r a little while he is content。 Not for long — no artist； I think； is ever contented for long with what he has done。 But he thinks： “At least； I have done something。”
Then； perhaps； he begins to understand — it es into his mind — that that was not his real inspiration。 Not in these gauds of the imagination； these sparkling things； these plays of fancy or of eloquence or wit； was the real inspiration to be found。 He turns and wonders where it is。 And he turns； let us say； and looks at the dull masses of misery that pervade the globe； he looks and wonders； and he thinks： Is there nothing that I； humble as I am； can do to help to alleviate that misery； to lift up those who are fallen； to lift them up for their own good and for the good of the world？ And then； gentlemen； he knows that that； not the gaudy； exciting work is the real inspiration of his life。
And； perhaps； he turns and tries to match his own single strength against the prejudices of generations； and tries to get men to think as he does； tries to show them where the evil lies and where； too； lies the remedy。 Gentlemen； I have spoken； as it were； in allegory。 And yet these things have some application； certainly in my humble case they have some application。 Years ago； I saw what I described to you； I saw the evils with which； since then； I have attempted to cope。 I recognised that it was my duty to cope with them if I could。
It is a hard task； gentlemen。 It is a hard thing； in the first place； to live down the reputation of being a writer of fiction — to surmount the enormous barrier of prejudice that lies across one’s path。 And it is not for years； perhaps； that people will begin to listen and will begin to understand that to most men’s minds there are two sides。 Still； humbly； imperfectly；