glances of Truth, arise to see for us? Friends! but, lacking him,
what shall we do to be saved?--for truly this 'civilization' of ours
is a blood-washed civilization, friends, a reddish Juggernaut, you
know, whose wheels cease not: so we should be prying into it,
provided we be not now too hide-bound: for that's the trouble--that
our thoughts grow to revolve in stodgy grooves of use-and-wont, and
shun to soar beyond. Look at our Parliament--a hurdy-gurdy turning
out, age after age, a sing-song of pigmy regulations, accompanied
for grum kettledrum by a musketry of suicides, and for pibroch by a
European bleating of little children. We are still a million miles
from civilization! For what is a civilized society? It can only be
one in which the people are proud and happy! The people of Africa
are happy, not proud; not civilized; the people of England have a
certain pride, not a millionth part as superb as it might be, but
are far from happy: far from civilized. The fact is, Man has never
begun to live, but still sleeps a deep sleep. Well! let us do our
best, we here! I have here a paper offering a prize to the man of us
who will go to the root of our troubles, and my idea in usurping the
place of our friend, Mr. Max, was to ask you to form an association
with me to enter that competition. There is no reason why our
association should not be large as the nation, nor why it should not
spread to France and Turkey. For the thing presses, and to-morrow
more of the slaughtered dead will be swarming in the mortuaries of
London. Will you, then? The understanding will be this: that each
man who writes his name in a note-book which will lie at Rose
Cottage, Thring, or who sends his name, will devote sixty minutes
each day to the problem. I happen to be in a position to use a
chapel at Thring, and there I will hold a meeting--"

At this point Frankl rose: Thring was _his_, his own, own, own; and