that the goodness or badness of a bargain is the affair of those who make it, not your affair; but that it is your duty to enforce the bargain when made. Only in proportion as this is done can men's lives in society be maintained. The condition to all life, human or other, is that effort put forth shall bring the means of repairing the parts Avasted by effort—shall bring, too, more or less of surplus. A creature that continuously expends energy without return in nutriment dies; and a creature is indirectly killed by any thing which, after energies have been expended, habitually intercepts the return. This holds of associated human beings as of all other beings. In a society, most citizens do not obtain sustenance directly by the powers they exert, but do it indirectly: each gives the produce of his powers exerted in his special way in exchange for the produce of other men's powers exerted in other ways. The condition under which only this obtaining of sustenance, to replace the matter wasted by effort, can be carried on in society, is fulfilment of contracts. Non-fulfilment of contract is letting energy be expended in expectation of a return, and then withholding the return. The maintenance of contract, therefore, is the maintenance of the fundamental principle of all life under the form given to it by social arrangements. I blame you because you do not maintain this fundamental principle; and, as a consequence, allow life to be impeded and sacrificed in countless indirect ways. You are, I admit, solicitous about my life as endangered by my own acts. Though you very inadequately guard me against injuries from others, you seem particularly anxious that I shall not injure myself. Emulating Sir Peter Laurie, who made himself so famous by threatening to "put down suicide," you do what you can to prevent me from risking my limbs. Your great care of me is shown, for instance, by enforcing a by-law which forbids me to leave a railway-train in motion; and, if I jump out, I find that, whether I hurt myself or not, you decide to hurt me—by a fine.[1] Not only do you thus punish me when I run the risk of punishing myself, but your amiable anxiety for my welfare shows itself in taking money out of my pocket to provide me with various conveniences—baths and wash-houses, for example, and free access to books. Out of my pocket, did I say? Not always. Sometimes out of the pockets of those least able to afford it; as when, from poor authors who lose by their books, you demand gratis copies for your public libraries, that I and others may read them for nothing—Dives robbing Lazarus that he may give alms to the well-clad! But these many things you offer are things I do not ask; and you will not effectually insure me the one thing I do ask. I do not want you to ascertain for me the nature of the sun's corona, or to find a northwest passage, or to explore the bottom of the sea; but I do want you to insure me against aggression, by making the punishment of aggressors, civil as well as criminal, swift, certain, and costless to those injured. Instead
