‘Ten thousand dollars.’

Adding, after a considerable pause—­

‘Ten thousand.  It is a heap of money.’

Presently the poet inquired—­

‘Are you going to send it to him right away?’

‘Yes,’ I said.  ‘It is a queer question.’

No reply.  After a little, Rogers asked, hesitatingly: 

‘All of it?—­That is—­I mean—­’

‘Certainly, all of it.’

I was going to say more, but stopped—­was stopped by a train of thought which started up in me.  Thompson spoke, but my mind was absent, and I did not catch what he said.  But I heard Rogers answer—­

’Yes, it seems so to me.  It ought to be quite sufficient; for I don’t see that he has done anything.’

Presently the poet said—­

’When you come to look at it, it is more than sufficient.  Just look at it—­five thousand dollars!  Why, he couldn’t spend it in a lifetime!  And it would injure him, too; perhaps ruin him—­you want to look at that.  In a little while he would throw his last away, shut up his shop, maybe take to drinking, maltreat his motherless children, drift into other evil courses, go steadily from bad to worse—­’

‘Yes, that’s it,’ interrupted Rogers, fervently, ’I’ve seen it a hundred times—­yes, more than a hundred.  You put money into the hands of a man like that, if you want to destroy him, that’s all; just put money into his hands, it’s all you’ve got to do; and if it don’t pull him down, and take all the usefulness out of him, and all the self-respect and everything, then I don’t know human nature—­ain’t that so, Thompson?  And even if we were to give him a third of it; why, in less than six months—­’

‘Less than six weeks, you’d better say!’ said I, warming up and breaking in.  ’Unless he had that three thousand dollars in safe hands where he couldn’t touch it, he would no more last you six weeks than—­’

‘Of course he wouldn’t,’ said Thompson; ’I’ve edited books for that kind of people; and the moment they get their hands on the royalty—­maybe it’s three thousand, maybe it’s two thousand—­’

’What business has that shoemaker with two thousand dollars, I should like to know?’ broke in Rogers, earnestly.  ’A man perhaps perfectly contented now, there in Mannheim, surrounded by his own class, eating his bread with the appetite which laborious industry alone can give, enjoying his humble life, honest, upright, pure in heart; and blest!—­ yes, I say blest! blest above all the myriads that go in silk attire and walk the empty artificial round of social folly—­but just you put that temptation before him once! just you lay fifteen hundred dollars before a man like that, and say—­’

‘Fifteen hundred devils!’ cried I, ’five hundred would rot his principles, paralyze his industry, drag him to the rumshop, thence to the gutter, thence to the almshouse, thence to ——­’