Rich or poor, a man must be master of his own fate.
Poor or rich, a nation must be captain of her own soul. In the suburban
road in which you live there are probably at least a hundred other
house-holds. Now if you were all, each suppressing his individuality,
to club together you could build in place of the brick-boxes in which
you live a magnificent phalanstery. There you could have more air for
your lungs and more art for your soul, a spacious and a gracious life,
cheaper washing, cheaper food, and a royal kitchen. But you will not do
it. Why? Because it profiteth a man nothing to gain the services of a
Paris _maitre d'hotel_ and to lose his own soul. In an attic fourteen
feet by seven, which he can call his own, a man has room to breathe; in
a Renaissance palace, controlled by a committee on which he is in a
permanent minority of one, he has no room to breathe. Home Rulers are
fond of phrasing their programme as a demand on the part of Ireland that
she shall control the management of her domestic affairs. The language
fits the facts like a glove.
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