and France, it would be a formidable factor to reckon with.

But until the socialistic millennium arrived and society was
reorganized, money, he admitted, would remain the lever of the
world, the great stimulus to effort. Money supplied not only the
necessities of life but also its luxuries, everything the material
desire craved for, and so long as money had this magic purchasing
power, so long would men lie and cheat and rob and kill for its
possession. Was life worth living without money? Could one travel
and enjoy the glorious spectacles Nature affords--the rolling
ocean, the majestic mountains, the beautiful lakes, the noble
rivers--without money? Could the book-lover buy books, the
art-lover purchase pictures? Could one have fine houses to live
in, or all sorts of modern conveniences to add to one's comfort,
without money? The philosophers declared contentment to be
happiness, arguing that the hod-carrier was likely to be happier
in his hut than the millionaire in his palace; but was not that
mere animal contentment, the happiness which knows no higher
state, the ignorance of one whose eyes have never been raised to
the heights?

No, Jefferson was no fool. He loved money for what pleasure,
intellectual or physical, it could give him, but he would never
allow money to dominate his life as his father had done. His
father, he knew well, was not a happy man, neither happy himself
nor respected by the world. He had toiled all his life to make his
vast fortune and now he toiled to take care of it. The galley
slave led a life of luxurious ease compared with John Burkett
Ryder. Baited by the yellow newspapers and magazines, investigated
by State committees, dogged by process-servers, haunted by