speed never slackens, the race never ends. There is no wayside rest
for them, no halt by cooling fountains, no pause beneath green shades.
On, on, on--on through the heat and the crowd and the dust--on, or
they will be trampled down and lost--on, with throbbing brain and
tottering limbs--on, till the heart grows sick, and the eyes grow
blurred, and a gurgling groan tells those behind they may close up
another space.

And yet, in spite of the killing pace and the stony track, who but the
sluggard or the dolt can hold aloof from the course? Who--like the
belated traveler that stands watching fairy revels till he snatches
and drains the goblin cup and springs into the whirling circle--can
view the mad tumult and not be drawn into its midst? Not I, for one.
I confess to the wayside arbor, the pipe of contentment, and the
lotus-leaves being altogether unsuitable metaphors. They sounded very
nice and philosophical, but I'm afraid I am not the sort of person to
sit in arbors smoking pipes when there is any fun going on outside. I
think I more resemble the Irishman who, seeing a crowd collecting,
sent his little girl out to ask if there was going to be a row
--"'Cos, if so, father would like to be in it."

I love the fierce strife. I like to watch it. I like to hear of
people getting on in it--battling their way bravely and fairly--that
is, not slipping through by luck or trickery. It stirs one's old
Saxon fighting blood like the tales of "knights who fought 'gainst
fearful odds" that thrilled us in our school-boy days.

And fighting the battle of life is fighting against fearful odds, too.
There are giants and dragons in this nineteenth century, and the
golden casket that they guard is not so easy to win as it appears in