Published in Modern Review, Vol 39, Jan-June, 1926, pp. 77-85
[Presidential Address at the Indian Philosophical Congress]
My timidity makes it difficult for me properly to enjoy the honour you have done me to-day by offering a chair which I cannot legitimately claim as my own. I had my invitation, whether it would suit my dignity to occupy such a precarious position on an ephemeral eminence, deservedly incurring anger from some and ridicule from others. While debating in my mind as to whether I should avoid this risk with the help of the doctors certificate, it occurred to me that possibly my ignorance of philosophy was the best recommendation for this place in a philosophers’ meeting,- that you wanted for your president a man who was blankly neutral and who consciously owed no allegiance to any particular system of metaphysics, being impartially innocent of them all. The most convenient thing about me is that the degree of my qualification is beyond the range of a comparative discussion, - it is so utterly negative. In my present situation, I may be compared to a candlestick that has none of the luminous qualities of a candle, and therefore suitable for its allotted function, which is to remain darkly inactive.
But, unfortunately, you do not allow me to remain silent even in the circumstance when silence was declared to be prudent by one of or ancient sages. The only thing that encourages me to overcome my diffidence, and give expression in a speech to my unsophisticated mind, is the fact that in India all the vidyas,-poesy as well as philosophy,- live in a joint family. They never have the jealous sense of individualism maintaining the punitive regulations against trespass that seem to be so rife in the West. Plato as philosopher decreed the banishment of poets from his ideal Republic. But, in India, philosophy ever sought alliance with poetry, because its mission was to occupy the people’s life and not merely the learned seclusion of scholarship. Therefore, our tradition though unsupported by historical evidence, has no hesitation in ascribing numerous verses to the great Sankaracharya, a metaphysician whom Plato would find It extremely difficult to exclude from his Utopia with the help of any inhospitable Immigration Law. Many of these poems may not have high poetical value, but no lover of literature ever blames the sage for infringement of propriety in condescending to manufacture verse.
According to our people, poetry naturally falls within the scope of a philosopher, when his reason is illumined into a vision. We have our great epic Mahabharata, which is unique in world literature, not only because of the marvellous variety of human characters, great and small, discussed in its pages in al variety of psychological circumstances, but because of the ease with which it carries in its comprehensive capaciousness all kinds of speculation about ethics, politics and philosophy of life. Such an improvident generosity on the part of poesy, at the risk of exceeding its own proper limits of accommodation, has only been possible in India. Where a spirit of communism prevails in the different individual groups of literature. In fact, the Mahabharata is a universe in itself in which various spheres of mind’s creation find ample space for their complex dance rhythm. It does not represent the idiosyncrasy of a particular poet but the normal mentality of the people who are willing to be led along the many-branched path of a whole world of thoughts, held together in a gigantic orb of narrative surrounded by innumerable satellites of episodes.
The numerous saints that India successively produced during the Mahomedan rule have all been singers whose verses are aflame with the fire of imagination. Their religious emotion had its spring in the depth of philosophy that deals with fundamental questions, -with the ultimate meaning of existence. That may not be remarkable in itself; but when we find that these songs are not specially meant for some exclusive pundits’ gathering, but that they are sung in villages and listened to by men and women who are illiterate, we realise how philosophy has permeated the life of the people in India, how it has sunk deep into the sub-conscious mind of the country.
In my childhood, I once heard from a singer, who was a devout Hindu, the following song of Kabir:
When I hear of a fish in the water dying of thirst, it makes me laugh.
If it be true that the infinite Brahma pervades all space,
What is the meaning of the places of pilgrimage like Mathura or Kashi?
This laughter of Kabir did not hurt in the least the pious susceptibilities of the Hindu singer; on the contrary, he was ready to join the poet with his own. For he, by the philosophical freedom of his mind, was fully aware that Mathura or Kashi, as sites of God, did not have an absolute value of truth, though they had their symbolical importance. Therefore, while he himself was eager to make a pilgrimage to those places, he had no doubt in his mind that, if it were in his power directly to realise Brahma as an all-pervading reality, there would have been no necessity for him to visit any particular place for the quickening of his spiritual consciousness. He acknowledged the psychological necessity for such shrines, where generations of devotees have chosen to gather for the purpose of worship, in the same way as he felt the special efficacy for our mind to the time honoured sacred texts made living by the voice of ages.
It is a village poet of East Bengal who in his songs preaches the philosophical doctrine that the universe has its reality in its relation to the Person. He sings:
The sky and the earth are born of mine own eyes.
The hardness and softness, the cold and the heat are the products of my own body;
The sweet smell and the bad are of my own nose.
This poet sings of the Eternal person within him, coming out and appearing before his eyes as the Vedic Rishi speaks of the person, who is within him, dwelling also in the heart of the sun.
