broad cross-road into the lovely rolling country, her brown veil floating a little, unknown to her, but like a living thing, with a little wild waving of its folds. The Franciscan I saw follow a road in another direction. The curve of it soon hid him. I did not see him again.

III

I remained in the bus. We were to stay only a little while at the county seat, for we were already late. New horses were put to the pole, and within twenty minutes we were driving over the same road by which we had come.

An old gentleman who, I think, was a lawyer returning from county court, was the only other occupant and he was soon dozing. It was a strange ride back. When we came to Latonia the light was so altered as to make a new and lovely adventure of it. The sun was not yet set, but the sunlight had withdrawn to the tops of the tall trees. Below, the hotel lawn was cool, almost twilit, mysterious in shadows. It was there only a little while ago that I had first seen these two coming down the path to enter the bus. The last few hours had changed life for me entirely. Though I did not know it at the time, I know now that the two worlds of reality and of romance-before that distinct and separate in my mind and all untried were forever mingled with each other now, for me, and were one with my own life. I shall never henceforth be able to see a herd of cattle on a dusty road without seeing those two in their last meeting, nor shall I ever see any who remind me of him or her without a sense of love and death and the inevitable.

This is a true story. I have never told it before. I have kept it locked

may

away as something too cherished, too intimate to share with any one. There always seemed to me a finality about it beyond any story I could ever read. Yet I am telling it now, partly from a sense of honor, partly from a hidden hope; because it was not, after all, finished that day. She may still be living. This chance to meet her eye. If so, I would have her know that the darkeyed child who rode with them that day came in time, by that strange chance, so much more strange in life than in any story, to meet just what she had met: to meet Love, the glorious and radiant presence, only to find that there walked beside Love, -roadcompanions of the way, - Poverty, and one whose face had all the likeness of Death. And I would have her know that, because of that day, and because of the memory of her in my heart, so long cherished, I, at the chosen moment, laid my hand in that of the shining Presence, despite those other presences, to go with it, in what paths soever it might lead me.

It is so, I take it, life deals with us more largely than we know. Fools in our folly; spendthrifts though we may be, throwing priceless wisdom away to the winds, as these two had done; wasting our wealth and our substance of joy irretrievably; careless of God's treasure intrusted to us; squandering gold worth the ransom of all the kings of the earth, and this for some trifling thing, some inconsiderable bauble; yet God, unknown to us, does most usually, no doubt, save from our wrecked fortunes and our lost argosies something -something precious still, and above price with which, at a future day, with merciful largesse of wisdom and of love, some other soul may yet be blest and may yet be enriched, as it were by all the treasure of the earth.

I

READING, some time ago, The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft, I came upon this sentence? 'Democracy is full of menace to the finer hopes of civilization.' The idea, of course, is not a new one, and yet I found myself dwelling on it as if it had never been expressed before. Democracy! The panacea of all social diseases, the manifest destiny of the modern world, a political creed held by millions of people with a fervor that hardly any religious creed now commands-democracy 'full of menace to the finer hopes of civilization'! Instinctively I asked myself, 'What are those hopes that even seem to be incompatible with this supreme political good? Are they hopes that we have a right to cherish? If it is true, as Aristotle thought, that man cannot reach the perfection of which his nature is capable unless he unites with other men to constitute a state; if the state, in other words, is the indispensable condition of the perfection of human nature; and if the form of that state toward which humanity is tending is unmistakably democratic, what are we to think of hopes, however lofty, to which such a state offers no promise of fulfillment? Is it possible that democracy and civilization are not quite the same thing? Is it possible that civilization is a larger, a more inclusive thing than democracy, of more irresistible authority and of wider scope?'

These are some of the questions to which Gissing's quiet sentence gave rise

in my mind, and to which I venture to think that I have found answers valid for those, at least, whose democracy is 'tempered,' as Arnold said his liberalism was, 'by experience, reflection, and renouncement.'

