Unfortunately, however, Midas could fail; he did.  His path did not lead unerringly upward.  He starved because whenever he touched a biscuit or a ham sandwich it turned to gold.  That was the whole point of the story, though the writer has to suppress it delicately, writing so near to a portrait of Lord Rothschild.  The old fables of mankind are, indeed, unfathomably wise; but we must not have them expurgated in the interests of Mr. Vanderbilt.  We must not have King Midas represented as an example of success; he was a failure of an unusually painful kind.  Also, he had the ears of an ass.  Also (like most other prominent and wealthy persons) he endeavoured to conceal the fact.  It was his barber (if I remember right) who had to be treated on a confidential footing with regard to this peculiarity; and his barber, instead of behaving like a go-ahead person of the Succeed-at-all-costs school and trying to blackmail King Midas, went away and whispered this splendid piece of society scandal to the reeds, who enjoyed it enormously.  It is said that they also whispered it as the winds swayed them to and fro.  I look reverently at the portrait of Lord Rothschild; I read reverently about the exploits of Mr. Vanderbilt.  I know that I cannot turn everything I touch to gold; but then I also know that I have never tried, having a preference for other substances, such as grass, and good wine.  I know that these people have certainly succeeded in something; that they have certainly overcome somebody; I know that they are kings in a sense that no men were ever kings before; that they create markets and bestride continents.  Yet it always seems to me that there is some small domestic fact that they are hiding, and I have sometimes thought I heard upon the wind the laughter and whisper of the reeds.

At least, let us hope that we shall all live to see these absurd books about Success covered with a proper derision and neglect.  They do not teach people to be successful, but they do teach people to be snobbish; they do spread a sort of evil poetry of worldliness.  The Puritans are always denouncing books that inflame lust; what shall we say of books that inflame the viler passions of avarice and pride?  A hundred years ago we had the ideal of the Industrious Apprentice; boys were told that by thrift and work they would all become Lord Mayors.  This was fallacious, but it was manly, and had a minimum of moral truth.  In our society, temperance will not help a poor man to enrich himself, but it may help him to respect himself.  Good work will not make him a rich man, but good work may make him a good workman.  The Industrious Apprentice rose by virtues few and narrow indeed, but still virtues.  But what shall we say of the gospel preached to the new Industrious Apprentice; the Apprentice who rises not by his virtues, but avowedly by his vices?

ON RUNNING AFTER ONE’S HAT