tempt on other races.

It would be wiser to see what

we could learn from them. We might well take a lesson from the Burmese detestation of war, or from the Japanese respect for Bushido.

is,

"If we cannot adequately express all that 'Bushido' we can say what it is not. Take the average scheme of life of the average society of the West; 'Bushido,' as nearly as may be, represents its exact antithesis. 'Bushido' offers us the ideal of poverty instead of wealth, humility in place of ostentation, reserve instead of reclaim, self-sacrifice in place of selfishness, the care of the interest of the State rather than that of

the individual. 'Bushido' inspires ardent courage and the refusal to turn the back upon the enemy; it looks death calmly in the face, and prefers it to ignominy of any kind. It preaches submission to authority, and the sacrifice of all private interests, whether of self or family, to the common weal. It requires its disciples to submit to a strict physical and mental discipline, develops a martial spirit, and by lauding the virtues of constancy, courage, fortitude, faithfulness, daring, and self-restraint, offers an exalted code of moral principles, not only for the man and the warrior, but for men ar

women in times of both peace and of war."* Bushido, in fact, is the conscience of the nation, and has made the Japanese a great people.

not on science.

Amiel asserts ** that civilisation rests on conscience, Does it not rather depend on both? Without science our material existence would be impossible; without conscience life would be intolerable. The one is necessary for the body, the other for the soul. Science has done more for man than magicians ever imagined. Chateaubriand unjustly and incorrectly condemns science*** because he affirms that it “flétrit ce qu'il touche: les parfums, l'éclat des couleurs, l'élégance des formes, disparaissent dans les plantes pour le Botaniste." He cannot have known much of that fascinating and delightful science! He is more correct when he tells us that "c'est dans le cœur de T'homme que sont les grâces de la Nature.”

Truth is above reason. The object of reason is to attain truth. For truth we should work and live and be ready, if necessary, to die. "Learn what is true,"

saxley, "in order to do what is right, is the sum

Times, October 4, 1904, The Soul of a Nation.

al intime.

*** Génie du Christianisme.

ming up of the whole duty of man, for all who are unable to satisfy their mental hunger with the east wind of authority." Reason is indispensable. It may be said that it makes mistakes; yes, but how do we know that? By reason. Reason is indispensable, but

we must not overestimate what it can do for us. "The way to religious truth," said Pascal, "is through the heart: an evil spirit poisons everything." I should have said religious feeling, rather than religious truth, for the discovery of which reason seems our best guide; but, no doubt, character must profoundly affect belief: the ideas of God formed by a good man may be right or wrong, those of a bad man must be wrong.

Our theories can at present only be provisional. Marvellous as has been the progress of science, and wonderful the additions to our knowledge, they can only be regarded as tentative and preliminary; as preparing the ground, and providing materials for further discoveries; we have an immense amount to do, to learn, and to unlearn, before we can hope to reach the solution of the great problem of life, the great mystery of that wonderful universe in which we find ourselves, and in which it is our privilege to live.

However we may long for peace, we cannot expect to secure it by running away from duty.

In early Christian times the Anchorites thought to sanctify themselves and secure peace of mind by retiring into the desert; far away not only from cares and temptations of the world, but also from the duties and responsibilities of life. Whether they succeeded I have my doubts. Honest work and useful occupations are a safeguard in many ways. Moreover, the delightful duties of family life, the daily power of giving little pleasures, of softening or removing troubles, of helping in difficulties, are themselves a purifying and ennobling influence. Nor can anyone be the better for sacrificing the society of his friends, or shrinking from the duties we owe to our country, in order to spend his life in working for what he cannot have, lamenting over what he cannot prevent, and puzzling over what he cannot hope to comprehend.

As far as I can judge from books, jealousies and disputes are not altogether absent from monasteries or even from convents; nor need an active and useful life necessarily be one of care or anxiety. The problem, however, is not merely which life-that of isolation or

of activity is most likely to bring peace and happiness to oneself, but which will enable one to do most for the welfare of others.

No doubt in the dark ages convents and monasteries kept alight the torch of learning, and were the centres of education, of literature, and of refinement as well as of religion. They were harbours of refuge for the studious as well as for the poor and the oppressed. They did a great deal to mitigate the savagery and cruelty of those dark times, and we also ourselves owe them much.

But however this may be, the problem for most of us-our clear duty-is to work in the world, to remain of the world, and yet to keep ourselves as far as possible unspotted by the world-though no doubt this is far from easy. Even now there are many who can do more for their fellow-creatures in the college or the cloister than they would at the Bar or in the Senate.

Dante condemned Pope Celestine for "giving up" and retiring to a monastery. He places him and others like him in a special place of punishment, for he says: "Forthwith I understood and felt that this was the crew of Caitiffs, hateful to God, and to God's enemies." Most of us, indeed, can be more useful in a profession