For most of us, the democratic idea is not so tempered. We live in a great democracy, cut off by miles of ocean from contact with any other form of society. We breathe democratic air. We view everything, instinctively and necessarily, from the democratic angle. Our notions of education, of social relations, of public and private behavior are different from what they would be under another system of government. It may be, even, that our notions of religion are different, or will become so. Indeed, we are invited by certain philosophers of the Bergsonian school to abandon our monarchical theology and to bring our religion into line with our politics and our science. It is intimated that "Thy kingdom come' is a prayer that sounds oddly on democratic lips. For, just as the democratic state is a heterogeneous mass of humanity, moving, without plan or prevision, toward an end which no one can foresee; just as in the natural world, even in that part of it which we have been accustomed to call inanimate, there are evidences of life, perhaps of conscious life, striving blindly toward an unknown goal; so He whom we name God, far from being the architect and sovereign of the universe, is only this creative evolutionary force in man and nature, working out, He too,

his mysterious destiny. Biology, sociology, and theology, as seen with democratic eyes, are all engaged in the same task, 'the effort to break down all barriers, to link all the orders of the world together in an essential oneness of quality and process.'

1

Evidently, then, if we are to be good democrats at church as well as in the laboratory and at the polls, we must rid ourselves of our theological inconsistency, and bring ourselves, if we can, to accept the God of democracy. And so our philosophical system comes to be of a beautiful completeness. As we find our own essence in the plant, the animal, the stone; as our sole aim is to detect 'the essential oneness of quality and process' in nature and society, so we find nothing more than this in the heavenly places. Our God, the God of democracy, is but our democratic selves writ large.

But it is not my purpose to discuss this interesting and from certain points of view- amusing hypothesis. The 'democratic conception of God' may be safely left to the theologians

- at least it may be safely left to some of them. I wish only to point out that this a democracy of such reach and consistency as this is what we appear to be coming to; but it is a consoling reflection that we may after all be saved from the extreme logic of our theory by those amiable weaknesses of our nature which have saved us so often, our indolence, our slender reasoning faculty, and our incorrigible sense of humor.

II

There are many minds, perhaps the majority of those most heartily committed to the democratic idea, to whom

1 PROFESSOR H. A. OVERSTREET, "The Democratic Conception of God.' Hibbert Journal, March, 1913. -THE AUTHOR.

it will seem the veriest trifling to inquire, as I must proceed to do, what is to be the place of literature in a worldorder like this. And by literature, I hasten to say, I mean those works in which the deepest mind of man has been expressed his highest hope, his sternest conviction, his most radiant aspiration, his profoundest intuition, his most soaring imagination, his most poignant anguish, his most ecstatic joy. I do not mean the tales and ditties by which the rank and file of men beguile their empty leisure. I mean the Iliad, the Eneid, the tragedies of Æschylus and Sophocles and Shakespeare, the Divine Comedy and Paradise Lost and Faust. I mean those works which demand the exercise of powers of heart and mind at their best, the works in which the keenest-sighted and highest-hearted of men find most profit, works which are not exhausted by generations of students during years of study, works for the comprehension of which the utmost refinement and subtlety of mind are no less necessary than grasp and vigor; works, in short, which but one man in a century is capable of writing and but few, comparatively, in a generation are capable of fully understanding.

For it is an absurd notion that these great works are classics because they are popular. They are classics because the best minds of every age have found them an inexhaustible source of power and beauty. I do not forget such encouraging experiences as those of Miss MacCracken, who found tenementdwellers who knew by the light of nature that William Shakespeare was a true interpreter of the human heart and Mr. Hall Caine a false one. But take the mass of men and women, by and large, who make up our democratic world; take even the mass of those persons who are said to be 'readers'; take the average man of business, the

average professional man, the average woman immersed in the social duties of a town small or large, and apply to them the practical test, the only one that counts, do they instinctively prefer Shakespeare to Mr. Pinero, Milton to Mr. John Masefield, Thackeray to Mr. Winston Churchill, and they will candidly answer that they do not.

It is not necessary to apologize for a preference for the modern in literature; but such a test is conclusive that literature, in the sense in which I use the term, is not a popular and an easy thing, a thing which appeals naturally to the man in the street, but a highly select and exacting thing, a thingdare I venture it? which has most of the qualities that we stigmatize as aristocratic.

Now, in the thorough-going democracy of the future to which all the signs are pointing, literature, in this sense, seems likely to be an anachronism. It is an aristocratic discord in the great hymn a little monotonous, it must be granted that we are raising to 'the essential oneness of quality and process.' In a society where the whole emphasis is on resemblances rather than on differences; where there is no master, no guide; where it is collective, not individual wisdom that practically counts; where, if there be an end toward which the whole is moving, no one can possibly know what it is; where, practically speaking, the movement is itself the end, in a world like this, what has literature to do, literature, in which the differences, the distinctions between things are all-important; in which the individual is everything, the group little or nothing; in which an end, foreseen from the beginning, conditions all movement; in which an intelligible order is the sine qua non; in which permanence, stability, completeness are the essentials? The 'democratic conVOL. 116-NO. 4

ception of God' has little in common with St. James's idea of a Being 'in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning'; yet it is of such a Being that literature, in the high sense, inevitably reminds us.

