in communities’ is good for him. The hooligan,
whose patriotism finds expression in squirting dirty
water into the face of his coster sweetheart:
the boulevardiere, primed with absinth, shouting
’Conspuez les Juifs!’— the
motive force stirring them in its origin was an ideal.
Even into making a fool of itself, a crowd can be
moved only by incitement of its finer instincts.
The service of Prometheus to mankind must not be
judged by the statistics of the insurance office.
The world as a whole has gained by community, will
attain its goal only through community. From
the nomadic savage by the winding road of citizenship
we have advanced far. The way winds upward still,
hidden from us by the mists, but along its tortuous
course lies our track into the Promised Land.
Not the development of the individual—that
is his own concern—but the uplifting of
the race would appear to be the law. The lonely
great ones, they are the shepherds of the flock—the
servants, not the masters of the world. Moses
shall die and be buried in the wilderness, seeing only
from afar the resting-place of man’s tired feet.
It is unfortunate that the Ha’penny Joker and
its kind should have so many readers. Maybe it
teaches those to read who otherwise would never read
at all. We are impatient, forgetting that the
coming and going of our generations are but as the
swinging of the pendulum of Nature’s clock.
Yesterday we booked our seats for gladiatorial shows,
for the burning of Christians, our windows for Newgate
hangings. Even the musical farce is an improvement
upon that—at least, from the humanitarian
point of view.”
“In the Southern States of America,” observed
the Philosopher, sticking to his guns, “they
run excursion trains to lynching exhibitions.
The bull-fight is spreading to France, and English
newspapers are advocating the reintroduction of bear-baiting
and cock-fighting. Are we not moving in a circle?”
“The road winds, as I have allowed,” returned
the Minor Poet; “the gradient is somewhat steep.
Just now, maybe, we are traversing a backward curve.
I gain my faith by pausing now and then to look behind.
I see the weary way with many a downward sweep.
But we are climbing, my friend, we are climbing.”
“But to such a very dismal goal, according to
your theory,” grumbled the Old Maid. “I
should hate to feel myself an insect in a hive, my
little round of duties apportioned to me, my every
action regulated by a fixed law, my place assigned
to me, my very food and drink, I suppose, apportioned
to me. Do think of something more cheerful.”
The Minor Poet laughed. “My dear lady,”
he replied, “it is too late. The thing
is already done. The hive already covers us,
the cells are in building. Who leads his own
life? Who is master of himself? What can
you do but live according to your income in, I am
sure, a very charming little cell; buzz about your
little world with your cheerful, kindly song, helping