from thence on the march of humanity
and deliver judgment thereon, surely that judgment could not be a true
one.

The true judgment of life was only to be made by the help of the full
humanness of the observer. Life had to be felt within; not viewed from
without from an imagined cosmic standpoint.

Not then in the long parade of history must the meaning of life be
sought, nor in its massed manifestations, the sum total resulting from
its activities; not amid the buried relics in geologic strata, not in
the large sweep of scientific law. But each human being might find it
for himself in his own limited span; for the individual life, lived
true with the fulness of the human spirit, was its own end, its own
meaning. And whosoever lived true to himself felt and knew the meaning
of life. Living and mating might be foreshortened to mere dry facts in
the great stretch of a cosmic outlook; by the emotion of the
individual they were touched to divinity.

Let him, then, since he wished to live true, not seek to escape from
himself, but to accept his own human outlook and be true to the
fulness of his being. Let him recognise the eternal principles of
humanness underlying man's varying attempts to express them in binding
rules of conduct, and let him take his place in man's world--a world,
both of facts and relations, selected by man's innate nature from the
swirling, chaotic continuity of which man was a part--facing the
fulness of life with the fulness of character.

He had climbed the long, ascending road. Above him sat the dark castle
on the top of a grey slope; and, looking downwards on his left, he saw
the town sleeping in its valley, its many points of light gleaming
through a palpitating mist. He could just discern the other hill
beyond as a tone that was lost in the dark sky, a faint luminous spot
showing here and there on the top.

He stayed a moment to admire the nocturne and was glad that he had
lived to see all this beauty. Yes, everything called to him for life,
not for death. He continued his wandering, heedless whither; and, when
at last he became conscious of fatigue, he had covered many miles and
had strayed through many by-paths. The first frenzy of restlessness
had worn itself out, and he sat for awhile on a barred gate, previous
to turning back to the town.

His only guide now was the general sense that he must keep the sea on
his left. He was but a few hundred feet from it. Once or twice he
divined th