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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
136
"I
only
thought
to
make
I
knew
not
what:
nor
did
I
undertake
Thereby
to
please
my
neighbour;
no,
not
I:
I
did
it
my
own
self
to
gratify."
Another
man
I
love
to
have
at
hand
is
he
who
writes
of
Blazing
Bosville,
the
Flaming
Tinman,
and
of
The
Hairy
Ones.
How
Borrow
escapes
through
his
books!
His
object
was
not
to
produce
literature
but
to
display
his
erudition
as
a
master
of
language
and
of
outlandish
custom,
and
he
went
about
the
task
in
all
seriousness
of
demolishing
the
Roman
Catholic
Church.
We
are
not
now
so
impressed
with
his
erudition
that
we
do
not
smile
at
his
vanity
and
we
are
quite
contented,
even
after
reading
his
books,
to
let
the
church
survive;
but
how
shall
we
spare
our
friend
with
his
inextinguishable
love
of
life,
his
pugilists,
his
gypsies,
his
horse
traders?
We
are
even
willing
to
plow
through
arid
deserts
of
dissertation
in
order
that
we
may
enjoy
the
perfect
oases
in
which
the
man
forgets
himself!
Reading
such
books
as
these
and
a
hundred
others,
the
books
of
the
worn
case
at
my
elbow.
"The
bulged
and
the
bruised
octavos,
The
dear
and
the
dumpy
twelves----"
I
become
like
those
initiated
in
the
Eleusinian
mysteries
who,
as
Cicero
tells
us,
have
attained
"the
art
of
living
joyfully
and
of
dying
with
a
fairer
hope."
It
is
late,
and
the
house
is
still.
A
few
bright
embers
glow
in
the
fireplace.
You
look
up
and
around
you,
as
though
coming
back
to
the
world
from
some
far-off
place.
The
clock
in
the
dining-room
ticks
with
solemn
precision;
you
did
not
recall
that
it
had
so
loud
a
tone.
It
has
been
a
great
evening,
in
this
quiet
room
on
your
farm,
you
have
been
able
to
entertain
the
worthies
of
all
the
past!
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