When your Mr. Bamford wrote me that the Ruskin Club was out hunting
trouble, and that if I would come over here the bad men of the club
would "do me up," I confess my first impulse was to excuse myself from
the proffered hospitality. In the first place, as I have never posed
as a social champion I had no reputation at stake and I was horribly
afraid. Secondly, while my reading of Socialist and Anti-Socialist
literature is the reverse of extensive, I am very sure that nothing can
be said for or against Socialism which has not already been said
many times, and so well said that a fair collection of Anti-Socialist
literature would make a punching-bag solid enough to absorb the force of
the most energetic of pugilists. Finally, the inutility of such a sally
presented itself forcibly, since there is, so far as I know, no record
of the reformation of a Socialist after the habit is once firmly
established. But while at first these considerations were all against
my putting on my armor, in the end the instinct of eating and fighting,
which is as forceful in the modern savage, under the veneer of
civilization, as in our unpolished progenitors, overcame all
considerations of prudence, and here I am to do battle according to my
ability. I promise to strike no foul blows and not to dodge the most
portentous of whacks, but to ride straight at you and hit as hard as I
can.