h a number of variously-minded women, (all more or less strong), and
a good many weak and otherwise minded men, have come to form their
opinion of me in consequence of my holding rather strongly a few
opinions of my own--to the effect that there are a good many wrong
things in this world, (admittedly wrong things); a good many muddles; a
good many glaring and outrageous abuses and shameful things the
continuance of which reflects discredit on the nation, and the wiping
out or putting right of which ought, by all means, to be set about
earnestly and at once.

Now, curiously enough, it is the idea conveyed in the last two words--at
once--which sticks in the throats of my strong-minded opponents! They
agree with me as to the existence of the evils, they honestly deplore
them, but they charge me with mental imbecility when I suggest that
things should be put right _at once_. They counsel delay, and when the
dispute reaches a certain stage they smile at me with contempt, or pity,
or they storm, according to individual temperament, and usually wind up
with a rasping reiteration of their original opinions, highly peppered
and salted, and an assurance that I have been born at least a century
before my time.

If the men of the next century are destined to do good, "as their hands
find opportunity," without previous delay until thousands of
opportunities are lost and gone for ever; if those who put their hands
to a piece of work shall carry it out with vigour in their _own_
lifetime; if those who counsel delay shall mean due time for full
consideration by _themselves_, and shall _not_ mean an extended
procrastination which shall free themselves from worry, and leave their
work to be handed down as a legacy to their children, who shall likewise
hand it down to _their_ children, and so on _ad infinitum_ until "delay"
shall become a synonym for death and destruction to tens of thousands of
better men than themselves,--if this shall be the sentiment and practice
of the men of next century, then I confess that my sympathies are with
them, and I really suspect that I must have got into the wrong century
by mistake. But as the position is irremediable now, I suppose I must,
in an imbecile sort of fashion, go on my way rejoicing--if I can--
sorrowing if I cannot rejoice.

Mrs Bingley having more than once threatened to scratch my face when I
have ventured to express the last sentiment, it may be perhaps as well
to change the subjec