its wholeness, the Holy Ghost.

We have fallen now into the mistake of idealism. Man always falls into
one of the three mistakes. In China, it is tradition. And in the South
Seas, it seems to have been impulse. Ours is idealism. Each of the
three modes is a true life-mode. But any one, alone or dominant,
brings us to destruction. We must depend on the wholeness of our
being, ultimately only on that, which is our Holy Ghost within us.
Whereas, in an ideal of love and benevolence, we have tried to
automatize ourselves into little love-engines always stoked with the
sorrows or beauties of other people, so that we can get up steam of
charity or righteous wrath. A great trick is to pour on the fire the
oil of our indignation at somebody else's wickedness, and then, when
we've got up steam like hell, back the engine and run bish! smash!
against the belly of the offender. Because he said he didn't want to
love any more, we hate him for evermore, and try to run over him,
every bit of him, with our love-tanks. And all the time we yell at
him: "Will you deny love, you villain? Will you?" And by the time he
faintly squeaks, "I want to be loved! I want to be loved!" we have got
so used to running over him with our love-tanks that we don't feel in
a hurry to leave off.

"_Sois mon frere, ou je te tue._"
"_Sois mon frere, ou je me tue._"

There are the two parrot-threats of love, on which our loving
centuries have run as on a pair of railway-lines. Excuse me if I want
to get out of the train. Excuse me if I can't get up any love-steam
any more. My boilers are burst.

We have made a mistake, laying down love like the permanent way of a
great emotional transport system. There we are, however, running on
wheels on the lines of our love. And of course we have only two
directions, forwards and backwards. "Onward, Christian soldiers,
towards the great terminus where bottles of sterilized milk for the
babies are delivered at the bedroom windows by noiseless aeroplanes
each morn, where the science of dentistry is so perfect that teeth are
planted in a man's mouth without his knowing it, where twilight sleep
is so delicious that every woman longs for her next confinement, and
where nobody ever has to do anything except turn a handle now and then
in a spirit of universal love--" That is the forward direction of the
English-speaking race. The Germans unwisely backed their engine. "We
have a city of light. But instead of lying ahead