all over me and nothing by way of a change."

"I am contending," said the Minor Poet, "that what we choose to call
civilisation has done little beyond pandering to our animal desires.
Your argument confirms my theory. Your evidence in support of
civilisation comes to this--that it can succeed in tickling the
appetites of a monkey. You need not have gone back so far. The
noble savage of today flings aside his clear spring water to snatch
at the missionary's gin. He will even discard his feathers, which
at least were picturesque, for a chimney-pot hat innocent of nap.
Plaid trousers and cheap champagne follow in due course. Where is
the advancement? Civilisation provides us with more luxuries for
our bodies. That I grant you. Has it brought us any real
improvement that could not have been arrived at sooner by other
roads?"

"It has given us Art," said the Girton Girl.

"When you say 'us,'" replied the Minor Poet, "I presume you are
referring to the one person in half a million to whom Art is
anything more than a name. Dismissing the countless hordes who have
absolutely never heard the word, and confining attention to the few
thousands scattered about Europe and America who prate of it, how
many of even these do you think it really influences, entering into
their lives, refining, broadening them? Watch the faces of the thin
but conscientious crowd streaming wearily through our miles of
picture galleries and art museums; gaping, with guide-book in hand,
at ruined temple or cathedral tower; striving, with the spirit of
the martyr, to feel enthusiasm for Old Masters at which, left to
themselves, they would enjoy a good laugh--for chipped statues