those of obstruction preserve
the same heroic proportions which they are wont to assume in their day.
They seem to be engaged in a sort of by-play, and wear an unmistakable
aspect of childishness. Lo! Mankind has been a long time on his way,
and endures hardily the prospect of endless leagues to go. He is the
Patient Plodder, symbol of mature intelligence. And he has in his
company two small boys who exhibit an incorrigible {5} naughtiness.
The one of these is called Destruction; his other names being Cynic,
Sceptic, and Nihilist. He it is that mocks and cries, "Go up, thou
bald head! go up, thou bald head!" Mankind does not curse him in the
name of the Lord, but invites him to play with another small boy, named
Obstruction, and whose other names are Vested Interest, Reactionary,
and Pedant. This one, whenever Mankind will lead him, digs in his
heels or lies down in his tracks; until, pricked and goaded by his
playfellow, he at length gets up and scrambles after. And so these two
keep ever by the side or at the heels of Mankind, whom they neither
lead nor deflect from his course.

Paradox serves to dislodge prejudice; and blasphemy may rudely but
effectually bring to their senses those who have mistaken the hardness
of their hearts for loyalty, and their easy default for success. But
practical wisdom belongs only to those who proceed unwaveringly out of
the past and into the future, correcting mistakes when they may,
conserving the good already won, and making new conquests.

It may be remarked, and should be readily granted, that patient
plodding is less _piquant_ than the by-play of inertia and revolt. The
spirit of Nietsche is doubtless even now yawning mightily at such
tedious moralizing; fresh proof of the "dull, gloomy seriousness," the
hopeless {6} stupidity of our sublunary virtue. I believe that
Nietsche has frankly confessed the real grievance of his class of
mischief makers. They are impatient and easily bored; while the
business of establishing a healthful and vigorous society is
complicated, tortuous, and slow. Their talent for letters, their love
of vivid pictures, sharp contrasts, and concise dramatic situations,
cannot adapt itself to the real bulk and complexity of life.
Civilization is too promiscuous, too prolonged and monotonous, for
these rare spirits. And they have their sure reward; for they ease the
tension of effort, supplying a recreative release from its pangs under
the flatter