I have seen the vision,
The vision of mine own revealing itself,
Coming out from within me.
The significant fact about these philosophical poems is that they are of rude construction, written in a particular dialect and disclaimed by the academic literature; they are sung to the people, as composed by one of them who is dead, but whose songs have not followed him. Yet these singers almost arrogantly disown their direct obligation to philosophy, and there is a story of one of our rural poets who, after some learned text of the Vaishnava philosophy of emotion was explained to him, composed a song containing the following lines:
Alas, a jeweller has come onto the lower garden,
He wants to appraise the truth of a lotus by
Rubbing it against his touchstone.
The members of theBaul sect belong to that mass of the people in Bengal who are not educated in the prevalent sense of the word. I remember how troubled they were, when I asked some of them to write down for me a collection of their songs. When they did venture to attempt it, I found it almost impossible to decipher their writing---the spelling and lettering were so outrageously unconventional. Yet their spiritual practices are founded upon a mystic philosophy of the human body, abstrusely technical. These people roam about singing their songs, one of which I heard years ago from my roadside window, the first two lines remaining inscribed in my memory:
Nobody can tell whence the bird unknown
Comes into the cage and goes out.
I would feign put round its feet and fetter of my mind,
Could I but capture it.
This village poet evidently agrees with our sage of the Upanishad who says that our mind comes back baffled in its attempt to reach the unknown being; and yet this poet like the ancient sage does not give up his adventure to the infinite, thus implying that there is a way to its realisation. It reminds me of Shelly’s poem in which is sings of the mystical spirit of Beauty:
The awful shadow of some unseen Power
Floats, though unseen, among us; visiting
This various world with as inconstant wing
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower,
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower,
It visits with inconstant glance
Each human heart and countenance.
That this Unknown is the profoundest reality, though difficult of comprehension, is equally admitted by the English poet as by the nameless village singer of Bengal in whose music vibrate the wing-beats of the unknown bird,-- only Shelly’s utterance is for the cultured few, while the Baul song is for the tillers of the soil, for the simple folk of our village households, who are never bored by its mystic transcendentalism.
All this owing to the wonderful system of mass education which has prevailed for ages in India, and which to-day is in danger of becoming extinct. We have our academic seats of learning where students flock round their famous teachers from distant parts of the country. These places are like lakes, full of deep but still water, which have to be approached through difficult paths. But the constant evaporation from them, forming clouds, is carried by the wind from field to field, across hills and dales and through all the different divisions of the land. Operas based upon legendary poems, recitations and story-telling by trained men, the lyrical wealth of the popular literature distributed far and wide by the agency of mendicant singers,-- these are the clouds that help to irrigate the minds of the people with ideas which in their original form belonged to difficult doctrines of metaphysics. Profound speculations contained in the systems of the Sankhya, Vedanta and Yoga are transformed into the living harvest of the peoples literature, brought to the door of those who can never have the leisure and training to pursue these thoughts to their fountain-head.
In order to enable a civilised community to carry on its complex functions, there must be a large number of men who have to take charge of its material needs, however onerous such a task may be. Their vocation gives them no opportunity to cultivate their mind. Yet they form vast multitude, compelled to turn themselves into unthinking machines of production, so that a few may have the time to think great thoughts, create immortal forms of art and to lead humanity to spiritual altitudes.
India has never neglected these social martyrs, but has tried to bring light into the grimy obscurity of their lifelong toil, and has always acknowledged its duty to supply them with mental and spiritual food in assimilable form through the medium of a variety of ceremonies. This process is not carried on by any specially organised association of public service, but by a spontaneous social adjustment which acts like circulation of blood in our bodily system. Because of this, the work continues even when the original purpose ceases to exist.
Once I was on a visit to a small Bengali village, mostly inhabited by Mahomedan cultivators, the villagers entertained me with an opera performance the literature of which belonged to an obsolete religious sect that had wide influence centuries ago. Though the religion itself is dead, its voice still continues preaching its philosophy to a people, who, in spite of their different culture, are not tired of listening. It discussed according to its own doctrine the different elements, material and transcendental, that constitute human personality, comprehending the body, the self and the soul.
Then came a dialogue during the course of which was related the incident of a person who wanted to make a journey to Brindaban, the garden of bliss, but was prevented by a watchman who startled him with an accusation of theft. The thieving was proved when it was shown that inside his clothes he was secretly trying to smuggle into the garden the self, passing it on as his own and not admitting that it is for his master .The culprit was caught with the incriminating bundle in his possession which barred for him his passage to the supreme goal. Under a tattered canopy held on by bamboo poles and lighted by a few smoking kerosene lamps, the village crowd, occasionally interrupted by howls of jackals in the neighbouring paddy fields, attended with untired interest, till the small hours of the morning, the performance of the drama, that discussed the ultimate meaning of all things in a seemingly incongruous setting of dance, music and humorous dialogue.
