We who live in Hillsboro know that they are to be pitied, not blamed, for this fatal omission.  We realize that only in Hillsboro and places like it can one have “deep, full life and contact with the vitalizing stream of humanity.”  We know that in the very nature of humanity the city is a small and narrow world, the village a great and wide one, and that the utmost efforts of city dwellers will not avail to break the bars of the prison where they are shut in, each with his own kind.  They may look out from the windows upon a great and varied throng, as the beggar munching a crust may look in at a banqueting hall, but the people they are forced to live with are exactly like themselves; and that way lies not only monomania but an ennui that makes the blessing of life savorless.

If this does not seem the plainest possible statement of fact take a concrete instance.  Can a banker in the city by any possibility come to know what kind of an individual is the remote impersonal creature who waits on him in a department store?  Most bankers recognize with a misguided joy this natural wall between themselves and people who are not bankers, and add to it as many stones of their own quarrying as possible; but they are not shut off from all the quickening diversity of life any more effectually than the college-settlement, boys’ Sunday-school, brand of banker.  The latter may try as hard as he pleases, he simply cannot achieve real acquaintanceship with a “storekeeper,” as we call them, any more than the clerk can achieve real acquaintanceship with him.

Lack of any elements of common life form as impassable a barrier as lack of a common language, whereas with us in Hillsboro all the life we have is common.  Everyone is needed to live it.

There can be no city dweller of experience who does not know the result of this herding together of the same kind of people, this intellectual and moral inbreeding.  To the accountant who knows only accounts, the world comes to seem like one great ledger, and account-keeping the only vital pursuit in life.  To the banker who knows only bankers, the world seems one great bank filled with money, accompanied by people.  The prison doors of uniformity are closed inexorably upon them.

And then what happens?  Why, when anything goes wrong with their trumpery account books, or their trashy money, these poor folk are like blind men who have lost their staves.  With all the world before them they dare not continue to go forward.  We in Hillsboro are sorry for the account-keepers who disappear forever, fleeing from all who know them because their accounts have come out crooked, we pity the banker who blows out his brains when something has upset his bank; but we can’t help feeling with this compassion an admixture of the exasperated impatience we have for those Prussian school boys who jump out of third-story windows because they did not reach a certain grade in their Latin examinations.  Life