at the moment of her champion’s arrival on the scene.  By this princess is intended the Soul:—­the “Woman of Holy Writ,” and the central figure of all sacred dramatic art of every date and country.  That the allegory is of such wide and ancient repute, proves the identity of the needs and troubles of humanity throughout the ages.  Yet one cannot fail to be struck with its special bearing on the present state of thought.  It seems, indeed, as though the story of St. George and the Dragon might have been written yesterday, and dedicated to the men and women of our own times.  Never, surely, has the dragon ravaged and despoiled the earth as he does now.  When at first he came upon us, it was not much that the monster’s appetite demanded.  It was satisfied with the sacrifice of a few superstitions and antique beliefs, which we could well spare, and the loss of which did not greatly affect us.  These were the mere sheep and kine of our outlying pastures.  But at length all these were swept away, and the genius of Materialism remained unsatisfied.  Then we began, reluctantly, to yield up to it far more precious things,—­ our religious convictions, our hold on sacred Scriptures, our trust in prayer, our confidence in heavenly providence,—­the very children of our hearts, bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh, endeared to us by the hereditary faith which had become even as nature itself.  All these we gave and with tears; many of them had made life lovely and desirable to us, and without them our hearth seemed desolate.  But complaint and resistance we knew to be in vain; materialistic science devoured them one by one; none were left in all that ancient city, the Human Kingdom, whose ruler and monarch is Mind.  This our sovereign-Mind—­had hitherto cherished with fond delight one lovely and only child, the Soul.  He believed that she would survive and perpetuate him, and that for ever her heirs should sit on the throne of his kingdom.  To part with her would be blight and ruin to all his hopes and aspirations.  Better that he should never have drawn breath than that he should be forced to see the child he had brought into the world perish before his eyes.

Still, with ominous persistence the terrible monster hangs about the gates of the city.  All the air is filled with the pestilent effluvium of his nostrils.  Relentless, indeed, is this pessimistic science.  It demands the sacrifice of the Soul itself, the last lovely and precious thing remaining to despoiled humanity.  Into the limbo of those horrid jaws must be swept—­with all other and meaner beliefs and hopes—­faith in the higher Selfhood and its immortal Life.  The Soul must perish!  Despair seizes the Mind of man.  For some time he resists the cruel demand; he produces argument after argument, appeal after appeal.  All are unavailing.  Why should the Soul be respected where nothing else is spared?  Forced into surrender, the Mind at last yields up his best-beloved.  Life is no more worth living now; black death and despair confront him; he cares no longer to be ruler over a miserable kingdom bereft of its fairest treasure, its only hope.  For of what value to man is the Mind without the Soul?