I am in a somewhat critical position and time. Don’t make any mistake about it. Small as I am, I have mountains to lift; and if you do not realize it, you cannot help it, but can only get your fingers crushed. Only your fingers—mind! but that will hurt more than you think.

Here is my fix: I have “down upon me”—

I. Society. Civilized society conspires to starve certain men to death. It must do so in self-defence. There are privileged men; I may become one yet.

II. I have down on me the Church. By Church, you must not think of the Roman, Greek, Episcopalian, etc., persuasions,—but all Christendom supporting missionary societies, and opposing free-thinking in every shape. Do not be deceived by a few kindly notes about my work from religious sources. They are genuine,—but they signify absolutely nothing against the great dead weight of more orthodox opinion. As Professor Huxley says, no man can tell the force of a belief until he has had the experience of fighting it. Good! Church and Society together are pretty vigorous, you will acknowledge.

III. The English and American Press in combination,—the press that represents critical opinion in London as well as in New York. Don’t mistake the meaning of notices. All, or nearly all, are managed by the publishers. The policy is to praise the work—because that brings advertisements. Society, Church, Press—that means a big combination, rather. On my side I have a brave American naval officer—and the present good will of the Japanese Government, which has been vaguely aware that my books have been doing some good.

Now you may say, “How important the little mite thinks himself,—the cynosure of the world!” But that would be hasty thinking. I am pretty much in the position of a book-keeper known to have once embezzled, or of a man who has been in prison, or of a prostitute who has been on the street. These are, none of them, you will confess, important persons. But what keeps them in their holes? Society, Church, and public opinion—the Press. No man is too small to get the whole world’s attention if he does certain things. Talent signifies nothing. Talent starves in the streets, and dies in the ginhouse. Talent helps no one not in some way independent of society. Temporarily, I am thus independent.

At this moment the pressure is very heavy—perhaps never will be much heavier. Why? Because I have excited some attention,—because there is a danger that I might succeed. You must not think I mean that everybody in general, or anybody in special, thinks out these thoughts. Not at all. Society, Church, and Press work blindly, instinctively,—like machinery set in motion to keep a level smooth. The machinery feels the least projection, and tries to flatten it out of existence,—without even considering what it may be. Diamond or dung makes no difference.

But if the obstruction prove too hard, it is lifted out of the way of the machinery. That is where my one chance lies—in making something solid that forces this kind of attention.

You might ask me, if I think thus, why dedicate a book to our friend the doctor? That is a different matter. My literary work cannot be snubbed; and it goes into drawing-rooms where the author would be snubbed. Besides, a doctor can accept what other people can’t.

You see that there are many who come to Japan that want to see me; and you think this is a proof of kindly interest. Not a bit of it. It is precisely the same kind of curiosity that impels men to look at strange animals,—a six-legged calf, for instance. The interest in the book is in some cases genuine; the interest in the personality is of the New York Police Gazette quality. Don’t think I am exaggerating. When I get my fingers caught in the cogs, I can feel it.