But there is also another and more difficult lesson to learn, a lesson which in our day at least, it is seldom possible to grasp at all save through complete disillusion from all our most cherished ends.

And disillusion is the third of the four movements of thought which we have to record in our sequel to Professor Whitehead's study of the mental climate. It is a movement that is distinctively modem. Not only have we in these latter days doubted the existence of anything worthy to be called God, not only have we despaired of man's capacity to achieve his ends in an unfriendly universe, but also we have tasted complete cynicism with regard to those ends themselves, and about man's very nature. The virtues and the heaven of an earlier generation are now scribbled over with jibes; yet we have little to put in their place, little that can withstand any better the point of our own criticism. And so it comes that the modern young so often seem to belie the very nature of youth by their cynicism; for they can find nothing better to do than evade all serious activities and seek conventional pleasures, suppressing a yawn. Who can blame them? There is nothing better to do in a world of disillusion. But it is well known that a life of undirected "pleasure" leads nowhere but to nightmare, such as Mr. Noel Coward has epitomised in his sketch, "Dance Little Lady."

Few would deny that disillusion, sometimes rising to disgust and horror, is the dominant mood of our age. When the plain man has time to look up from his work he sees a world in disorder; society strained and rocking; authority concerned chiefly to keep its seat; nations devising slaughter while they chatter of peace; churches seemingly bankrupt of divinity, and forced desperately to speculate in pew-filling attractions; prophets on all sides trading in questionable doctrines; the live and intricate thought of our time soaring further and further beyond the comprehension of the unspecialised, and shedding abroad only vague and dismal rumours of man's insecurity, futility, and insincerity. Such is the panorama that confronts any unprejudiced and intelligent observer. It is a view so familiar that to state it is to speak platitudes.

No wonder the plain man turns from a prospect so dreary, and concentrates on his private problems; for these, however futile in the wider view, have their tentacles about his heart. Even while he yawns at them they constrain him. For he is breathlessly engaged in the current of his own career, and all the intricacies of his relations with his fellows. His days are a ceaseless tennis in which he is nearly always the weaker player; so that without respite he can but struggle to get the ball over the net somehow and be ready for the next stroke. To look around and ask himself seriously what it is all about is to risk losing his grip on the game. Now and then indeed he is inevitably disturbed by rumours of the great world, or by movements of the very ground on which he plays his little life. Political crises, strikes, mysterious changes of the market and a slump in his wares-all sorts of obscure and uncontrollable public events threaten him or actually embroil him. And always in our time there is the dread that there will be another war, that his whole life will be fused and cast into a new mould; and then perhaps destroyed. He can only hope that the bedrock of society will outlast his day, and even support his children. But his great- grandchildren? He shrugs his shoulders. They are beyond his ken. If ever they occur at all, of what kind will they be, and on what treadmill will they find themselves sweating? Will they remember him? Will his own children remember him only to condemn him for thoughtlessly procreating them in this squirrel- cage adrift in space?

For the modern man regards his own occurrence without enthusiasm. Reviewing his endless pursuit of a carrot that is ever removed, or which, being captured, is found to be plaster, he looks forward to death without revulsion; even perhaps with complacency, as when in a day of worries he looks forward to sleep. If only there were no old age, no rising tide of contemptible distresses; and at the end no pain. If only dying were as delicious as falling asleep.

Nothing but loyalty to some admired thing greater than oneself can render a life of drudgery tolerable; and today the old objects of loyalty are losing their power. The God whom our fathers served is now revealed to many as a tiresome old gentleman vacillating between brutality and sentimentality. Even the great phrase "God is Love" has lost much of its appeal. If it means that love is the fundamental principle of the cosmos, we doubt it. If it means that the sentiment of love is the highest of all values, we are in no mood to worship mere affection. Our allegiance is not for love but for that which is lovable.