upon the portentous thing with a great distaste, and doubt with
what altered passions we shall come out of it. The huge, rushing,
aggregate life of a great city--the crushing crowds in the
streets, where friends seldom meet and there are few greetings;
the thunderous noise of trade and industry that speaks of nothing
but gain and competition, and a consuming fever that checks the
natural courses of the kindly blood; no leisure anywhere, no
quiet, no restful ease, no wise repose--all this shocks us. It
is inhumane. It does not seem human. How much more likely does it
appear that we shall find men sane and human about a country
fireside, upon the streets of quiet villages, where all are
neighbors, where groups of friends gather easily, and a constant
sympathy makes the very air seem native! Why should not the city
seem infinitely more human than the hamlet? Why should not human
traits the more abound where human beings teem millions strong?

Because the city curtails man of his wholeness, specializes him,
quickens some powers, stunts others, gives him a sharp edge, and
a temper like that of steel, makes him unfit for nothing so much
as to sit still. Men have indeed written like human beings in the
midst of great cities, but not often when they have shared the
city's characteristic life, its struggle for place and for gain.
There are not many places that belong to a city's life to which
you can "invite your soul." Its haste, its preoccupations, its
anxieties, its rushing noise as of men driven, its ringing cries,
distract you. It offers no quiet for reflection; it permits no
retirement to any who share its life. It is a place of little
tasks, of narrowed functions, of aggregate and not of individual
strength. The great machine dominates its little parts, and its
Society is as much of a machine as its business.