R., this
won't do. Is it for nothing that you're a man of romance? Is it for
nothing that you long to permeate, to expand? The soul of man' I
says, 'is airy; it's full of draughts. Your soul, J. R., flaps like a
tent,' I says, 'in the breezes of dawn. The world is round. Time is
fleeting. Is man an ox? No. Is he a patent inkstand? No. Was he
created to occupy a house and fit his head to a hat? No. Then why
delay? Why smother your longings?' I says; 'J. R., this won't do.
This ain't your destiny. Rise! Be winged! Chase the ideal! Get on the
vastness! Seek and find!' But what? I says, 'Fame, fortune, a
vocation that's worthy of you.' Where? I says, 'In the beyond.' Then
I took a map, Tommy, and looked over the world; I examined the globe;
I took stock of the earth, and compared lands, seas, climates. The
likeliest-looking place appeared to be the South Pacific Ocean. Why?
It appeared to be, in general, beyond. It was the biggest thing on
the map. It was tropical. Palm-trees, spicy odours, corals, pearls.
'All right,' I says: 'J. R., it wouldn't take much to be a
millionaire in those unpolluted regions. You'd be a potentate. You'd
wear picturesque clothes, and lie on poppies and lotuses.
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