to blame, and consequently we are always ready with a justification.
But, however much I wrote, however well I wrote, however correct I might be logically, I should not persuade a reader, if he used his reason to argue against me and his heart should remain cold. I fear this, I fear the pride of my own intellect, that my coldness may injure you.
And so I ask you, reader, even though for a time you set aside the activity of your mind, not to argue, nor to prove, but merely to question your heart. Who ever you are, however gifted, however kind to the men and women around you, in whatever condition you may be, can you be contented at your tea, your dinner, your work as a government employee, as an artist, a student, a physician, a teacher, if you hear or see at your doorstep a man cold, hungry, sick, or tormented?
No!
But here they are always with us—if not at our steps, then ten yards or ten miles away. They are here, and you know it!
And you cannot be satisfied, you cannot enjoy yourself, unless you rectify this state of things. In order that you may not see them at your door, you must shut yourself away from them, you must hold them at a distance by your coldness, or else go where they are not to be found. But they are everywhere.
And even if a place were found where you would not see them, you would not get away from your consciousness of the truth. How could you? You yourself know it, and the teaching of this book tells this to you:—
"Let yourself down to him who seems to you below but is really above; stand in line with those that are feeding the hungry, clothing the cold; fear nothing," there will be nothing worse, but much that is better in all directions. Stand in line, put your ignorant weak hands to the first task that will feed the hungry, clothe the cold; undertake manual labor, the struggle with nature: and you will feel for the first time the firm soil underneath
