The speaker, he went on, had dropped the word charity.  Had the tribe of Israel cultivated a smattering of respect for physiology or any other useful science instead of fussing about supernatural pedigrees, they would have been more cautious as to their diet.  Had they been careful in the matter of dietary, their sacred writings would never have seen the light of day.  Those writings, a monument of malnutrition and faulty digestive processes, were responsible for three-quarters of what was called charity.  Charity was responsible for the greater part of human mischief and misery.  The revenues of the private charities of London alone exceeded five million sterling annually.  What were these revenues expended upon?  On keeping alive an incredible number of persons who ought to be dead.  What was the result of keeping these people alive?  A deterioration of the whole race.  Charity consisted in setting a premium on bodily ill-health and mental inefficiency.  Charity was an Oriental nightmare; an endeavour to raise the week to the level of the strong; an incitement to improvidence.  Charity disturbed the national equilibrium; it lowered the standard of mankind instead of raising it.  Charity was an unmitigated nuisance which had increased, was increasing, and ought to be diminished.

By way of varying the phraseology, but not the thing, they had called themselves philanthropists.  The meaning of that venerable word had decayed of late in characteristic fashion.  Prometheus, the archetype, brought fire from Heaven to comfort certain people who had the wit to appreciate its uses.  He did not waste his time wet-nursing the unfit, like a modern philanthropist.  What was a modern philanthropist?  He was a fellow who was always bothering you to do something for somebody else.  He appealed to your purse for the supposed welfare of some pet degenerate.  Prometheus appealed to your intelligence for the real welfare of rational beings.  A rich man found it extremely simple, no doubt, to sign a cheque.  But an act was not necessarily sensible because it happened to be simple.  People ought to dominate their reflexes.  Prometheus did not choose the simplest course—­he chose the wisest, and found it a pretty tough job, too.  That alone proved him to have been a man of sound digestion and robust health.  Had it been otherwise, indeed, he would never have endured that vulture—­business for so long.

The deputation exchanged glances, puzzled by this pompous and peevish exordium.  It did not promise well; it sounded quite unlike Mr. Keith’s usually bland address.  Perhaps he had not yet breakfasted.  “We ought to have waited,” they thought.  One of the listeners was so annoyed that he began: 

“A paradox, Mr. Keith, is not necessarily sensible, because it happens to be simple”—­but was overborne by that gentleman, who proceeded calmly: