a handful. The rest gave only of their lucre. And all the time,
while they studied the social problem and organised charity, the
measure of human misery went on increasing. The rich grew richer and
the poor grew poorer, amid the greatest activity of social {167}
reformers. It was all futile because it was uninstructed. It only
palliated the pain; it never sought to dry up the fountains of human
misery. The professional charity organisers saw the human wrecks being
borne on the flood to doom, and from the banks, in security, they threw
them life-belts. But they never thought of plunging themselves into
the wild waters and breasting the flood at the risk of their own lives
that they might save. Man cannot save man without blood, and there was
only water in their veins.

IV

That life manifested the slum at its core in sundry unmistakable forms.
Its literature was largely the record of man wallowing in the mud; and
that Art which aforetime made humanity kneel at the shrine of the
Mother and the Child became the handmaid of vice. In the name of Art
the new generation demanded freedom, but the freedom was a {168}
freedom divorced from modesty and reverence. Only the play or the song
that evoked the unclean laugh now crowded the theatre. But most
striking of all was the manner in which they sought to escape from the
ennui which afflicted their souls. Weird and vulgar dances had their
day; grotesque attire claimed its devotees; but the chief way of escape
was that which led to the feet of charlatans. A whole group of new
religions sprang up; mysteries from the Ganges vied with mysteries
imported from Chicago, and both found multitudes to seek after them.
The growth of centuries, the slow evolution of truth handed down by the
saintly and the wise--that was as nothing weighed against the dictum of
a woman in America or a Hindu in Benares!

On a grey winter afternoon, some three years ago, I happened to arrive
at one of our most beautiful cities--a city that justly prides itself
on its culture. As I walked along the world's most beautiful street I
was struck by the sight of a long {169} line of motors that overflowed
up a roadway leading to the turreted hill. I asked a motor-man what
was happening that day. 'There is a black prophet,' said he, pointing
his thumb over his shoulder, 'preaching in the Assembly Hall.' I
needed no further explanation. I know nothing about the said prophet
except that he isn't a