Let me admit at the outset that I write this essay without adequate material.  I have never known, I have never seen, any rich people.  Very often I have thought that I had found them.  But it turned out that it was not so.  They were not rich at all.  They were quite poor.  They were hard up.  They were pushed for money.  They didn’t know where to turn for ten thousand dollars.

In all the cases that I have examined this same error has crept in.  I had often imagined, from the fact of people keeping fifteen servants, that they were rich.  I had supposed that because a woman rode down town in a limousine to buy a fifty-dollar hat, she must be well to do.  Not at all.  All these people turn out on examination to be not rich.  They are cramped.  They say it themselves.  Pinched, I think, is the word they use.  When I see a glittering group of eight people in a stage box at the opera, I know that they are all pinched.  The fact that they ride home in a limousine has nothing to do with it.

A friend of mine who has ten thousand dollars a year told me the other day with a sigh that he found it quite impossible to keep up with the rich.  On his income he couldn’t do it.  A family that I know who have twenty thousand a year have told me the same thing.  They can’t keep up with the rich.  There is no use trying.  A man that I respect very much who has an income of fifty thousand dollars a year from his law practice has told me with the greatest frankness that he finds it absolutely impossible to keep up with the rich.  He says it is better to face the brutal fact of being poor.  He says he can only give me a plain meal, what he calls a home dinner —­it takes three men and two women to serve it—­and he begs me to put up with it.

As far as I remember, I have never met Mr. Carnegie.  But I know that if I did he would tell me that he found it quite impossible to keep up with Mr. Rockefeller.  No doubt Mr. Rockefeller has the same feeling.

On the other hand there are, and there must be rich people, somewhere.  I run across traces of them all the time.  The janitor in the building where I work has told me that he has a rich cousin in England who is in the South-Western Railway and gets ten pounds a week.  He says the railway wouldn’t know what to do without him.  In the same way the lady who washes at my house has a rich uncle.  He lives in Winnipeg and owns his own house, clear, and has two girls at the high school.

But these are only reported cases of richness.  I cannot vouch for them myself.

When I speak therefore of rich people and discuss whether they are happy, it is understood that I am merely drawing my conclusions from the people whom I see and know.

My judgment is that the rich undergo cruel trials and bitter tragedies of which the poor know nothing.

In the first place I find that the rich suffer perpetually from money troubles.  The poor sit snugly at home while sterling exchange falls ten points in a day.  Do they care?  Not a bit.  An adverse balance of trade washes over the nation like a flood.  Who have to mop it up?  The rich.  Call money rushes up to a hundred per cent, and the poor can still sit and laugh at a ten cent moving picture show and forget it.