of deep culture cannot be a
provincial; he must be a citizen of the world. The man of provincial
tastes and ideas owns the acres; the man of culture commands the
landscape. He knows the world beyond the hills; he sees the great
movement of life from which the village seems almost shut out; he
shares those inclusive experiences which come to each age and give
each age a character of its own. He is in fellowship and sympathy with
the smaller community at his doors, but he belongs also to that
greater community which is coterminous with humanity itself. He is not
disloyal to his immediate surroundings when he leaves them for
exploration, travel, and discovery; he is fulfilling that law of life
which conditions true valuation of that into which one is born upon
clear perception of that which one must acquire for himself.

The wanderings of individuals and races, which form so large a part of
the substance of history, are witnesses of that craving for deeper
experience and wider knowledge which is one of the springs of human
progress. The American cares for Europe not for its more skilful and
elaborate ministration to his comfort; he is drawn towards it through
the appeal of its rich historic life to his imagination and through
the diversity and variety of its social and racial phenomena. And in
like manner the European seeks the East, not simply as a matter of
idle curiosity, but because he finds in the East conditions which are
set in such sharp contrast with those with which he is familiar. The
instinct for expansion which gives human history its meaning and
interest is constantly urging the man of sensitive mind to secure by
observation that which he cannot get by experience.

To secure the most complete development one must live in one's time
and yet live above it, and one must also live in one's home and yet
live, at the same time, in the world. The life which is bounded in
knowledge, interest, and activity by the invisible but real and
limiting walls of a small community is often definite in aim,
effective in action, and upright in intention; but it cannot be rich,
varied, generous, and stimulating. The life, on the other hand, which
is entirely detached from local associations and tasks is often
interesting, liberalising, and catholic in spirit; but it cannot be
original or productive. A sound life--balanced, poised, and
intelligently directed--must stand strongly in both local and
universal relations; it must have