<p><SPAN name="c24" id="c24"></SPAN> </p>
<p> </p>
<h3>CHAPTER XXIV.</h3>
<h4>GEORGE ROBINSON'S DREAM.<br/> </h4>
<p>George Robinson, though his present wants were provided for by his
pen, was by no means disposed to sink into a literary hack. It was by
commerce that he desired to shine. It was to trade,—trade, in the
highest sense of the word,—that his ambition led him. Down at the
Crystal Palace he had stood by the hour together before the statue of
the great Cheetham,—ominous name!—of him who three centuries ago
had made money by dealing in Manchester goods. Why should not he also
have his statue? But then how was he to begin? He had begun, and
failed. With hopeful words he had declared to Mr. Brown that not on
that account was he daunted; but still there was before him the
burden of another commencement. Many of us know what it is to have
high hopes, and yet to feel from time to time a terrible despondency
when the labours come by which those hopes should be realized.
Robinson had complained that he was impeded in his flight by Brown
and Jones. Those impediments had dropped from him now; and yet he
knew not how to proceed upon his course.</p>
<p>He walked forth one evening, after his daily task, pondering these
things as he went. He made his solitary way along the Kingsland Road,
through Tottenham, and on to Edmonton, thinking deeply of his future
career. What had John Gilpin done that had made him a citizen of
renown? Had he advertised? Or had he contented himself simply with
standing behind his counter till customers should come to him? In
John Gilpin's time the science of advertisement was not born;—or, if
born, was in its earliest infancy. And yet he had achieved renown.
And Cheetham;—but probably Cheetham had commenced with a capital.</p>
<p>Thus he walked on till he found himself among the fields,—those
first fields which greet the eyes of a Londoner, in which wheat is
not grown, but cabbages and carrots for the London market; and here
seating himself upon a gate, he gave his mind up to a close study of
the subject. First he took from his pocket a short list which he
always carried, and once more read over the names and figures which
it bore.<br/> </p>
<div class="center">
<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="1">
<tr>
<td align="center">
<p>Barlywig, £40,000 per annum.<br/> </p>
</td>
</tr>
</table></div>
<p>How did Barlywig begin such an outlay as that? He knew that Barlywig
had, as a boy, walked up to town with twopence in his pocket, and in
his early days, had swept out the shop of a shoemaker. The giants of
trade all have done that. Then he went on with the
<span class="nowrap">list:—</span><br/> </p>
<div class="center">
<table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="1">
<tr>
<td align="left">Holloway</td><td> . . . </td><td align="left">£30,000</td><td>per annum.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left">Moses</td><td> . . . </td><td align="left"> 10,000</td><td>"</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left">Macassar Oil</td><td> . . . </td><td align="left"> 10,000</td><td>"</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left">Dr. De Jongh</td><td> . . . </td><td align="left"> 10,000</td><td>"</td>
</tr>
</table></div>
<p> <br/>What a glorious
fraternity! There were many others that followed with
figures almost equally stupendous. Revalenta Arabica! Bedsteads!
Paletots! Food for Cattle! But then how did these great men begin? He
himself had begun with some money in his hand, and had failed. As to
them, he believed that they had all begun with twopence. As for
genius and special talent, it was admitted on all sides that he
possessed it. Of that he could feel no doubt, as other men were
willing to employ him.</p>
<p>"Shall I never enjoy the fruits of my own labour?" said he to
himself. "Must I still be as the bee, whose honey is robbed from him
as soon as made?<br/> </p>
<blockquote><blockquote>
<p>The lofty rhyme I still must build,<br/>
Though other hands shall touch the money.<br/> </p>
</blockquote></blockquote>
<p>Will this be my fate for ever?—<br/> </p>
<blockquote><blockquote>
<p>The patient oxen till the furrows,<br/>
But never eat the generous corn.<br/> </p>
</blockquote></blockquote>
<p>Shall the corn itself never be my own?"</p>
<p>And as he sat there the words of Poppins came upon his memory. "You
advertising chaps never do anything. All that printing never makes
the world any richer." At the moment he had laughed down Poppins with
absolute scorn; but now, at this solitary moment he began to reflect
whether there might be any wisdom in his young friend's words. "The
question has been argued," he continued in his soliloquy, "by the
greatest philosopher of the age. A man goes into hats, and in order
to force a sale, he builds a large cart in the shape of a hat, paints
it blue, and has it drawn through the streets. He still finds that
his sale is not rapid; and with a view of increasing it, what shall
he do? Shall he make his felt hats better, or shall he make his
wooden hat bigger? Poppins and the philosopher say that the former
plan will make the world the richer, but they do not say that it will
sell the greater number of hats. Am I to look after the world? Am I
not to look to myself? Is not the world a collection of individuals,
all of whom are doing so? Has anything been done for the world by the
Quixotic aspirations of general philanthropy, at all equal to that
which individual enterprise has achieved? Poppins and the philosopher
would spend their energies on a good hat. But why? Not that they love
the head that is to wear it. The sale would still be their object.
