could expect; two thousand copies was a visionary estimate unless it were canvassed for subscription. As far as Adams knew, he had but three serious readers:—Abram Hewitt, Wayne McVeagh and Hay himself. He was amply satisfied with their consideration, and could dispense with that of the other fifty-nine million, nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred-and-ninety-seven; but neither he nor Hay was better off in any other respect, and their chief title to consideration was their right to look out of their own windows on great men, alive or dead, in La Fayette Square, a privilege which had nothing to do with their writings.
The world was always good-natured; civil; glad to be amused; open-armed to any one who amused it; patient with everyone who did not insist on putting himself in its way, or costing it money; but this was not consideration, still less power in any of its concrete forms, and applied as well or better to a comic actor. Certainly a rare soprano or tenor voice earned infinitely more applause as it gave infinitely more pleasure, even in America; but one does what one can with one's means, and casting up one's balance sheet, one expects only a reasonable return on one's capital. Hay and Adams had risked nothing and never played for high stakes. King had followed the ambitious course. He had played for many millions. He had more than once come close to a great success, but the result was still in doubt, and meanwhile he was passing the best years of his life underground. For companionship he was mostly lost.
Thus, in 1892, neither Hay, King nor Adams knew whether they had attained successs, or how to estimate it, or what to call it; and the American people seemed to have no clearer idea than they. Indeed the American people had no idea at all; they were wandering in a wilderness much more sandy than the Hebrews had ever trodden about Sinai; they had neither serpents nor golden calfs to worship. They had lost the sense of worship; for the idea that they worshipped money seemed a delusion. Worship of money was an old-world trait; a healthy appetite akin to worship of the Gods, or to worship of power in any concrete shape; but the American wasted money more recklessly than anyone ever did before; he spent more to less purpose than any extravagant court-aristocracy; he had no sense of relative values, and knew not what
