Money never made any man free—only enslaves men. I can imagine no worse fortune for a man who amounts to anything, who hopes to grow and flower, who has in him the stuff of achievement, than to come into an income, ease, goods—be put into pawn to the world’s patronage.

When one is sick or old or irritable, the richest parlors and costliest ornaments appear unsightly. After long constraint in the respectable and money-making dens of existence a man emerges for a few hours and comes up like a whale to spout and breathe! One glimpse then of the eternal realities of things—real men and women, refreshing, hearty, and wicked. O it lurks in me night and day—what is gain after all to savageness and freedom?

This great earth that rolls in the air, and the sun and the moon, the light and shade, and men and women, the curious sense of body and identity—
What have you reckoned them for, camerado?
Have you reckoned them for your trade or farm work? or for the profits of your store? or to achieve yourself a position? 
Do you think nothing more is to be made of them than storekeeping and books and dry goods and something to pay taxes on?

The money value of real and personal property in New York City is somewhere between five hundred millions and a thousand millions of dollars. In its positive intrinsic it is all nothing of account. The whole of it is not of so much account as a pitcher of water or a basket of fresh eggs.

Will we rate our cash and business high?
I have no objection, I rate them as high as the highest—
Then a child born of a woman and man I rate beyond all rate.
When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-watchman’s daughter,
When warrantee deeds loafe in chairs opposite and are my friendly companions,
I intend to reach them my hand, and make as much of them as I do of men and women like you.

What is it that you made money? What is it that you got what you wanted?
It is a very dangerous thing to be rich.
High tide—everything crowded on to the utmost of prosperity—all flush, rose-color—wealth, friends, luck,
Then low tide—the reverse—
What is your money-making now? what can it do now?

The business man the acquirer vast,
Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going,
After assiduous years surveying results, preparing for departure,
Devises houses and lands to his children, bequeaths stocks, goods,
Leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of gems and gold—
I heard today of a young man who was bequeathed $500,000 and wasted it,
There are young men who are bequeathed more than that and never put it to good use.

It may be claim’d that general worldly prosperity, and a populace well-to-do, and with all life’s material comforts, is the main thing, and is enough. I admit the weight of the claim, then answer that the soul of man will not with such only—nay, not with such at all—be finally satisfied; but needs what, (standing on these and on all things, as the feet stand on the ground,) is address’d to the loftiest, to itself alone. Thrift without the loving nod of the soul is only a foetid puff.

If you are rich in yourself you are rich,
Otherwise you are wretchedly poor,
The most affluent man is he that confronts all the shows he sees by equivalents out of the stronger wealth of himself.

The road to riches is easily open to me, but I do not choose it,
I have despised riches,
The money or income question is the one that least bothers me.
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?

In business it is too much the custom to sink labor in money values,
Which is all the more reason why I should break through the custom,
Show that I put quite another estimate upon work, product—
That is profitable which you carry with you after death.

I, my life surveying,
With nothing to show, to devise, from its idle years,
Nor houses, nor lands—nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends,
My legacy only these souvenirs of democracy—in all my songs—behind me leaving.
I will make the true poem of riches,
To earn for the body and the mind whatever adheres and goes forward and is not dropped by death;
I will carefully earn riches to be carried with me after the death of my body,
Going in for my chances, spending for vast returns.

I fetch up here in harsh and superb light—wretchedly poor, excellent well. I complain not of myself; my poverty is the least of my trouble. Though poor now, even to penury, I do not want for anything. I have not so far been deprived of any physical thing I need or wish whatever, and I feel confident I shall not, in the future. Everything is mine that I want.

I am satisfied in the main with my room. My room has all the rudeness, simplicity, and free and easy character of the quarters of some old sailor. I have such a good bed. My stove does very well. I eat my rations every time—as much grub as I wish and whatever I wish—plenty of good strawberries. In general I am a frugal eater. All my life I have been such. One dish, plain and rude, cheap, nutritious, plentiful, is enough for a meal—I never cared anything for dainties.
I maintain good heart and cheer, my only torment, family matters. I can be satisfied and happy henceforward if I can get one meal a day—and know that mother and all are in good health.

While not hitherto actually wanting, (and not worrying much about the future either,) I have come to the end of my rope, and am in fact ridiculously poor. It is now time to stir first for money enough to live; it is necessary for me for the time to get employment, some little steady paying occupation.

