understand enough to know that
the "social compunction" in Aristotle's day was a mere theory, a sublime
doctrine practised by a few, whereas now it is a great governing
principle, a dynamic power in the social order of mankind. And I challenge
your accuracy in calling such social sympathy "only a rumour in the lower
rooms of our existence." My notion is that the choir voice of it has
already reached that grand third story of yours, and that the "solitary
soul" in the "upper chamber" will presently find herself along with other
traditions--in the attic! Oh, I know your sort! You stay in your upper
chamber as long as atmospheric conditions make it comfortable. But before
this time I have known you to sneak down into those same "lower rooms" to
warm yourself by humanitarian hearthstones. And that you are not nearly so
immortal as you think you are is proved by these winter chills along the
spine. There come occasions when you get tired of your own stars and long
to feel the thrill of that royal life-blood that leaps like a ruby river
of love through the grimy, toiling, battling humanitarian world beneath
you. Did you once intimate to me that if ever I conjured you out of the
shadows which seem to surround you, I should be horrified at the vision?
Well, I am!

XVI

PHILIP TO JESSICA

MY DEAR MISS DOANE:

So your servant has a cloven hoof and just escapes the adornment of ass's
ears! Dear, dear, what a temper! But, jesting aside, you must not suppose
I abhor the cant of humanitarianism from any thin-blooded selfishness or
outworn apathy. Have I not made this clear to you? It is the negative side
of humanitarianism (the word itself is an offence!), and not its portion
of human love that vexes my soul.

Through one of the crooked streets not far from Park Row that wind out
from under the grim arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, I often pass on
business. Here on the step at the entrance to a noisome court, where
heaven knows how many families huddle together behind the walls of these
monstrous printing-houses, there sits day after day a child, a little
pale, peaked boy, who seems to belong to no one and to have nothing to
do--sits staring out into the filthy street with silent, wistful eyes.
There is only misery and endurance on his face, with some wan reflection
of strange dreams smothered in his heart. He sits there, waiting and
watching, and no man knows what world-old philosophy comforts his weary
brain. The face