlemen--highly respectable and strictly moral--patronized by thenobility, clergy, and gentry. Established in the year one, gentlemen,and been flourishing ever since--walk up! Walk up, ladies andgentlemen, and take a hand. There are prizes for all and all canplay. There is gold for the man and fame for the boy; rank for themaiden and pleasure for the fool. So walk up, ladies and gentlemen,walk up!--all prizes and no blanks; for some few win, and as to therest, why--"The rapture of pursuingIs the prize the vanquished gain."