Robert Grimshaw, Fifty years hence: or, What may be in 1943 (1892)
“ Tearing past the blue-coated guardian of the peace who sought to restrain me, I rushed to a spot where without actual danger, I could best see [78] the ruin which the fire-fiend was working to me—and of course to Brathwaite—but how can man, born of woman, feel more for his fellows than for himself? Why affect a nobility not of the nineteenth century? Why lay claim to emotions which may belong to those to come—which may have belonged to those gone by—but not of the genius of this eager, selfish present? True, I felt for Brathwaite ”
