What black, dreary world would the fetid minds of to-day envision would they be made to Rule for ever from their sterile garden-tombs? What ugly and monstrous Death-Sleep would enshroud their earth, and come on black wings to suffocate Health with Dementia? What winding-sheet would coil around and hang down from their blighted tree of comfort and—strangle in its course, like a sickly babe, the Spirit of Man; what dark swamp-waters would drown us? A world of Comfort and Slow-Dying, and where Mankind is thrown beneath the industrial soul-thresher of a hopeless and dismayed world! A lifeless world whereby they may lay down under the shade of that sickness-ridden tree, so to admonish dead-men and the Unborn for the Desire of wanting to Live! The world is sick of sham-Scienceisms, it is sick unto death of rag-virtues, and of debased and bloodless luxury! Mankind crieth out for Heroes! it desires Love and Victory and Danger; it lists the fallen millions to give testament for the demand for Life! Life! Life! The drum-beats of a million years echoing in the deeps; yea, they are the heart-beats of the Man striving and doing and suffering and Living, rather than lying down and dying in his pestilent Comfort! Damn the 'popular mind,' and damn the pidgeon-boned weaklings to be ground to death—may they be stricken blind and deaf and deathly by the virulent civilizational leprosy of the charnel house as institution of the Nation—may they be justly damned and enslaved and rolled over by the Steam-Engines of their ugly Progress! May they be erased from history and their descendents fed into the great pyre as dry kindling!