This neat epitaph implied the erection of a final tombstone over the whole race, and Kate asked no more. Meantime Malbone sat at the western door with Harry, and was running on with one of his tirades, half jest, half earnest, against American society. “In America,” he said, “everything which does not tend to money is thought to be wasted, as our Quaker neighbor thinks the children’s croquet-ground wasted, because it is not a potato field.” “Not just!” cried Harry. “Nowhere is there more respect for those who give their lives to intellectual pursuits.” “What are intellectual pursuits?” said Philip. “Editing daily newspapers? Teaching arithmetic to children? I see no others flourishing hereabouts.” “Science and literature,” answered Harry. “Who cares for literature in America,” said Philip, “after a man rises three inches above the newspaper level? Nobody reads Thoreau; only an insignificant fraction read Emerson, or even Hawthorne. The majority of people have hardly even heard their names. What inducement has a writer? Nobody has any weight in America who is not in Congress, and nobody gets into Congress without the necessity of bribing or button-holing men whom he despises.” “But you do not care for public life?” said Harry. “No,” said Malbone, “therefore this does not trouble me, but it troubles you. I am content. My digestion is good. I can always amuse myself. Why are you not satisfied?” “Because you are not,” said Harry. “You are dissatisfied with men, and so you care chiefly to amuse yourself with women and children.” “I dare say,” said Malbone, carelessly. “They are usually less ungraceful and talk better grammar.” “But American life does not mean grace nor grammar. We are all living for the future. Rough work now, and the graces by and by.” “That is what we Americans always say,” retorted Philip. “Everything is in the future. What guaranty have we for that future? I see none. We make no progress towards the higher arts, except in greater quantities of mediocrity. We sell larger editions of poor books. Our artists fill larger frames and travel farther for materials; but a ten-inch canvas would tell all they have to say.” “The wrong point of view,” said Hal. “If you begin with high art, you begin at the wrong end. The first essential for any nation is to put the mass of the people above the reach of want. We are all usefully employed, if we contribute to that.” “So is the cook usefully employed while preparing dinner,” said Philip. “Nevertheless, I do not wish to live in the kitchen.” “Yet you always admire your own country,” said Harry, “so long as you are in Europe.” “No doubt,” said Philip. “I do not object to the kitchen at that distance. And to tell the truth, America looks well from Europe. No culture, no art seems so noble as this far-off spectacle of a self-governing people. The enthusiasm lasts till one’s return. Then there seems nothing here but to work hard and keep out of mischief.”