godlike unselfishness that thinks only of others' good. But in
working for themselves they are working for us all. We are so bound
together that no man can labor for himself alone. Each blow he
strikes in his own behalf helps to mold the universe. The stream in
struggling onward turns the mill-wheel; the coral insect, fashioning
its tiny cell, joins continents to one another; and the ambitious man,
building a pedestal for himself, leaves a monument to posterity.
Alexander and Caesar fought for their own ends, but in doing so they
put a belt of civilization half round the earth. Stephenson, to win a
fortune, invented the steam-engine; and Shakespeare wrote his plays in
order to keep a comfortable home for Mrs. Shakespeare and the little
Shakespeares.

Contented, unambitious people are all very well in their way. They
form a neat, useful background for great portraits to be painted
against, and they make a respectable, if not particularly intelligent,
audience for the active spirits of the age to play before. I have not
a word to say against contented people so long as they keep quiet.
But do not, for goodness' sake, let them go strutting about, as they
are so fond of doing, crying out that they are the true models for the
whole species. Why, they are the deadheads, the drones in the great
hive, the street crowds that lounge about, gaping at those who are
working.

And let them not imagine, either--as they are also fond of doing--that
they are very wise and philosophical and that it is a very artful
thing to be contented. It may be true that "a contented mind is happy
anywhere," but so is a Jerusalem pony, and the consequence is that
both are put anywhere and are treated anyhow. "Oh, you need not
bother about him," is what is said; "he is very contented as he is,