tawdry, mean, dismal, dull and dull again, interminably
dull--vile, flat, stale, unprofitable and insipid. No splendid folly
or valiant sin--much less impracticable idealisms, such as kindness,
generosity, faith, forgiveness, courage, honor, friendship, love; no
charm or joy or beauty, no ardors that flame and glow. They show forth
a world of beastliness and bankruptcy; they picture life as a
purposeless hell.

I beg of you, sir, do not permit yourself to be alarmed. What you hear
is but the backdoor gossip of the world. And these people do not get
enough exercise. Their livers are torpid. Some of them, poor fellows,
are quite sincere--and some are merely in the fashion. It isn't true,
you know; not of all of us, all the time. Nothing is changed; there is
no shadow but proves the light; in the farthest world of any universe,
in the latest eternity you choose to mention, it will still be playing
the game to run out your hits; and there, as here, only the shirker
will lie down on the job.

In the meantime, now and here, there are two things, and two only,
that a man may do with his ideals: He may hold and shape them, or
tread them under foot; ripen or rot.

What, sir, the hills are steep, the sand heavy, the mire is
Despond-deep; for that reason will you choose a balky horse? Or will
you follow a leader who plans surrender?

The bookshelviki have thrown away the sword before the fight. They
shriek a shameful message: "All is lost! Save yourselves who can!"

The battle is sore upon us; true. But there is another war cry than
this. It was born of a bitter hour; it was nobly boasted, and brave
men made it good. Now, and for all time to come, as the lost and
furious fight reels by, men will turn and turn again for the watchword
of Verdun: "They shall not pass! They shall not pass!"

Pardon the pontifical character of these remarks. They come tardy off.
For years I have kept a safe and shameful silence when I should have
been shouting, "Janet! Donkeys!" and throwing things. I will be
highbrow-beaten no longer. I hereby resign from the choir inaudible.
Modesty may go hang and prudence be jiggered; I wear Little Miss
Brag's colors for favor; I have cut me an ellum gad, and I mean to use
it on the seat of the scorner.

* * * * *

"Everything in Nature is engaged in writing its own history." So says
Emerson or somebody. Here is the roll call of that lonesome bit
between the Rio Grande and