They would sell hats, not that the heads of men may be well covered,
but that they themselves might live and become rich. To force a sale
must be the first duty of a man in trade, and a man's first duty
should be all in all to him.</p>
<p>"If the hats sold from the different marts be not good enough, with
whom does the fault rest? Is it not with the customers who purchase
them? Am I to protect the man who demands from me a cheap hat? Am I
to say, 'Sir, here is a cheap hat. It is made of brown paper, and the
gum will run from it in the first shower. It will come to pieces when
worn and disgrace you among your female acquaintances by becoming
dinged and bulged?' Should I do him good? He would buy his cheap hat
elsewhere, and tell pleasant stories of the madman he had met. The
world of purchasers will have cheap articles, and the world of
commerce must supply them. The world of purchasers will have their
ears tickled, and the world of commerce must tickle them. Of what use
is all this about adulteration? If Mrs. Jones will buy her sausages
at a lower price per pound than pork fetches in the market, has she a
right to complain when some curious doctor makes her understand that
her viands have not been supplied exclusively from the pig? She
insists on milk at three halfpence a quart; but the cow will not
produce it. The cow cannot produce it at that price, unless she be
aided by the pump; and therefore the pump aids her. If there be
dishonesty in this, it is with the purchaser, not with the
vendor,—with the public, not with the tradesman."</p>
<p>But still as he sat upon the gate, thus arguing with himself, a dream
came over him, a mist of thought as it were, whispering to him
strangely that even yet he might be wrong. He endeavoured to throw it
off, shaking himself as it were, and striving to fix his mind firmly
upon his old principles. But it was of no avail. He knew he was
awake; but yet he dreamed; and his dream was to him as a terrible
nightmare.</p>
<p>What if he were wrong! What if those two philosophers had on their
side some truth! He would fain be honest if he knew the way. What if
those names upon his list were the names of false gods, whose worship
would lead him to a hell of swindlers instead of the bright heaven of
commercial nobility! "Barlywig is in Parliament," he said to himself,
over and over again, in loud tones, striving to answer the spirit of
his dream. "In Parliament! He sits upon committees; men jostle to
speak to him; and he talks loud among the big ones of the earth. He
spends forty thousand a year in his advertisements, and grows
incredibly rich by the expenditure. Men and women flock in crowds to
his shop. He lives at Albert Gate in a house big enough for a royal
duke, and is the lord of ten thousand acres in Yorkshire. Barlywig
cannot have been wrong, let that philosopher philosophize as he
will!" But still the dream was there, crushing him like a nightmare.</p>
<p>"Why don't you produce something, so as to make the world richer?"
Poppins had said. He knew well what Poppins had meant by making the
world richer. If a man invent a Katakairion shirt, he does make the
world richer; if it be a good one, he makes it much richer. But the
man who simply says that he has done so adds nothing to the world's
wealth. His answer had been that it was his work to sell the shirts,
and that of the purchaser to buy them. Let each look to his own work.
If he could be successful in his selling, then he would have a right
to be proud of his success. The world would be best served by close
attention on the part of each to his own business. Such had been the
arguments with which he had silenced his friend and contented
himself, while the excitement of the shop in Bishopsgate Street was
continued; but now, as he sat there upon the gate, this dream came
upon him, and he began to doubt. Could it be that a man had a double
duty, each separate from the other;—a duty domestic and private,
requiring his devotion and loyalty to his wife, his children, his
partners, and himself; and another duty, widely extended in all its
bearings and due to the world in which he lived? Could Poppins have
seen this, while he was blind? Was a man bound to produce true shirts
for the world's benefit even though he should make no money by so
doing;—either true shirts or none at all?</p>
<p>The evening light fell upon him as he still sat there on the gate,
and he became very melancholy. "If I have been wrong," he said to
himself, "I must give up the fight. I cannot begin again now and
learn new precepts. After all that I have done with that old man's
money, I cannot now own that I have been wrong, and commence again on
a theory taught to me by Poppins. If this be so, then farewell to
Commerce!" And as he said so, he dropped from his seat, and, leaning
over the rail, hid his face within his hands.</p>
<p>As he stood there, suddenly a sound struck his ears, and he knew that
the bells of Edmonton were ringing. The church was distant, but
nevertheless the tones came sharp upon him with their clear music.
They rang on quickly, loudly, and with articulate voice. Surely there
were words within those sounds. What was it they were saying to him?
He listened for a few seconds, for a minute or two, for five minutes;
and then his ear and senses had recognized the language—"Turn again,
Robinson, Member of Parliament." He heard it so distinctly that his
ear would not for a moment abandon the promise. The words could not
be mistaken. "Turn again, Robinson, Member of Parliament."</p>
<p>Then he did turn, and walked back to London with a trusting heart.</p>
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