“I 've been done pretty often afore now,” he muttered, half to himself.
“What a fallacy that is!” cried I, contemptuously. “Was not the pittance that some crafty impostor wrung from your compassion well repaid to you in the noble self-consciousness of your generosity? Did not your venison on that day taste better when you thought of his pork chop? Had not your Burgundy gained flavor by the memory of the glass of beer that was warming the half-chilled heart in his breast? Oh, the narrow mockery of fancying that we are not better by being deceived!”
“How long is it since you had your head shaved?” he asked dryly.
“I have never been the inmate of an asylum for lunatics,” said I, divining and answering the impertinent insinuation.
“Well, I own you are a rum un,” said he, half musingly.
“I accept even this humble tribute to my originality,” said I, with a sort of proud defiance. “I am well aware how _he_ must be regarded who dares to assert his own individuality.”
“I'd be very curious to know,” said he, after a pause of several minutes, “how a fellow of your stamp sets to work about gaining his livelihood? What's his first step? how does he go about it?”
I gave no other answer than a smile of scornful meaning.
“I meant nothing offensive,” resumed he, “but I really have a strong desire to be enlightened on this point.”
“You are doubtless impressed with the notion,” said I, boldly, “that men possessed of some distinct craft or especial profession are alone needed by the world of their fellows. That one must be doctor or lawyer or baker or shoemaker, to gain his living, as if life had no other wants than to be clothed and fed and physicked and litigated. As if humanity had not its thousand emotional moods, its wayward impulses, its trials and temptations, all of them more needing guidance, support, direction, and counsel, than the sickest patient needs a physician. It is on this world that I throw myself; I devote myself to guide infancy, to console age, to succor the orphan, and support the widow,--morally, I mean.”
“I begin to suspect you are a most artful vagabond,” said he half angrily.
“I have long since reconciled myself to the thought of an unjust appreciation,” said I. “It is the consolation dull men accept when confronted with those of original genius. You can't help confessing that all your distrust of me has grown out of the superiority of my powers, and the humble figure you have presented in comparison with me.”