It is a foolish and vain thing to scoff at business and those who do
it in the market places, and to shout out the old war cries of our
fathers, in the face of a generation which sings the song of capital,
or groans in heavy labour beneath the banners of their copyrighted
trade marks; and besides, who would buy our books (also copyrighted
except in America) if we did? Let us rather rise up and clothe
ourselves, and put a tall hat upon our heads and do homage to the new
Democracy.
And yet in the depths of our hearts and the quiet of our chambers let
us sometimes cry to the old days, and the old men, and the old ways of
thought, let us cry "/Ave atque vale/,--Hail and farewell." Our
fathers' armour hangs above the door, their portraits decorate the
wall, and their fierce and half-tamed hearts moulder beneath the
stones of yonder church. Hail and farewell to you, our fathers!
Perchance a man might have had worse company than he met with at your
boards, and even have found it not more hard to die beneath your
sword-cuts than to be gently cozened to the grave by duly qualified
practitioners at two guineas a visit.
And the upshot of all this is that the Squire was not altogether wrong
when he declared in the silence of /his/ chamber that Edward Cossey
was not quite a gentleman.
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