...

Perhaps, after all, Matthew Arnold's somewhat daring prophecy stands a chance of fulfillment. More than thirty years ago he wrote: "The future of poetry is immense, because in poetry our race, as time goes on, will find an ever surer and surer stay. Our religion has materialized itself in the fact, in the supposed fact; it has attached its emotion to the fact, and now the fact is failing it. . . . The strongest part of our religion to-day is its unconscious poetry.' 'The priest departs,' cries Walt Whitman; 'the divine literatus comes.' While we are probably not ready yet to substitute even Dante's or Milton's poem for the four Gospels, still, if we must choose between the democratic chaos and the Divine Comedy as a symbol for deity, we should have little difficulty, I think, in making a choice.

But I am reminded that literature, too, illustrates 'the essential oneness of quality and process.' Poetry is only another product of the democratic chaos. If the scholars are right, its beginnings were humble enough. In some rude primeval community the folk gather to celebrate a victory in battle or the fame of a dead warrior. They begin, all together, an exultant or a solemn rhythmic dance. Presently some one utters a cry which expresses their common sense of triumph or grief. It is caught up and repeated and varied, adapted to the movement of the dancing band. Presently another participant contributes a cry, which is added to the first. This process is repeated again and again, as the tribe feels the need of expressing its emotions rhythmically, until, little by little, something like an ode or hymn is developed by

the whole community working under the inspiration of a common emotion. And so the majesty of Homer and Pindar is born.

It is plain that this process admirably exemplifies the growth of the democratic state, the collective work of a whole people, coöperating toward an end that is unforeseen. But here the parallel ceases. After all, there are still some steps to take from the highest achievement of the folk working collectively, to the Odes of Pindar. With the best democratic intentions in the world, we cannot resist the conviction that at some stage of the process there has intervened a gifted individual; and from that point on, the evolving ode is no longer a communal but an individual affair. Indeed, if strict justice were done, it seems to me that we should attach more importance than we do to that first inarticulate cry which began the evolution. The poor fellow who made it had one, at least, and that an important one, of the qualifications of the poet; he felt the emotion which his companions felt, but, unlike them, he was able to express it. However, we will waive this objection to the illustration, and grant that, at least up to the moment of the intervention of the individual singer, poetry, too, illustrates 'the essential oneness of quality and process,' that poetry, too, is democratic.

As I was thinking over these things one day in our college library, my eye fell upon the portrait bust of an unknown Roman priest or citizen, who gazes benignantly, if somewhat satirically, upon the intellectual activity going on about him; and, somehow, in the light of his fine smile, 'the essential oneness of quality and process,' at least as applied to art, began to seem less important. There he was, the finished product of a great civilization, rendered by the artist with a subtle

truth which is itself the mark of a high distinction. And he seemed to say to me, 'Is the process by which I became what you see so all-important as to make you forget what I am? No doubt, at bottom I am, as one of your own poets has said, "blood-brother to the stone"; but practically, what of it? Between that stage and this, there have intervened how many individuals of the highest and rarest gifts! It is they who have made me what I am, and without them I should have been little more than those rude, unhewn resemblances to man that stand out from bluff or boulder on the untraveled mountain-side.'

The lesson to me, at any rate, is plain. Art, literature, however communal in origin, are, in the only form in which they concern us, individual in essence, and few things are more absurd than to talk of their democratic origin, with our Roman friend before us and the literature of all the ages on the shelves about us.

Now it is plain, not only that the democratic spirit in its extreme form is alien to the essential quality of literature, but that it implies a different ideal of humanity from that of the older civilization which it is superseding, an ideal that is summed up succinctly in Walt Whitman's phrase 'the divine average.' The older civilization assumed strength, vigor, boldness, courage, all the aggressive masculine virtues, as, of course, elements in its human ideal; but it added to these grace and refinement of expression, delicacy of perception and taste, intellectual balance and self-restraint, patient submission to mental discipline in short, all that class of qualities which were believed to mark the cultivated man; qualities, I need hardly observe, which are not common or easily attainable or within the reach of every one. Democratic culture, says Whitman, — and in quoting