How often had Jean Jacques stood off from it all of
a summer night and said to himself: "Look at that, my Jean Jacques. It
is all yours, Manor and mills and farms and factory--all."
"Growing, growing, fattening, while I drone in my feather bed," he had
as often said, with the delighted observation of the philosopher. "And
me but a young man yet--but a mere boy," he would add. "I have piled it
up--I have piled it up, and it keeps on growing, first one thing and then
another."
Could such a man be unhappy? Finding within himself his satisfaction,
his fountain of appeasement, why should not his days be days of
pleasantness and peace? So it appeared to him during that summer, just
passed, when he had surveyed the World and his world within the World,
and it seemed to his innocent mind that he himself had made it all.
There he was, not far beyond forty, and eligible to become a member
of Parliament, or even a count of the Holy Roman Empire! He had thought
of both these honours, but there was so much to occupy him--he never had
a moment to himself, except at night; and then there was planning and
accounting to do, his foremen to see, or some knotty thing to
disentangle.
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