The Profits of Religion, Fifth Edition | Page 2

he becomes instantly angry. "You are one of the scoffers!"
"But, friend," I protest, "don't you feel the earth under your feet?"
"You are a materialist!"
"But, friend, I can see--"
"You are without spiritual vision!"
And so I move on among the sweating and groaning hordes. Being of a

sympathetic turn of mind, I cannot help being distressed by the
prevalence of this singular practice among so large a portion of the
human race. How is it possible that none of them should suspect the
futility of their procedure? Or can it really be that I am
uncomprehending? That in some way they are actually getting off the
ground, or about to get off the ground?
Then I observe a new phenomenon: a man gliding here and there
among the bootstrap-lifters, approaching from the rear and slipping his
hands into their pockets. The position of the spiritual exercisers greatly
facilitates his work; their eyes being cast up to heaven, they do not see
him, their thoughts being occupied, they do not heed him; he goes
through their pockets at leisure, and transfers the contents to a bag he
carries, and then moves on to the next victim. I watch him for a while,
and finally approach and ask, "What are you doing, sir?"
He answers, "I am picking pockets."
"Oh," I say, puzzled by his matter-of-course tone. "But--I beg
pardon--are you a thief?"
"Oh, no," he answers, smilingly, "I am the agent of the Wholesale
Pickpockets' Association. This is Prosperity."
"I see," I reply. "And these people let you--"
"It is the law," he says. "It is also the gospel."
I turn, following his glance, and observe another person approaching--a
stately figure, clad in scarlet and purple robes, moving with slow
dignity. Ha gazes about at the sweating and grunting hordes; now and
then he stops and lifts his hands in a gesture of benediction, and
proclaims in rolling tones, "Blessed are the Bootstrap-lifters, for theirs
is the kingdom of Heaven." He moves on, and after a bit stops and
announces again, "Man doth not live by bread alone, but by every word
that cometh out of the mouth of the prophets and priests of
Bootstrap-lifting."

Watching a while longer, I see this majestic one approach the agent of
the Wholesale Pickpockets' Association. The agent greets him as a
friend, and proceeds to transfer to the pockets of his capacious robes a
generous share of the loot which he has collected. The majestic one
does not cringe, nor does he make any effort to hide what is going on.
On the contrary he cries aloud, "It is more blessed to give than to
receive!" And again he cries, "The laborer is worthy of his hire!" And a
third time he cries, yet more sternly, "Render unto Caesar the things
which are Caesar's!" And the Bootstrap-lifters pause long enough to
answer: "Lord have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this
law!" Then they renew their straining and tugging.
I step up, and in timid tones begin, "Reverend sir, will you tell me by
what right you take this wealth?"
Instantly a frown comes upon his face, and he cries in a voice of
thunder, "Blasphemer!" And all the Bootstrap-lifters desist from their
lifting, and menace me with furious looks. There is a general call for a
policeman of the Wholesale Pickpockets' Association; and so I fall
silent, and slink away in the throng, and thereafter keep my thoughts to
myself.
Over the vast plain I wander, observing a thousand strange and
incredible and terrifying manifestations of the Bootstrap-lifting impulse.
There is, I discover, a regular propaganda on foot; a long time ago--no
man can recall how far back--the Wholesale Pickpockets made the
discovery of the ease with which a man's pockets could be rifled while
he was preoccupied with spiritual exercises, and they began offering
prizes for the best essays in support of the practice. Now their
propaganda is everywhere triumphant, and year by year we see an
increase in the rewards and emoluments of the prophets and priests of
the cult. The ground is covered with stately temples of various designs,
all of which I am told are consecrated to Bootstrap-lifting. I come to
where a group of people are occupied in laying the corner-stone of a
new white marble structure; I inquire and am informed it is the First
Church of Bootstrap-lifters, Scientist. As I stand watching, a card is
handed to me, informing me that a lady will do my Bootstrap-lifting at

five dollars per lift.
I go on to another building, which I am told is a library containing
volumes in defense of the Bootstrap-lifters, published under the
auspices of the Wholesale Pickpockets. I enter, and find endless vistas
of shelves, also several thousand current magazines