“Oh! there’s no necessity for you to restrict your experiences to those which you advocate for animals. I’ve noticed that you are always complaining of the morbid twaddle talked about the sufferings of criminals, the unhappily married, and the poor. It would very much increase our respect for your pronouncements if you would cause yourself to be confined in a space eight feet by twelve, in your own company, for twenty-three hours out of twenty-four, for those nine months, whose reduction not long ago, in the case of convicts, I remember you disapproved of. Or again, if you would marry a hopeless inebriate, or merely grow to hate your wife—a letter from you to some well-known journal to say that it was all really of no consequence would then be of incalculably greater value than it is at present. Or dare I hope that you might be induced to embrace the career of making match-boxes, or carding buttons, or sewing shirts or trousers for, say, twelve or fifteen hours a day, on a wage of seven shillings or so a week, in order that we might have the benefit of knowing that your strenuous remarks about the mawkishness of believing that the poor really suffer were inspired by a thorough and personal knowledge of the subject.” “You’re unfortunate in your choice of sufferings. Those you mention are all necessary—society being what it is.” “Oh! then you admit that they are sufferings?” “To an extent—much exaggerated.” “Very well! You have not yet, I perceive, grasped my points: First, what gives _you_ the right to say these sufferings are necessary to society, and to interfere with our attempts to reduce them so far as we can? Secondly, what makes _you_ an authority at all on the nature and degree of suffering?” “I refuse to answer your first question, which I consider insolent. As to the second, which is also insolent, of what use is one’s imagination, if not to gauge the experiences of others without experiencing them oneself?” “My dear sir, imagination is not, believe me, a mere capacity for failing to grasp what you have not yourself experienced. It is an active quality, and even when stretched to the utmost is a little liable to fall short of the poignancy of experience. Let me remind you of Poe’s tale about the man on whom the walls of a room gradually closed in. That tale, I am sure, made even you feel that his sufferings might not be _nil_—though I honestly believe it only roused you because it was so obviously romance. But do you think your imagination when you read the story really provided you with the intensity of the sensations of that man, especially at the moment when the walls were grinding his bones?”