modern talk about the dignity and even the divinity of Labour, that
they ought to be doing something else than (as the American poet
puts it with characteristic ii reverence) 'loafing about the
throne;' that we ourselves, with no ear perhaps for music, and with
little voice (alas!) for praise, should take no pleasure in such
avocations. It is not the sceptics--though their influence is
getting to be considerable--who have wrought this change, but the
conditions of modern life. Notwithstanding the cheerful 'returns'
as to pauperism, and the glowing speeches of our Chancellors of the
Exchequer, these conditions are far harder, among the thinking
classes, than they were. The question 'Is Life worth Living?' is
one that concerns philosophers and metaphysicians, and not the
persons I have in my mind at all; but the question, 'Do I wish to
be out of it?' is one that is getting answered very widely--and in
the affirmative. This was certainly not the case in the days of our
grand-sires. Which of them ever read those lines--

'For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?'--

without a sympathetic complacency? This may not have been the best
of all possible worlds to them, but none of them wished to exchange
it, save at the proper time, and for the proper place. Thanks to
overwork, and still more to over-worry, it is not so now. There are
many prosperous persons in rude health, of course, who will ask (with
a virtuous resolution that is sometimes to be deplored), 'Do you
suppose then that I wish to cut my throat?' I certainly do not.
Do not let us talk of cutting throats; though, mind you, the