Critics of the middle-class type often exclaim, of reasoning like this, "What on earth makes him say it? What has _he_ to gain by talking in that way? What does he expect to get by it?" So bound up are they in the idea of a self-interest as the one motive of action that they never even seem to conceive of honest conviction as a ground for speaking out the truth that is in one. To such critics I would answer, "The reason why I write all this is because I profoundly believe it. I believe the poor are being kept out of their own. I believe the rich are for the most part selfish and despicable. I believe wealth has been generally piled up by cruel and unworthy means. I believe it is wrong in us to acquiesce in the wicked inequalities of our existing social state, instead of trying our utmost to bring about another, where right would be done to all, where poverty would be impossible. I believe such a system is perfectly practicable, and that nothing stands in its way save the selfish fears and prejudices of individuals. And I believe that even those craven fears and narrow prejudices are wholly mistaken; that everybody, including the rich themselves, would be infinitely happier in a world where no poverty existed, where no hateful sights and sounds met the eye at every turn, where all slums were swept away, and where everybody had their just and even share of pleasures and refinements in a free and equal community." Despair BY LADY WILDE (Irish poetess, mother of Oscar Wilde; wrote under the pen-name of Speranza) Before us dies our brother, of starvation; Around are cries of famine and despair! Where is hope for us, or comfort or salvation-- Where--oh! where? If the angels ever hearken, downward bending, They are weeping, we are sure, At the litanies of human groans ascending From the crushed hearts of the poor. We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness, Nor the proud heart of youth free and brave; Oh, a death-like dream of wretchedness and sadness Is life's weary journey to the grave! Day by day we lower sink, and lower, Till the God-like soul within Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power Of poverty and sin. So we toil on, on with fever burning In heart and brain; So we toil on, on through bitter scorning, Want, woe, and pain. We dare not raise our eyes to the blue heavens Or the toil must cease-- We dare not breathe the fresh air God has given One hour in peace. Inequality of Wealth BY G. BERNARD SHAW (See page 193)