It is rather of a great daily adventure one has with the world.

There have been times when it seemed as if it had to begin all over again every morning.

Day by day I walk down Fleet Street toward Ludgate Hill.

I look once more every morning at that great picture of any religion; I look at the quiet, soaring, hopeful dome—­that little touch of singing or praying that men have lifted up against heaven.  “Will the Dome bring the Man to me?”

I look up at the machines, strange and eager, hurrying across the bridge.  “Will the Machines bring the Man to me?”

I look in the faces of the crowd hurrying past.  “Will the Crowd bring the Man to me?”

With the picture of my religion—­or perhaps three religions or three stories of religion—­I walk on and on through the crowd, past the railway, past the Cathedral, past the Mansion House, and over the Tower Bridge.  I walk fast and eagerly and blindly, as though a man would walk away from the world.

Suddenly I find myself, throngs of voices all about me, standing half-unconsciously by a high iron fence in Bermondsey watching that smooth asphalt playground where one sees the very dead (for once) crowded by the living—­pushed over to the edges—­their gravestones tilted calmly up against the walls.  I stand and look through the pickets and watch the children run and shout—­the little funny, mockingly dressed, frowzily frumpily happy children, the stored-up sunshine of a thousand years all shining faintly out through the dirt, out through the generations in their little faces—­“Will the Man come to me out of these?”

The tombstones lean against the wall and the children run and shout.  As I watch them with my hopes and fears and the tombstones tilted against the walls—­as I peer through the railings at the children, I face my three religions.  What will the three religions do with the children?  What will the children do with the three religions?

And now I will tell the truth.  I will not cheat nor run away as sometimes I seem to have tried to do for years.  I will no longer let myself be tricked by the mere glamour and bigness of our modern life nor swooned into good-will by the roll and liturgy of revolution, “of the people,” “for the people,” “by the people,” nor will I be longer awed by those huge phrase-idols, constitutions, routines, that have roared around me “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity”—­those imperious, thoughtless, stupid tra-la-las of the People.  Do the People see truth?  Can the People see truth?  Can all the crowd, and can all the machines, and all the cathedrals piled up together produce the Man, the Crowd-man or great man who sees truth?

And so with my three religions, I have three fears, one for each of them.  There is the Machine fear, lest the crowd should be overswept by its machines and become like them; and the Crowd fear, lest the crowd should overlook its mighty innumerable and personal need of great men; and there is also the daily fear for the Church, lest the Church should not understand crowds and machines and grapple with crowds and machines, interpret them and glory in them and appropriate them for her own use and for God’s—­lest the Church should turn away from the crowds and the machines and graciously and idly bow down to Herself.