“From Greenland’s icy mountains,
               From India’s coral strand,
               Where Afric’s sunny fountains
               Roll down their golden sand. 
               From many an ancient river,
               From many a palmy plain,
               They call us to deliver
               Their land from error’s chain.”

Those are beautiful verses, and they have remained in my memory all my life.  But if the closing lines are true, let us hope that when we come to answer the call and deliver the land from its errors, we shall secrete from it some of our high-civilization ways, and at the same time borrow some of its pagan ways to enrich our high system with.  We have a right to do this.  If we lift those people up, we have a right to lift ourselves up nine or ten grades or so, at their expense.  A few years ago I spent several weeks at Tolz, in Bavaria.  It is a Roman Catholic region, and not even Benares is more deeply or pervasively or intelligently devout.  In my diary of those days I find this: 

“We took a long drive yesterday around about the lovely country roads.  But it was a drive whose pleasure was damaged in a couple of ways:  by the dreadful shrines and by the shameful spectacle of gray and venerable old grandmothers toiling in the fields.  The shrines were frequent along the roads—­figures of the Saviour nailed to the cross and streaming with blood from the wounds of the nails and the thorns.

“When missionaries go from here do they find fault with the pagan idols?  I saw many women seventy and even eighty years old mowing and binding in the fields, and pitchforking the loads into the wagons.”

I was in Austria later, and in Munich.  In Munich I saw gray old women pushing trucks up hill and down, long distances, trucks laden with barrels of beer, incredible loads.  In my Austrian diary I find this: 

     “In the fields I often see a woman and a cow harnessed to the plow,
     and a man driving.

“In the public street of Marienbad to-day, I saw an old, bent, gray-headed woman, in harness with a dog, drawing a laden sled over bare dirt roads and bare pavements; and at his ease walked the driver, smoking his pipe, a hale fellow not thirty years old.”

Five or six years ago I bought an open boat, made a kind of a canvas wagon-roof over the stern of it to shelter me from sun and rain; hired a courier and a boatman, and made a twelve-day floating voyage down the Rhone from Lake Bourget to Marseilles.  In my diary of that trip I find this entry.  I was far down the Rhone then: