ians and Carthaginians, the most civilised commercial
people of the world in their time, as the English are now, gave their
own children to be burnt alive as victims to Baal. The Mexicans were
far more civilised than the ordinary North American Indians of their
own day, and even in some respects than the Spanish Christians who
conquered, converted, enslaved, and tortured them; but the Mexican
religion was full of such horrors as I could hardly even name to you.
It was based entirely on cannibalism, as yours is on Mammon. Human
sacrifices were common--commoner even than in modern England, I fancy.
New-born babies were killed by the priests when the corn was sown;
children when it had sprouted; men when it was full grown; and very old
people when it was fully ripe."

"How horrible!" Frida exclaimed.

"Yes, horrible," Bertram answered; "like your own worst customs. It
didn't show either gentleness or rationality, you'll admit; but it
showed what's the one thing essential to civilisation--great coherence,
high organisation, much division of function. Some of the rites these
civilised Mexicans performed would have made the blood of kindly savages
run cold with horror. They sacrificed a man at the harvest festival by
crushing him like the corn between two big flat stones. Sometimes the
priests skinned their victim alive, and wore his raw skin as a mask
or covering, and danced hideous dances, so disguised, in honour of
the hateful deities whom their fancies had created--deities even
more hateful and cruel, perhaps, than the worst of your own Christian
Calvinistic fancies. I can't see, myself, that civilised people are one
whit the better in all these respects than the uncivilised barbarian.
They pull together better, that's all; but war, bloodshed, superstition,
fetich-worship, religious rites, castes, class distinctions, sex taboos,
restrictions on freedom of thought, on freedom of action, on freedom of
speech, on freedom of knowledge, are just as common in their midst as
among the utterly uncivilised."

"Then what you yourself aim at," Frida said, looking hard at him, for he
spoke very earnestly--"what you yourself aim at is--?"

Bertram's eyes came back to solid earth with a bound.

"Oh, what we at home aim at," he said, smiling that sweet, soft smile
of his that so captivated Frida, "is not mere civilisation (though,
of course, we value that too, in its meet degree, because without
civilisation and co-operation no gre