ble to them. It is simply and sternly impossible for the
English public, at this moment, to understand any thoughtful
writing,--so incapable of thought has it become in its insanity of
avarice. Happily, our disease is, as yet, little worse than this
incapacity of thought; it is not corruption of the inner nature; we
ring true still, when anything strikes home to us; and though the idea
that everything should "pay" has infected our every purpose so deeply,
that even when we would play the good Samaritan, we never take out our
twopence and give them to the host without saying, "When I come again,
thou shalt give me fourpence," there is a capacity of noble passion
left in our hearts' core. We show it in our work,--in our war,--even
in those unjust domestic affections which make us furious at a small
private wrong, while we are polite to a boundless public one: we are
still industrious to the last hour of the day, though we add the
gambler's fury to the laborer's patience; we are still brave to the
death, though incapable of discerning true cause for battle; and are
still true in affection to our own flesh, to the death, as the
sea-monsters are, and the rock-eagles. And there is hope for a nation
while this can be still said of it. As long as it holds its life in
its hand, ready to give it for its honor (though a foolish honor), for
its love (though a selfish love), and for its business (though a base
business), there is hope for it. But hope only; for this instinctive,
reckless virtue cannot last. No nation can last, which has made a mob
of itself, however generous at heart. It must discipline its passions,
and direct them, or they will discipline _it_, one day, with scorpion
whips. Above all a nation cannot last as a money-making mob: it cannot
with impunity,--it cannot with existence,--go on despising literature,
despising science, despising art, despising nature, despising
compassion, and concentrating its soul on Pence. Do you think these
are harsh or wild words? Have patience with me but a little longer. I
will prove their truth to you, clause by clause.

32. I.--I say first we have despised literature. What do we, as a
nation, care about books? How much do you think we spend altogether on
our libraries, public or private, as compared with what we spend on our
horses? If a man spends lavishly on his library you call him mad--a
bibliomaniac. But you never call any one a horse-maniac, though men
ruin th