tenderness, have been so effectually broken in to fashionable
routine that they can be taken to see the horses slaughtered as
helplessly as they could no doubt be taken to a gladiator show,
if that happened to be the mode just now.

Strangely enough, in the midst of this raging fire of malice, the
one man who still has faith in the kindness and intelligence of
human nature is the fulminator, now a hunted wretch, with
nothing, apparently, to secure his triumph over all the prisons
and scaffolds of infuriate Europe except the revolver in his
pocket and his readiness to discharge it at a moment's notice
into his own or any other head. Think of him setting out to find
a gentleman and a Christian in the multitude of human wolves
howling for his blood. Think also of this: that at the very
first essay he finds what he seeks, a veritable grandee of Spain,
a noble, high-thinking, unterrified, malice-void soul, in the
guise--of all masquerades in the world!--of a modern editor. The
Anarchist wolf, flying from the wolves of plutocracy, throws
himself on the honor of the man. The man, not being a wolf (nor a
London editor), and therefore not having enough sympathy with his
exploit to be made bloodthirsty by it, does not throw him back to
the pursuing wolves--gives him, instead, what help he can to
escape, and sends him off acquainted at last with a force that
goes deeper than dynamite, though you cannot make so much of it
for sixpence. That righteous and honorable high human deed is not
wasted on Europe, let us hope, though it benefits the fugitive
wolf only for a moment. The plutocratic wolves presently smell
him out. The fugitive shoots the unlucky wolf whose nose is
nearest; shoots himself; and then convinces the world, by his
photograph, that he was no monstrous freak of reversion to the