than the mere pulsating to romance, the thrilling to
vague-sweet strains, the singing idly in empty days, the sating of self
with pleasure--what of the children?

"Never mind the children," says selfish little Love. "It has been our
wont never to give any thought to the children; they were incidental.
Always have we sought our own pleasure; let us continue to seek our own
pleasure." So Society continues to breed its horses and dogs with
judgment and forethought and to trust to luck for its children.

But it won't do, Dane. Life, in a sense, is living and surviving. And
all that makes for living and surviving is good. He who follows the fact
cannot go astray, while he who has no reverence for the fact wanders
afar. Chivalry went mad over an idea. It idealised, if you please. It
made of love a fine art, and countless knights-errant devoted themselves
to the service of the little god. It sentimentalised over ladies'
gloves and forgot to make for living and surviving. And while chivalry
committed suicide over its ladies' gloves, the stout, wooden-headed
burghers, with an eye to the facts of life, dickered and bickered in
trade. And on the wreck and ruin of chivalry they flaunted their parvenu
insolence. God, how they triumphed! The children and cobblers and
shop-keepers buying with the yellow gold the "thousand years old names!"
buying with their yellow gold the proud flesh and blood of their lords
to breed with them and theirs! patronising the arts, speaking a kind
word to science, and patting God on the back! But they triumphed, that
is the point. They reverenced the fact and made for living and
surviving.

Love is life, you say, and you seem to hold it the achievement of
existence. But I cannot say that life is love. Life? It is a toy, i'
faith, given to us, we know not why, to play with as we chance to
please. Some elect to dream, some to love, and some to fight. Some
choose immediate happiness, and some ultimate happiness. One stakes the
Here and Now upon the Hereafter; another takes the Here and Now and lets
the Hereafter go. But each grasps the toy and does with it according to
his fancy And while none may know the end of life, all know that life
is the end of love. Love, poor little, crude little, love, is the means
to life--and so we complete the circle. Life? It is a toy, i' faith,
given us, we know not why, to play with as we chance to please.

But this we know, that love is the means to life, and it is subje