In response to the disavowals of Brown by New Englanders after his arrest at Harper's Ferry, Thoreau has himself rung the bell of the Concord, Massachusetts, town hall and read his "Plea" to his assembled fellow citizens; he delivered his defense of Brown a day later in Boston and Worcester. Thoreau in this matter is obviously pursuing an unpopular, even dangerous course, and during the progress of his speech he ill savagely ridicule his listeners. He therefore begins by emphasizing in tones of great humility that his actions arise in some way outside himself. He claims that a sense of justice forces him to speak against his will -- and by so doing he of course lays claim to moral stature greater than that of his listeners who have felt no such need to speak the truth or defend a martyr.

Ruskin similarly begins "Traffic," a lecture he delivered at the town hall, Bradford, on 21 April 1864, by protesting to the audience that he has been forced to speak against his will and apologize to its members for what they will hear. Addressing them as his "good Yorkshire friends," he reminds them that they have invited m to talk about "this Exchange you are going to build: but, earnestly and seriously asking you to pardon me, I am going to do nothing of the kind." Ruskin explains that he can say very little about their exchange because he "must talk of quite other things, though not willingly; -- I could not deserve your pardon, if, when you invited me to speak on one subject, I willfully spoke on another" (18.433). Here we encounter the same opening note of apology and the same humility that we find in Thoreau's "A Plea for Captain John Brown." And like Thoreau, Ruskin quickly shifts tone and treats his audience aggressively. In fact, he ends his first paragraph with the candid admission:

I do not care about this Exchange of yours," but he then soothes his audience by telling them at he did not wish to be rude by turning down the invitation to speak, after which he tells them he doesn't care about their exchange- because you don't; and because you know perfectly well I cannot make you. [18.433]

One reason, he explains, that they do not concern themselves earnestly with the architecture for exchange is that it does not cost very much. According to him, the cost of such an exchange is to them, collectively, nothing and in fact buying a new coat is a more important financial outlay to him than erecting this planned building is to them.

you think you may as well have the right thing for your money. You know there are a great many odd styles of architecture about; you don't want to do anything ridiculous; you hear of me, among others, as a respectable architectural man-milliner; and you send for me, that I may tell you the leading fashion; and what is, in our shops, for the moment, the newest and sweetest thing in pinnacles. [18.434]

By reducing his enterprise as a critic of architecture to the level of millinery, he mocks himself for receiving so little of his audience's respect, and in this way he makes some small amends for the abrasive charge that it cares little about the proposed subject of his talk. But, of course, drawing such an analogy between himself and the female milliner not only points out how little respect his listeners have for him as man and thinker, it tells far more harshly upon them, since the analogy implies that they perceive little more in a matter crucial to their society than transitory fashion. (Paradoxically, like many satirical analogies that cut at least two ways, this one begins to take on an unexpected validity by the close of the lecture, for as the audience gradually realizes that architecture does indeed clothe and body forth a nation's inner self, one also perceives that Ruskin's initial satire has a Carlylean application and truth. Like Carlyle's Teufelsdrockh, Ruskin has shown that buildings are in a sense clothes, symbols of spiritual facts that they embody. ) Likewise, Ruskin's extensive commentary on his former views and mistakes in the footnotes to later editions of Modern Painters is also a device to create ethos; it convinces the reader of his openness and willingness to admit error -- and hence guarantees the authenticity of his present views. Such self-deprecation often appears near the beginning of a work in this form. Ruskin's admission in "Traffic" that most members of his audience consider him little more than a man-milliner and Arnold's in Culture and Anarchy that he is a product of the aggressively uncultured middle classes cultivate their audiences' sympathy.