These illustrations will show how naturally in India, poetry and philosophy have walked hand in hand, only because the later has claimed its right to guide men to the practical path of their life’s fulfilment. What is that fulfilment? Is it our freedom in truth, which has for its prayer:
Lead us from the unreal to Reality.
For satyam is anandam, the real is joy.
From my vocation as an artist in verse, I have come to my own idea about the joy of the real. For to give us the taste of reality through freedom of mind is the nature of all arts. When in relation to them we talk to aesthetics, we must know that it is not about beauty in its ordinary meaning, but in that deeper meaning which a poet has expressed in his utterance: “Truth is beauty, beauty truth.”
An artist may paint a picture of a descrepit person not pleasant to look at, and yet we call it perfect when we become intensely conscious of its reality. The mind of the jealous woman in Browning’s poem, watching the preparation of poison and in imagination gloating over its possible effect upon her rival, is not beautiful; but when it stands vividly real before our consciousness,through the unity of consistency in its idea and form, we have our enjoyment. The character of Karna, the great warrior of the Mahabharata, gives us a deeper delight through its occasional outbursts on meanness, than it would if it were a modern picture of unadulterated magnanimity. The very contradictions which completeness of a moral ideal have helped us to feel the reality of the character, and this gives us joy, not because it is pleasant in itself, but because it is definite in its creation.
It is not wholly true that art has its value for us because in it we realise all that we fail to attain in our lives; but the fact is that the function of art is to bring us , with its creations, into immediate touch with reality. These need not resemble actual facts of our experience, and yet they do delight our heart because they are made true to us. In the world of art, our consciousness being freed from the tangle of self-interest, we gain an unobstructed vision of unity, the incarnation of the real, which is a joy for ever.
As in the world of art, so in God’s world, our soul waits for its freedom from the ego to reach that disinterested joy which is the source and goal of creation. It cries for its mukti into the unity of truth from the mirage of appearances endlessly pursued by the thirsty self. The idea of mukti, based upon metaphysics, has affected our life in India, touched the springs of our emotions and supplications for its soar heavenward on the wings of poesy. .We constantly hear men of scanty learning and simple faith singing in their prayer to Tara, the goddess Redemeer,
For what sin should I be compelled to remain in this dungeon of the world of appearance?
They are afraid of being alienated from the world of truth, afraid of their perpetual drifting amidst the froth and foam of things, of being tossed about by the tidal waves of pleasure and pain and never reaching the ultimate meaning of life. Of these men, one may be a carter driving his cart to the market, another a fisherman plying his net. They may not be prompt with an intelligent answer, if questioned about the deeper import of the song they sing, but they have no doubt in their mind, that the abiding cause of all misery is not so much in the lack of life’s furniture as in the obscurity of life’s significance. It is a common topic with such to decry an undue emphasis upon, me and mine, which falsifies the perspective of truth. For, have they not often seen men, who are not above their own level in social position or intellectual acquirement, going out to seek truth, leaving everything they have behind them?
They know that the object of these adventures is not betterment in worldly wealth and power,--it is mukti, freedom. They possibly know some poor fellow villager of their own craft, who remains in the world carrying on his daily vocation, and yet has the reputation of being emancipated in the heart of the eternal. I myself have come across a fisherman singer with an inward absorption of mind, while fishing all day in the Ganges, who was pointed out to me by my boatmen, with awe, as a man of liberated spirit. He is out of reach of the conventional prices which are set upon men by society, and which classify them like toys arranged in the shop windows according to the market standard of value.
When the figure of this fisherman comes to my mind, I cannot but think that their number is not small who with their lives sing the epic of the unfettered soul, but will never be known in history. These unsophisticated Indian peasants know that an emperor is a decorated slave remaining chained to his empire, that a millionaire is kept pilloried by his fate in the golden cage of his wealth, while this fisherman is free in the realm of light. When, groping in the dark, we stumble against objects, we cling to them believing them to be our only hope. When light comes, we slacken our hold, finding them to be mere parts of the All to which we are related. The simple man of the village knows what freedom is-freedom from isolation to self, from the isolation of things which imparts a fierce intensity to our sense of possession. He knows that this freedom is not in the mere negation of bondage, in the bareness of belongings, but in some positive realisation which gives pure joy to our being, and he sings:
To him who sinks into the deep, nothing remains unattained
Let my two minds meet and combine
And lead me to the city Wonderful.
When the one mind of ours which wanders in search of things in the outer region of the varied, and the other which seeks the inward vision of unity, are no longer in conflict, they help us to realise Ajab, the Anirvachaniya, the ineffable. The poet saint Kabir has also the same message when he sings:
By saying that supreme reality only dwells in the inner realm of spirit,
We shame the outer world of matter, and also when we say that he is only in the outside,
We do not speak the truth.