I am very glad I have employment (and pay,) finding it not unpleasant—I must try to keep it. My ideas of salary are very moderate—just enough to pay my way, with strict economy. If I could only feel well and sleep well, I should not care a straw for pecuniary botherations and losses. As to all the little extra fixings and superfluities, I never did care for them.

I will not decline a gift, whether it be money or what not, and will thank the generous donors for their benefactions. When persons of wealth and kind inclinations, either at home or abroad, offer to aid me I appreciate and accept their kindness and good will.
Rich givers, what you give me I cheerfully accept,
A little sustenance, a hut and garden, a little money, as I rendezvous with my poems,
A traveler’s lodging and breakfast as I journey through the states.

Mrs. Ashton has sent for me to be brought to her house, to be taken care of—of course I do not accept her offer. They live in grand style and I should be more bothered than benefitted by their refinements and luxuries, servants, etc. Wealth and luxury would destroy my working force.

Is it you that thought the rich better off than you? There is nothing in them which we who are poor and plain need at all envy. Great is wealth—and great is poverty. It is surprising how little a man may live on if he must, live not meanly but with about all that is needed to make him comfortable.
You speak of not being overburdened with greenbacks and profit? Well, one can bear that, if one only keeps hearty and fat and in good spirits.

Can I dully suppose that I may attain to certain possessions—as houses or stocks or lands or goods; and when I have paid the money and taken the receipts and warranty deeds such property will be mine to enter upon and enjoy? Yes, maybe, as people stone blind from their birth enjoy the exhibitions of pictures and sculpture. But the wisest soul knows that no object can really be owned by one man or woman any more than another.

See’st thou not, the only real wealth of wealth in generosity?
You shall not heap up what is call’d riches—
All enjoyments and properties and money, and whatever money will buy—
But devote your income to others,
Give alms to everyone that asks,
Scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,
Tallying the gifts of earth, large as the earth,
Thy name an earth, with mountains, fields and tides.

The big fellows are always the generous fellows,
It’s the generosity that makes the big fellow.
Who has lavish’d all? for I lavish constantly the best I have,
Charity and personal force are the only investments worth anything.

Who goes for men and women showing poverty richer than wealth?
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!
Tone your wants and tastes low down enough—
In civilized life, the trouble and expense are mostly for what is needless, and mars rather than mends.

Give me away, aside from the noise of the world, a rural domestic life. The world is turning around again toward the simple—the condition in which each man may supply his own needs. A day may yet arrive to find us grown aboriginal again—civilized aboriginal, if I may say so.

That really needed is cheap and is soon done,
The most superb beauties are the cheapest, the world over,
I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
No possession but you may possess it—
The best of the farmer’s farm and the rich man’s elegant villa, 
And the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens—
Abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it,
Enjoying all without labor or purchase.

The best amusements are the cheapest,
The fields, the waters, the trees, the interesting specimens of humanity to be scared up—
All are, for me, ministers to entertainment.
I am a great loafer who enjoys so much seeing the busy world move by him, and exhibiting itself for his amusement,
While he takes it easy and just looks on and observes.

I am a born loafer. I seem to be remarkably constituted for being slow to affect things or be affected. I’m no hurrier; I would never take a disease in a hurry, never make a convert in a hurry; I don’t hurry even in my tantrums—I couldn’t hurry if the house was on fire.
I am a slow arriver; I get there, but I always come in last. That was always the case—always my habit. In some large sense it has been the making of me—has been me, in fact. They call it my procrastination. I am more famous for procrastination than for anything else.

I have an unusual capacity for standing still, rooted on a spot, at a rest, for a long spell, to ruminate—hours in and out sometimes. I was a first-rate aquatic loafer. I possessed almost unlimited capacity for floating on my back—for however long—could almost take a nap meanwhile.

Loafe with me on the grass,
I want to frivol my evening away;
Years ago I thought some of loafing the rest of my days,
I cannot be said even now to have wholly given up the idea.

Have you ever thought how much is in the negative quality of nature?
The simply loafing, doing nothing, worrying about nothing,
Letting everything else take care of itself.
I have sometimes amused myself with picturing out a nation of loafers,
To idle lusciously and simply—
Only think of it! An entire loafer kingdom! 

NEXT: POLITICAL VALUES

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