and the occult symbols of trade, and then as abject
idolaters we bow down before the work of our own hands. We are
awe-struck at their power, and magnify the mystery of their existence.
We only pray that they may not turn us out of house and home, because
of some blunder in our ritual observance. That they will make it very
uncomfortable for us, we take for granted. We have resigned ourselves to
that long ago. They are so very complicated that they will make no
allowance for us, and will not permit us to live simply as we would
like. We are really very plain people, and easily flurried and worried
by superfluities. We could get along very nicely and, we are sure, quite
healthfully, if it were not for our Things. They set the pace for us,
and we have to keep up.

We long for peace on earth, but of course we can't have it. Look at our
warships and our forts and our great guns. They are getting bigger
every year. No sooner do we begin to have an amiable feeling toward our
neighbors than some one invents a more ingenious way by which we may
slaughter them. The march of invention is irresistible, and we are being
swept along toward a great catastrophe.

We should like very much to do business according to the Golden Rule. It
strikes us as being the only decent method of procedure. We have no ill
feeling toward our competitors. We should be pleased to see them
prosper. We have a strong preference for fair play. But of course we
can't have it, because the corporations, those impersonal products of
modern civilization, won't allow it. We must not meddle with them, for
if we do we might break some of the laws of political economy, and in
that case nobody knows what might happen.

We have a great desire for good government. We should be gratified if we
could believe that the men who pave our streets, and build our
school-houses, and administer our public funds, are well qualified for
their several positions. But we cannot, in a democracy, expect to have
expert service. The tendency of politics is to develop a Machine. The
Machine is not constructed to serve us. Its purpose is simply to keep
itself going. When it once begins to move, it is only prudent in us to
keep out of the way. It would be tragical to have it run over us.

So, in certain moods, we sit and grumble over our formidable fetiches.
Like all idolaters, we sometimes turn iconoclasts. In a short-lived fit
of anger we smash the Machine. Having accomplished this feat,