"I am rather in a discouraged mood," he wrote on New Year's Day
1880, "and the whole thing seems almost too tangled to see through
and too heavy to move." And again:
"I have of late been somewhat melancholy (rather too strong a word,
but I don't know another); not so much so as not to enjoy life in a
way, but just so much as a man of middle age who has met with rubs
(though less than his share of them) may sometimes be allowed to
be. When one is just so much subdued one is apt to turn more
specially from thinking of one's own affairs to more worthy
matters; and my mind is very full of the great change which I hope
is slowly coming over the world."
And so he plunged into Socialism. He gave up his poetry and much of
his congenial work. He attended meetings and committees; he wrote
leaflets and pamphlets; he lavished money; he took to giving
lectures and addresses; he exposed himself to misunderstandings and
insults. He spoke in rain at street corners to indifferent
loungers; he pushed a little cart about the squares selling
Socialist literature; he had collisions with the police; he was
summoned before magistrates: the "poetic upholsterer," as he was
called, became an object of bewildered contempt to friends and foes
alike.
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