The following propositions have been urged:  First, that some faith in our life is required even to improve it; second, that some dissatisfaction with things as they are is necessary even in order to be satisfied; third, that to have this necessary content and necessary discontent it is not sufficient to have the obvious equilibrium of the Stoic.  For mere resignation has neither the gigantic levity of pleasure nor the superb intolerance of pain.  There is a vital objection to the advice merely to grin and bear it.  The objection is that if you merely bear it, you do not grin.  Greek heroes do not grin:  but gargoyles do—­because they are Christian.  And when a Christian is pleased, he is (in the most exact sense) frightfully pleased; his pleasure is frightful.  Christ prophesied the whole of Gothic architecture in that hour when nervous and respectable people (such people as now object to barrel organs) objected to the shouting of the gutter-snipes of Jerusalem.  He said, “If these were silent, the very stones would cry out.”  Under the impulse of His spirit arose like a clamorous chorus the facades of the mediaeval cathedrals, thronged with shouting faces and open mouths.  The prophecy has fulfilled itself:  the very stones cry out.

If these things be conceded, though only for argument, we may take up where we left it the thread of the thought of the natural man, called by the Scotch (with regrettable familiarity), “The Old Man.”  We can ask the next question so obviously in front of us.  Some satisfaction is needed even to make things better.  But what do we mean by making things better?  Most modern talk on this matter is a mere argument in a circle—­that circle which we have already made the symbol of madness and of mere rationalism.  Evolution is only good if it produces good; good is only good if it helps evolution.  The elephant stands on the tortoise, and the tortoise on the elephant.

Obviously, it will not do to take our ideal from the principle in nature; for the simple reason that (except for some human or divine theory), there is no principle in nature.  For instance, the cheap anti-democrat of to-day will tell you solemnly that there is no equality in nature.  He is right, but he does not see the logical addendum.  There is no equality in nature; also there is no inequality in nature.  Inequality, as much as equality, implies a standard of value.  To read aristocracy into the anarchy of animals is just as sentimental as to read democracy into it.  Both aristocracy and democracy are human ideals:  the one saying that all men are valuable, the other that some men are more valuable.  But nature does not say that cats are more valuable than mice; nature makes no remark on the subject.  She does not even say that the cat is enviable or the mouse pitiable.  We think the cat superior because we have (or most of us have) a particular philosophy to the effect that life is better than death.  But if the mouse