nd that you have contracted prior obligations, inconsistent with the
purely personal luxury of martyrdom. 'Tis a luxury for a few. It befits
only the bachelor, the unattached, and the economically spareworthy.

"These be pessimistic pronouncements," you say. Well, no, not exactly.
For, after all, we must never shut our eyes to the actual; and in the
world as it is, meliorism, not optimism, is the true opposite of
pessimism. Optimist and pessimist are both alike in a sense, seeing they
are both conservative; they sit down contented--the first with the smug
contentment that says "All's well; I have enough; why this fuss about
others?" the second with the contentment of blank despair that says,
"All's hopeless; all's wrong; why try uselessly to mend it?" The
meliorist attitude, on the contrary, is rather to say, "Much is wrong;
much painful; what can we do to improve it?" And from this point of view
there is something we can all do to make martyrdom less inevitable in
the end, for the man who has a thought, a discovery, an idea, to tell
us. Such men are rare, and their thought, when they produce it, is sure
to be unpalatable. For, if it were otherwise, it would be thought of our
own type--familiar, banal, commonplace, unoriginal. It would encounter
no resistance, as it thrilled on its way through our brain, from
established errors. What the genius and the prophet are there for is
just that--to make us listen to unwelcome truths, to compel us to hear,
to drive awkward facts straight home with sledge-hammer force to the
unwilling hearts and brains of us. Not what _you_ want to hear, or what
_I_ want to hear, is good and useful for us; but what we _don't_ want to
hear, what we can't bear to think, what we hate to believe, what we
fight tooth and nail against. The man who makes us listen to _that_ is
the seer and the prophet; he comes upon us like Shelley, or Whitman, or
Ibsen, and plumps down horrid truths that half surprise, half disgust
us. He shakes us out of our lethargy. To such give ear, though they say
what shocks you. Weigh well their hateful ideas. Avoid the vulgar vice
of sneering and carping at them. Learn to examine their nude thought
without shrinking, and examine it all the more carefully when it most
repels you. Naked verity is an acquired taste; it is never beautiful at
first sight to the unaccustomed vision. Remember that no question is
finally settled; that no question is wholly above consideration; that
what