Still as relevant as it was 100 years ago

Bootstrap-lifting? says the reader. IT IS A VISION I have seen: upon a vast plain, men and women are gathered in dense throngs, crouched in uncomfortable and distressing positions, their fingers hooked in the straps of their boots. They are engaged in lifting themselves; tugging and straining until they grow red in the face, exhausted. The perspiration streams from their foreheads, they show every symptom of distress; the eyes of all are fixed, not upon each other, nor upon their boot-straps, but upon the sky above. There is a look of rapture upon their faces, and now and then, amid grunts and groans, they cry out with excitement and triumph.
I approach one and say to him, “Friend, what is this you are doing?” He answers, without pausing to glance at me, “I am performing spiritual exercises. See how I rise?” “But,” I say, “you are not rising at all!” Whereat 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,” hie 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. He 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.”

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