ly a
development is not artificial because it is recent! Surely man is as
integral to life as his progenitors! When we come to civilisation, we
are face to face with the largest and subtlest thing in life, and the
civilisation of human society is not artificial. It is the fulfilment of
the nature of man, the promise made good, the career established, the
influence sent out. A universe of mind-stuff and a civilising force
constantly causing change, for change is growth, constantly compelling
expression of that change--to conceive it is to conceive infinitude. And
the purpose? Development, always development. To that end the individual
perishes, to that end the race is conserved, to that end the peril and
the sacrifice, and the agony of triumph in the overcharged heart at its
last bound. And what is this refining of the type, this goal for which
we all make with such tragic directness, but the gaining in the power to
love? We begin with love to end with greater love, and that is progress.
To write the epic of civilisation is a task for some giant artist who
shall combine in himself Homer and Shakespeare, and the work will be a
love story.

We do not throw away the grain and keep the chaff, nor do we transmit
the "absurdities" and "philanderings" alone. If in the lover's voice
throb the voices of myriads of lovers, it is because he is stirred even
as they. If a ballad wakes a response in him, it is because its motif
has been singing itself of its own accord in his heart, and its rhythm
was the dream nightingale to which he bade Her hearken. Behind the
tradition lies the fact. The expression may be ephemeral, the song flat,
the motto conventional, but the feeling which prompted it is true. Else
it could not have survived. And it has more than survived. It has grown
with growth. For centuries it lodged in the nature of man, lulled in
acquiescence, then, when the sense of recognition awoke, back in those
wondrous young days, it wakened to pale life, and now the feeling is
man's whole support, giving him courage to work and purpose to live.

But the half brute of the London slums kicks his wife when she offends
him and knows nothing of love. Well for the honour of love that it is
so! The half brute of the London slums had not food enough when a child,
and malnutrition is deadly. Later, he stole and lied in order to eat,
and he was bullied and kicked for it out of human shape. The trick was
passed on to him. The unfortunate of