is
'omniuin gatherum', this great discordant symphony of sharps and flats.
A London, an England, kempt and self-respecting; swept and garnished
of slums, and plutocrats, advertisement, and jerry-building, of
sensationalism, vulgarity, vice, and unemployment. An England where each
man should know his place, and never change it, but serve in it loyally
in his own caste. Where every man, from nobleman to labourer, should
be an oligarch by faith, and a gentleman by practice. An England so
steel-bright and efficient that the very sight should suffice to
impose peace. An England whose soul should be stoical and fine with the
stoicism and fineness of each soul amongst her many million souls; where
the town should have its creed and the country its creed, and there
should be contentment and no complaining in her streets.

And as he walked down the Strand, a little ragged boy cheeped out
between his legs:

"Bloodee discoveree in a Bank--Grite sensytion! Pi-er!"

Miltoun paid no heed to that saying; yet, with it, the wind that blows
where man lives, the careless, wonderful, unordered wind, had dispersed
his austere and formal vision. Great was that wind--the myriad
aspiration of men and women, the praying of the uncounted multitude to
the goddess of Sensation--of Chance, and Change. A flowing from heart to
heart, from lip to lip, as in Spring the wistful air wanders through a
wood, imparting to every bush and tree the secrets of fresh life, the
passionate resolve to grow, and become--no matter what! A sighing, as
eternal as the old murmuring of the sea, as little to be hushed, as
prone to swell into sudden roaring!

Miltoun held on through the traffic, not looking overmuch at the present
forms of the thousands he passed, but seeing with the eyes of faith the
forms he desired to see. Near St. Paul's he stopped in front of an old
book-shop. His grave, pallid, not unhandsome face, was well-known to
William Rimall, its small proprietor, who at once brought out his latest
acquisition--a Mores 'Utopia.' That particular edition (he assured
Miltoun) was quite unprocurable--he had never sold but one other copy,
which had been literally, crumbling away. This copy was in even better
condition. It could hardly last another twenty years--a genuine book,
a bargain. There wasn't so much movement in More as there had been a
little time back.

Miltoun opened the tome, and a small book-louse who had been sleeping
on the word 'Tranibore,' beg