es Oliver was more interested in industrialism
than in finance. His interest in humanity arose out of his desire to
benefit humanity, and not for a wish to exploit it.

If that is not a great lesson for the young, as well as for the old,
then write me down as a soused gurnet.

The gentle art of four-flushing was absolutely beyond his ken. He was
like those South-Sea Islanders told of by Robert Louis Stevenson, who
didn't know enough to lie until after the missionaries came, when they
partially overcame the disability.

James Oliver didn't know enough to lie. He knew only one way to do
business, and that was the simple, frank, honest and direct way. The
shibboleth of that great New York politician, "Find your sucker, play
your sucker, land your sucker, and then beat it," would have been to him
hopeless Choctaw.

His ambition was to make a better plow than any other living man could
make, and then sell it at a price the farmer could afford to pay. His
own personal profit was a secondary matter. In fact, at board-meetings,
when ways and means were under discussion, he would break in and display
a moldboard, a colter or a new clevis, with a letter from Farmer John
Johnson of Jones' Crossroads, as to its efficiency. Then when the board
did not wax enthusiastic over his new toy, he would slide out and forget
to come back. His heart was set on making a better tool at less expense
to the consumer, than the world had ever seen. Thus would he lessen
labor and increase production. So besides great talent he had a unique
simplicity, which often supplied smiles for his friends.

James Oliver had a sort of warm feeling for every man who had ever held
the handles of an Oliver Plow--he regarded such a one as belonging to
the great family of Olivers. He believed that success depended upon
supplying a commodity that made the buyer a friend; and heaven, to him,
was a vast County Fair, largely attended by farmers, where exhibitions
of plowing were important items on the program. Streets paved with gold
were no lure for him.

In various ways he resembled William Morris, who, when asked what was
his greatest ambition, answered, "I hope to make a perfect blue," and
the dye on his hands attested his endeavors in this line.

Both were workingmen and delighted in the society of toilers. They lived
like poor men, and wore the garb of mechanics. Neither had any use for
the cards, curds and custards of what is called polite society. They
ha