f shadows where
winds loiter, of moon magic and far-off suns, friendship and fire and
song. There will be more, too, which he may not say, having no words.
We prate of little things, each to each; but we fall silent before
love and death.

It was once commonly understood that it is not good for a man
to whine. Only of late has it been discovered that a thinker is
superficial and shallow unless he whines; that no man is wise unless
he views with alarm. Eager propaganda has disseminated the glad news
that everything is going to the demnition bowwows. Willing hands pass
on the word. The method is simple. They write very long books in which
they set down the evil on the one side--and nothing on the other. That
is "realism." Whatsoever things are false, whatsoever things are
dishonest, whatsoever things are unjust, whatsoever things are impure,
whatsoever things are of ill report; if there be any vice, and if
there be any shame--they think on these things. They gloat upon these
things; they wallow in these things.

The next time you hanker for a gripping, stinging, roaring romance,
try the story of Eddystone Lighthouse. There wasn't a realist on the
job--they couldn't stand the gaff. For any tough lay like this of
Winstanley's dream you want a gang of idealists--the impractical kind.
It is not a dismal story; it is a long record of trouble, delay,
setbacks, exposure, hardship, death and danger, failure, humiliation,
jeers, disaster and ruin. Crippled idealists were common in Plymouth
Harbor. The sea and the wind mocked their labor; they were crushed,
frozen and drowned; but they built Eddystone Light! And men in other
harbors took heart again to build great lights against night and
storm; the world over, realists fare safelier on the sea for
Winstanley's dream.

There is the great distinction between realism and reality: It is the
business of a realist to preach how man is mastered by circumstances;
it is the business of a man to prove that he will be damned first.

You may note this curious fact of dismal books--that you remember no
passage to quote to your friends. Not one. And you perceive, with
lively astonishment, that despairing books are written by the
fortunate. The homespun are not so easily discouraged. When crows pull
up their corn they do not quarrel with Creation. They comment on the
crows, and plant more corn.

This trouble in King Charles' head may be explained, in part, on
a closer looking. As for thos