As We Were Saying | Page 7

conceit that the globe could be made entirely habitable, and all over the
home of a society constantly growing better. In order to accomplish this
we have striven to eliminate barbarism in man and in nature:
Is there anything more unsatisfactory than a perfect house, perfect
grounds, perfect gardens, art and nature brought into the most absolute
harmony of taste and culture? What more can a man do with it? What
satisfaction has a man in it if he really gets to the end of his power to
improve it? There have been such nearly ideal places, and how strong
nature, always working against man and in the interest of untamed
wildness, likes to riot in them and reduce them to picturesque
destruction! And what sweet sadness, pathos, romantic suggestion, the
human mind finds in such a ruin! And a society that has attained its end
in all possible culture, entire refinement in manners, in tastes, in the art
of elegant intellectual and luxurious living--is there nothing pathetic in
that? Where is the primeval, heroic force that made the joy of living in
the rough old uncivilized days? Even throw in goodness, a certain
amount of altruism, gentleness, warm interest in unfortunate
humanity--is the situation much improved? London is probably the
most civilized centre the world has ever seen; there are gathered more
of the elements of that which we reckon the best. Where in history,
unless some one puts in a claim for the Frenchman, shall we find a Man
so nearly approaching the standard we have set up of civilization as the

Englishman, refined by inheritance and tradition, educated almost
beyond the disturbance of enthusiasm, and cultivated beyond the
chance of surprise? We are speaking of the highest type in manner,
information, training, in the acquisition of what the world has to give.
Could these men have conquered the world? Is it possible that our
highest civilization has lost something of the rough and admirable
element that we admire in the heroes of Homer and of Elizabeth? What
is this London, the most civilized city ever known? Why, a
considerable part of its population is more barbarous, more hopelessly
barbarous, than any wild race we know, because they are the barbarians
of civilization, the refuse and slag of it, if we dare say that of any
humanity. More hopeless, because the virility of savagery has
measurably gone out of it. We can do something with a degraded race
of savages, if it has any stamina in it. What can be done with those who
are described as "East-Londoners"?
Every great city has enough of the same element. Is this an accident, or
is it a necessity of the refinement that we insist on calling civilization?
We are always sending out missionaries to savage or perverted nations,
we are always sending out emigrants to occupy and reduce to order
neglected territory. This is our main business. How would it be if this
business were really accomplished, and there were no more peoples to
teach our way of life to, and no more territory to bring under productive
cultivation? Without the necessity of putting forth this energy, a
survival of the original force in man, how long would our civilization
last? In a word, if the world were actually all civilized, wouldn't it be
too weak even to ripen? And now, in the great centres, where is
accumulated most of that we value as the product of man's best efforts,
is there strength enough to elevate the degraded humanity that attends
our highest cultivation? We have a gay confidence that we can do
something for Africa. Can we reform London and Paris and New York,
which our own hands have made?
If we cannot, where is the difficulty? Is this a hopeless world? Must it
always go on by spurts and relapses, alternate civilization and
barbarism, and the barbarism being necessary to keep us employed and
growing? Or is there some mistake about our ideal of civilization?
Does our process too much eliminate the rough vigor, courage, stamina
of the race? After a time do we just live, or try to live, on literature

warmed over, on pretty coloring and drawing instead of painting that
stirs the soul to the heroic facts and tragedies of life? Where did this
virile, blood-full, throbbing Russian literature come from; this Russian
painting of Verestchagin, that smites us like a sword with the
consciousness of the tremendous meaning of existence? Is there a
barbaric force left in the world that we have been daintily trying to
cover and apologize for and refine into gentle agreeableness?
These questions are too deep for these pages. Let us make the world
pleasant, and throw a cover over the refuse. We are doing very well, on
the whole, considering what