said for that idea.  No other nation has such profound sympathy with the history and the creeds of Israel.  Did you ever think of it?  That Old Testament religion suits us perfectly—­our arrogance and our pugnaciousness; this accounts for its hold on the mind of the people; it couldn’t be stronger if the bloodthirsty old Tribes were truly our ancestors.  The English seized upon their spiritual inheritance as soon as a translation of the Bible put it before them.  In Catholic days we fought because we enjoyed it, and made no pretences; since the Reformation we have fought for Jehovah.”

“I suppose,” said Piers, “the English are the least Christian of all so-called Christian peoples.”

“Undoubtedly.  They simply don’t know the meaning of the prime Christian virtue—­humility.  But that’s neither here nor there, in talking of progress.  You remember Goldsmith—­

    ’Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
     I see the lords of human kind pass by.’

“Our pride has been a good thing, on the whole.  Whether it will still be, now that it’s so largely the pride of riches, let him say who is alive fifty years hence.”

He paused and added gravely: 

“I’m afraid the national character is degenerating.  We were always too fond of liquor, and Heaven knows our responsibility for drunkenness all over the world; but worse than that is our gambling.  You may drink and be a fine fellow; but every gambler is a sneak, and possibly a criminal.  We’re beginning, now, to gamble for slices of the world.  We’re getting base, too, in our grovelling before the millionaire—­who as often as not has got his money vilely.  This sort of thing won’t do for ‘the lords of human kind.’  Our pride, if we don’t look out, will turn to bluffing and bullying.  I’m afraid we govern selfishly where we’ve conquered.  We hear dark things of India, and worse of Africa.  And hear the roaring of the Jingoes!  Johnson defined Patriotism you know, as the last refuge of a scoundrel; it looks as if it might presently be the last refuge of a fool.”

“Meanwhile,” said Piers, “the real interests of England, real progress in national life, seem to be as good as lost sight of.”

“Yes, more and more.  They think that material prosperity is progress.  So it is—­up to a certain point, and who ever stops there?  Look at Germany.”

“Once the peaceful home of pure intellect, the land of Goethe.”

“Once, yes.  And my fear is that our brute, blustering Bismarck may be coming.  But,” he suddenly brightened, “croakers be hanged!  The civilisers are at work too, and they have their way in the end.  Think of a man like your father, who seemed to pass and be forgotten.  Was it really so?  I’ll warrant that at this hour Jerome Otway’s spirit is working in many of our best minds.  There’s no calculating the power of the man who speaks from his very heart.  His words don’t perish, though he himself may lose courage.”