“Preferrest thou the gospel of Montreal to the gospel of Hellas, The gospel of thy connection with Mr. Spurgeon’s haberdashery to the gospel of the Discobolus?” Yet none the less blasphemed he beauty saying, “The Discobolus hath no gospel, But my brother-in-law is haberdasher to Mr. Spurgeon.” O God! O Montreal! vi—The Righteous Man The righteous man will rob none but the defenceless, Whatsoever can reckon with him he will neither plunder nor kill; He will steal an egg from a hen or a lamb from an ewe, For his sheep and his hens cannot reckon with him hereafter— They live not in any odour of defencefulness: Therefore right is with the righteous man, and he taketh advantage righteously, Praising God and plundering. The righteous man will enslave his horse and his dog, Making them serve him for their bare keep and for nothing further, Shooting them, selling them for vivisection when they can no longer profit him, Backbiting them and beating them if they fail to please him; For his horse and his dog can bring no action for damages, Wherefore, then, should he not enslave them, shoot them, sell them for vivisection? But the righteous man will not plunder the defenceful— Not if he be alone and unarmed—for his conscience will smite him; He will not rob a she-bear of her cubs, nor an eagle of her eaglets— Unless he have a rifle to purge him from the fear of sin: Then may he shoot rejoicing in innocency—from ambush or a safe distance; Or he will beguile them, lay poison for them, keep no faith with them; For what faith is there with that which cannot reckon hereafter, Neither by itself, nor by another, nor by any residuum of ill consequences? Surely, where weakness is utter, honour ceaseth. Nay, I will do what is right in the eye of him who can harm me, And not in those of him who cannot call me to account. Therefore yield me up thy pretty wings, O humming-bird! Sing for me in a prison, O lark! Pay me thy rent, O widow! for it is mine. Where there is reckoning there is sin, And where there is no reckoning sin is not. vii—To Critics and Others O Critics, cultured Critics! Who will praise me after I am dead, Who will see in me both more and less than I intended, But who will swear that whatever it was it was all perfectly right: You will think you are better than the people who, when I was alive, swore that whatever I did was wrong And damned my books for me as fast as I could write them; But you will not be better, you will be just the same, neither better nor worse, And you will go for some future Butler as your fathers have gone for me. Oh! How I should have hated you!