Old Bounderby
valued the man who was worth a "hundred thousand pounds." Others do the
same. The lowest human nature loves money, possessions, value. "What is
he worth?" "What is his income?" are the usual questions. If you say,
"There is a thoroughly good, benevolent, virtuous man!" nobody will
notice him. But if you say, "There is a man worth a million of money,"
he will be stared at till out of sight. A crowd of people used to
collect at Hyde Park Corner to see a rich man pass. "Here comes old
Crockie!" and the crowd would separate to allow him to pass, amidst
whispers of admiration. It was old Crockford, who made a large fortune
by keeping a gambling-house.
"The very sound of millions," says Mrs. Gore,[1] "tickles the ear of an
Englishman! He loves it so much, indeed, that it all but reconciles him
to the National Debt; and when applied to private proprietorship, it
secures deference for lowness of mind, birth, habits, and pursuits....
Ambition and money-love, if they tend to ennoble a country, reduce to
insignificance the human particles of which the nation is composed. In
their pursuit of riches, the English are gradually losing sight of
higher characteristics; ... our pursuit of railway bubbles and every
other frantic speculation of the hour, affords sufficient evidence of
the craving after capital superseding every better aspiration, whether
for this world or the next.
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