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as I did lying on the turf listening to the wind among the grass； it would
have seemed natural to have found butterflies fluttering among he statues。
The same deep desire was with me。 I shall always go to speak to them； they
are a place of pilgrimage； wherever there is a beautiful statue there is a
place of pilgrimage。
I always stepped aside； too； to look awhile at the head of
Julius Caesar。 The domes of the swelling temples of his broad
head are full of mind； evident to the eye as a globe is full of
substance to the sense of feeling in the hands that hold it。
The thin worn cheek is entirely human； endless difficulties
surmounted by endless labour are marked in it； as the sandblast；
by dint of particles ceaselessly driven； carves the hardest
material。 If circumstances favoured him he made those
circumstances his own by marvellous labour； so as justly to
receive the credit of chance。 Therefore the thin cheek is entirely
humanthe sum of human life made visible in one
facelabour； and endurance； and mind； and all in vain。 A
shadowof deep sadness has gathered on it in the years that
have passed； because endurance was without avail。 It is sadder
to look at than the grass…grown tumulus I used to sit by；
because it is a personality； and also on account of the extreme
folly of our human race ever destroying our greatest。
Far better had they endeavoured； however hopelessly； to keep him
living till this day。 Did but the race this hour possess one…
hundredth part of his breadth of view； how happy for them！ Of
whom else can it be said that he had no enemies to forgive
because he recognised no enemy？ Nineteen hundred years ago he
put in actual practice； with more arbitrary power than any
despot； those very principles of humanity which are now put
forward as the highest culture。 But he made them to be actual things under
his sway。
The one man filled with mind； the one man without avarice；
anger； pettiness； littleness； the one man generous and truly
great of all history。 It is enough to make one despair to think
of the mere brutes butting to death the great…minded Caesar。 He
comes nearest to the ideal of a design…power arranging the
affairs of the world for good in practical things。 Before his
facethe divine brow of mind above； the human suffering…drawn
cheek beneathmy own thought became set and strengthened。 That
I could but look at things in the broad way he did； that I
could not possess one particle of such width of intellect to
guide my own course； to cope with and drag forth from the iron…
resisting forces of the universe some one thing of my prayer for
the soul and for the flesh。
CHAPTER VI
THERE is a place in front of the Royal Exchange where the wide
pavement reaches out like a promontory。 It is in the shape of a
triangle with a rounded apex。 A stream of traffic runs on either side； and
other streets send their currents down into the
open space before it。 Like the spokes of a wheel converging
streams of human life flow into this agitated pool。 Horses and carriages；
carts； vans； omnibuses； cabs； every kind of conveyance cross each other's
course in every possible direction。 Twisting in and out by the wheels and
under the horses' heads； working a devious way； men and women of
all conditions wind a path over。 They fill the interstices
between the carriages and blacken the surface； till the
vans almost float on human beings。 Now the streams slacken； and now they
rush amain； but never cease； dark waves are always rolling down the incline
opposite； waves swell out from the side rivers； all London converges into
this focus。 There is an indistinguishable noiseit is not clatter； hum； or
roar； it is not resolvable； made up of a thousand thousand footsteps； from a
thousand hoofs； a thousand wheelsof haste； and shuffle； and quick
movements； and ponderous loads； no attention can resolve it into a fixed
sound。
Blue carts and yellow omnibuses； varnished carriages and brown
vans； green omnibuses and red cabs； pale loads of yellow straw；
rusty…red iron cluking on pointless carts； high white wool…
packs； grey horses； bay horses； black teams； sunlight sparkling
on brass harness； gleaming from carriage panels； jingle； jingle；
jingle！ An intermixed and intertangled； ceaselessly changing jingle； too；of
colour； flecks of colour champed； as it were； like bits in the horses'
teeth； frothed and strewn about； and a surface always of dark…dressed people
winding like the curves on fast…flowing water。 This is the vortex and
whirlpool； the centre of human life today on the earth。 Now the tide rises
and now it sinks； but the flow of these rivers always continues。 Here it
seethes and whirls； not for an hour only； but for all present time； hour by
hour； day by day； year by year。
Here it rushes and pushes； the atoms triturate and grind； and；
eagerly thrusting by； pursue their separate ends。 Here it
appears in its unconcealed personality； indifferent to all else
but itself； absorbed and rapt in eager self； devoid and stripped
of conventional gloss and politeness； yielding only to get its own way；
driving； pushing； carried on in a stress of feverish force like a bullet；
dynamic force apart from reason or will； like the force that lifts the tides
and sends the clouds onwards。 The friction of a thousand interests evolves a
condition of electricity in which men are moved to and fro without
considering their steps。 Yet the agitated pool of life is stonily
indifferent； the thought is absent or preoccupied； for it is evident that
the mass are unconscious of the scene in
which they act。
But it is more sternly real than the very stones； for all these
men and women that pass through are driven on by the push of
accumulated circumstances； they cannot stay； they must go；
their necks are in the slave's ring； they are beaten like
seaweed against the solid walls of fact。 In ancient times；
Xerxes； the king of kings； looking down upon his myriads； wept to think that
in a hundred years not one of them would be left。 Where will be these
millions of to…day in a hundred years？ But； further than that； let us ask；
Where then will be the sum and outcome of their labour？ If they wither away
like summer grass； will not at least a result be left which those of a
hundred years hence may be the better for？ No； not one jot！ There will not
be any sum or outcome or result of this ceaseless labour and movement； it
vanishes in the moment that it is done； and in a hundred years nothing will
be there； for nothing is there now。 There will be no more sum or result than
accumulates from the motion of a revolving cowl on a housetop。 Nor do they
receive any more sunshine during their lives； for they are unconscious of
the sun。
I used to come and stand near the apex of the promontory of pavement which
juts out towards the pool of life； I still go there to ponder。 Burning in
the sky； the sun shone on me as when I rested in the narrow valley carved in
prehistoric time。
Burning in the sky； I can never forget the sun。 The heat of summer is dry
there as if the light carried an impalpable dust； dry； breathless heat that
will not let the skin respire； but
swathes up the dry fire in the