The writer himself at his moments of greatest imaginative exaltation does not perhaps realise the need of privacy at all.

His affections are in a state of expansion which, without fancifulness, one may refer back to the emotional atmosphere prevalent in the screaming assemblies of his prehuman ancestors; and he is ready, so long as this condition lasts, to take the whole world almost literally to his bosom.

What he does not realise is that neither he nor any one else can keep himself permanently at this level.

In William Morris's _News from Nowhere_ the customs of family life extend to the streets, and the tired student from the British Museum talks with easy intimacy to the thirsty dustman.

I remember reading an article written about 1850 by one of the early Christian Socialists.