Whilst the greatest effort has been made to ensure the quality of this text, due to the historical nature of this content, in some rare cases there may be minor issues with legibility. I have long gone about with a conviction on my mind that I had a work to do – a Work, if you like, with a great W; a Purpose to fulfil; a chasm to leap into, like Curtius, horse foot; a Great Social Evil to Discover and to Remedy. That Conviction Has Pursued me for Years. It has Dogged me in the Busy Street; Seated Itself By Me in The Lonely Study; J ogged My Elbow as it Lifted The Wine-cup at The Festive Board; Pursued me through the Maze Of Rotten Row; Followed me in Far Lands. On Brighton’s Shingly Beach, or Margate’s Sand; the Voice Outpiped the Roaring Of the Sea: it Nestles in my Nightcap, and It Whispers, Wake, Slumberer, thy Work IS Not Yet Done. Last Year, By Moonlight, in the Colosseum; the Little Sedulous Voice Came To Me and Said, Smith, or Jones, (the Writer’s Name is Neither Here nor There) Smith, or Jones, my fine fellow, this is all very well, but you ought to be at home writing your great work on SN obs.
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