the mercenary journalist? The day you write for the dollar, your prose
is not worth the dollar you write for. The more elevated in kind is the
object of human labor, the more the mercenary spirit, if it be present,
makes this labor void and corrupts it. There are a thousand reasons to
say that all toil merits its wage, that every man who devotes his
energies to providing for his life should have his place in the sun, and
that he who does nothing useful, does not gain his livelihood, in short,
is only a parasite. But there is no greater social error than to make
gain the sole motive of action. The best we put into our work--be that
work done by strength of muscle, warmth of heart, or concentration of
mind--is precisely that for which no one can pay us. Nothing better
proves that man is not a machine than this fact: two men at work with
the same forces and the same movements, produce totally different
results. Where lies the cause of this phenomenon? In the divergence of
their intentions. One has the mercenary spirit, the other has singleness
of purpose. Both receive their pay, but the labor of the one is barren;
the other has put his soul into his work. The work of the first is like
a grain of sand, out of which nothing comes through all eternity; the
other's work is like the living seed thrown into the ground; it
germinates and brings forth harvests. This is the secret which explains
why so many people have failed while employing the very processes by
which others succeed. Automatons do not reproduce their kind, and
mercenary labor yields no fruit.

* * * * *

Unquestionably we must bow before economic facts, and recognize the
difficulties of living: from day to day it becomes more imperative to
combine well one's forces in order to succeed in feeding, clothing,
housing, and bringing up a family. He who does not rightly take account
of these crying necessities, who makes no calculation, no provision for
the future, is but a visionary or an incompetent, and runs the risk of
sooner or later asking alms from those at whose parsimony he has
sneered. And yet, what would become of us if these cares absorbed us
entirely? if, mere accountants, we should wish to measure our effort by
the money it brings, do nothing that does not end in a receipt, and
consider as things worthless or pains lost whatever cannot be drawn up
in figures on the pages of a ledger? Did our mothers look for pay in
loving us and ca