were actually all civilized, wouldn’t it be too weak even to ripen?  And now, in the great centres, where is accumulated most of that we value as the product of man’s best efforts, is there strength enough to elevate the degraded humanity that attends our highest cultivation?  We have a gay confidence that we can do something for Africa.  Can we reform London and Paris and New York, which our own hands have made?

If we cannot, where is the difficulty?  Is this a hopeless world?  Must it always go on by spurts and relapses, alternate civilization and barbarism, and the barbarism being necessary to keep us employed and growing?  Or is there some mistake about our ideal of civilization?  Does our process too much eliminate the rough vigor, courage, stamina of the race?  After a time do we just live, or try to live, on literature warmed over, on pretty coloring and drawing instead of painting that stirs the soul to the heroic facts and tragedies of life?  Where did this virile, blood-full, throbbing Russian literature come from; this Russian painting of Verestchagin, that smites us like a sword with the consciousness of the tremendous meaning of existence?  Is there a barbaric force left in the world that we have been daintily trying to cover and apologize for and refine into gentle agreeableness?

These questions are too deep for these pages.  Let us make the world pleasant, and throw a cover over the refuse.  We are doing very well, on the whole, considering what we are and the materials we have to work on.  And we must not leave the world so perfectly civilized that the inhabitants, two or three centuries ahead, will have nothing to do.

SOCIAL SCREAMING

Of all the contrivances for amusement in this agreeable world the “Reception” is the most ingenious, and would probably most excite the wonder of an angel sent down to inspect our social life.  If he should pause at the entrance of the house where one is in progress, he would be puzzled.  The noise that would greet his ears is different from the deep continuous roar in the streets, it is unlike the hum of millions of seventeen-year locusts, it wants the musical quality of the spring conventions of the blackbirds in the chestnuts, and he could not compare it to the vociferation in a lunatic asylum, for that is really subdued and infrequent.  He might be incapable of analyzing this, but when he caught sight of the company he would be compelled to recognize it as the noise of our highest civilization.  It may not be perfect, for there are limits to human powers of endurance, but it is the best we can do.  It is not a chance affair.  Here are selected, picked out by special invitation, the best that society can show, the most intelligent, the most accomplished, the most beautiful, the best dressed persons in the community—­all receptions have this character.  The angel would notice this at once, and he would be astonished at the number of