long as a man is occupied in acquiring property, we ask no further
questions; we take for granted that he is virtuously employed, as
long as he breaks no social rules: while if he succeeds in getting
into his hands an unusual share of the divisible goods of the
world, we think highly of him. Indeed, our ideals have altered very
little since barbarous times, and we still are under the impression
that resourcefulness is the mark of the hero. I imagine that
leisure as an occupation is much more distrusted and disapproved of
in America than in England; but even in England, where the power to
be idle is admired and envied, a man who lives as heroic a life as
can be attained by playing golf and shooting pheasants is more
trusted and respected than a rich man who paints or composes music
for his amusement. Field sports are intelligible enough; the
pursuit of art requires some explanation, and incurs a suspicion of
effeminacy or eccentricity. Only when authorship becomes a source
of profit is it thoroughly respectable.

I had a friend who died not very long ago. He had in his younger
days done a little administrative work; but he was wealthy, and at
a comparatively early age he abandoned himself to leisure. He
travelled, he read, he went much into society, he enjoyed the
company of his friends. When he died he was spoken of as an
amateur, and praised as a cricketer of some merit. Even his closest
friends seemed to find it necessary to explain and make excuses; he
was shy, he stammered, he was not suited to parliamentary life; but
I can think of few people who did so much for his friends or who so
radiated the simplest sort of happiness. To be welcomed by him, to
be with him, put a little glow on life, because you felt
instinctively that he was actively enjoying every hour of your
company. I thought, I remember, at his death, how hopeless it was