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They were all ours, from crested cliff to wooded base. The solemn
groves of firs and spruces, the plumed sierras of lofty pines, the
stately pillared forests of birch and beech, the wild ravines, the
tremulous thickets of silvery poplar, the bare peaks with their wide
outlooks, and the cool vales resounding with the ceaseless song of
little rivers,--we knew and loved them all; they ministered peace
and joy to us; they were all ours, though we held no title deeds and
our ownership had never been recorded.
What is property, after all? The law says there are two kinds, real
and personal. But it seems to me that the only real property is
that which is truly personal, that which we take into our inner life
and make our own forever, by understanding and admiration and
sympathy and love. This is the only kind of possession that is
worth anything.
A gallery of great paintings adorns the house of the Honourable
Midas Bond, and every year adds a new treasure to his collection.
He knows how much they cost him, and he keeps the run of the
quotations at the auction sales, congratulating himself as the price
of the works of his well-chosen artists rises in the scale, and the
value of his art treasures is enhanced. But why should he call them
his? He is only their custodian. He keeps them well varnished, and
framed in gilt. But he never passes through those gilded frames
into the world of beauty that lies behind the painted canvas. He
knows nothing of those lovely places from which the artist's soul
and hand have drawn their inspiration. They are closed and barred
to him. He has bought the pictures, but he cannot buy the key. The
poor art student who wanders through his gallery, lingering with awe
and love before the masterpieces, owns them far more truly than
Midas does.
Pomposus Silverman purchased a rich library a few years ago. The
books were rare and costly. That was the reason why Pomposus bought
them. He was proud to feel that he was the possessor of literary
treasures which were not to be found in the houses of his wealthiest
acquaintances. But the threadbare Bucherfreund, who was engaged at
a slender salary to catalogue the library and take care of it,
became the real proprietor. Pomposus paid for the books, but
Bucherfreund enjoyed them.
I do not mean to say that the possession of much money is always a
barrier to real wealth of mind and heart. Nor would I maintain that
all the poor of this world are rich in faith and heirs of the
kingdom. But some of them are. And if some of the rich of this
world (through the grace of Him with whom all things are possible)
are also modest in their tastes, and gentle in their hearts, and
open in their minds, and ready to be pleased with unbought
pleasures, they simply share in the best things which are provided
for all.
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