In these latter days of anarchy and tumult, when there is no gospel of
faith or morals, when democracy seems bent on falsifying every
prediction of earlier democratic enthusiasts by developing worse dangers
to liberty than any which our forefathers had to encounter, and when the
misery of cities is so great, it appears absurd, not to say wrong, that
we should sit still and read books. I am ashamed when I go into my own
little room and open Milton or Shakespeare after looking at a newspaper
or walking through the streets of London. I feel that Milton and
Shakespeare are luxuries, and that I really belong to the class which
builds palaces for its pleasure, although men and women may be starving
on the roads.

Nevertheless, if I were placed on a platform I should be obliged to say,
"My brethren, I plainly perceive the world is all wrong, but I cannot
see how it is to be set right," and I should descend the steps and go
home. There may be others who have a clearer perception than mine, and
who may be convinced that this way or that way lies regeneration. I do
not wish to discourage them; I wish them God-speed, but I cannot help
them nor become their disciple. Possibly I am doing nothing better than
devising excuses for lotus-eating, but here they are.

To take up something merely because I am idle is useless. The message
must come to me, and with such urgency that I cannot help delivering it.
Nor is it of any use to attempt to give my natural thoughts a force
which is not inherent in them.

The disease is often obvious, but the remedies are doubtful. The
accumulation of wealth in a few hands, generally by swindling, is
shocking, but if it were distributed to-morrow we should gain nothing.
The working man objects to the millionaire, but would gladly become a