According to these singers, truth is in the unity and therefore freedom is in its realisation. The texts of our daily worship and meditation are for training our mind to overcome the barrier of separateness from the rest of existence and to realise advaitam, the supreme unity which is anantam, infinitude. It is philosophical wisdom having its universal radiation in the popular mind in India that inspires our prayer, our daily spiritual practices. It has its constant urging for us to go beyond the world of appearances in which facts as facts are alien to us, like the mere sounds of a foreign music; it speaks to us of an emancipation in the inner truth of all things in which the endless Many reveals the One, as the multitude of notes, when we understand them, reveal to us the inner unity which is music.
But because this freedom is in truth itself and not in an appearance of it, no hurried path of success, forcibly cut out by greed of result, can be a true path. And an obscure village poet, unknown to the world of recognised respectability, untrammelled by the standardised learning of the education departments sings:
O cruel man of urgent need, must you scorch with fire the mind which still is a bud? You will burst it
Into bits, destroy its perfume in your impatience. Do you not see that my Lord, the Supreme
Teacher, takes ages to perfect the flower and never is in a fury of haste? But because of your terrible greed, you only rely on force, and what hope is there for you, O man of urgent need? “Prithi”! saya Madan the poet,---“Hurt not the mind of my Teacher.
Know that only he who follows the simple current and loses himself, can hear the voice, O man of urgent need.
This poet knows that there is no external means of taking freedom by the throat. It is the inward process oflosing ourselves that leads us to it. Bondage in all its forms has its stronghold in the inner self and not in the outside world; it is in the dimming out of our consciousness, in the narrowing of our perspective, in the wrong valuation of things.
The proof of this we find in the modern civilisation whose motive force has become a ceaseless urgency of need. Its freedom is only the apparent freedom of inertia which does not know how and where to stop. There are some primitive people who have put an artificial value on human scalps and they develop an arithmetical fury which does not allow them to stop in the gathering of their trophies. They are driven by some cruel fate into an endless exaggeration which makes them ceaselessly run on an interminable path of addition. Such a freedom in their wild course of collection is the worst form of bondage. The cruel urgency of need all the more aggravated in their case because of the lack of truth in its object. Similarly, it should be realised that a mere addition to the rate of speed, to the paraphernalia of living and display furniture, to the rightfulness of destructive armaments, only leads to an insensate orgy of a caricature of livingness. The links of bondage go on multiplying themselves, threatening to shackle the whole world with the chain forged by such unmeaning and unending urgency of need.
The idea of Mukti in Christian theology, liberation from a punishment which we cry with our birth. In India it is from the dark enclosure of ignorance which causes the illusion of a self that seems final. But the enlightenment which frees us from this ignorance must not merely be negative. Freedom is not an emptiness of its contents, it is in the harmony of communication through which we find no obstruction to realising our own being in the surrounding world. It is of this harmony, and not a bare and barren isolation, that the anishad speaks, when it says that the truth no longer remains hidden in him who finds himself in the All.
Freedom in the material world has also the same meaning expressed in its own language. When natures phenomena appeared to us as manifestations obscure and irrational caprice, we lived in an alien world forever dreaming of our Swaraj within its territory. With the discovery of the harmony A working with that of our reason, we realise our own unity with it, and, therefore, Freedom. It is avidya , ignorance, which causes our disunion with our surroundings. It is Vidya, the knowledge of Brahma manifested in the material universe that makes us realise advaitam, the spirit of unity in the world of matter.
Those who have been brought up in a misunderstanding of this worlds’ process, not knowing that it is his by his right of intelligence, are trained as cowards by a hopeless faith in the ordinance of a destiny darkly impaling its blows, offering no room for appeal. They submit without struggle when human rights are denied them, being accustomed to imagine themselves born as outlaws in a world constantly thrusting upon them incomprehensible surprises of accidents.
Also in the social or political field, the lack of freedom is based upon the spirit of alienation, on the imperfect realisation of Advaitam. There our bondage is in the tortured link of union. One may imagine that an individual who succeeds in disassociating himself from his fellows attains real freedom, inasmuch as all ties of relationship imply obligation to others. But we know that, though it may sound paradoxical, it is true that in the human world only a perfect arrangement of interdependence gives rise to freedom. The most individualistic of human beings who own no responsibility, are the savages who fail to attain their fullness of manifestation. They live immersed in obscurity, like an ill-lighted fire that cannot liberate itself from its envelope of smoke. Only those may attain their freedom from the segregation of an eclipsed life, who have the power to cultivate mutual understanding and co-operation. The history of growth of freedom is the history of the perfection of human relationship.
The strongest barrier against freedom in all departments of life is the selfishness of individuals or groups. Civilisation, whose object is to afford humanity its greatest possible opportunity of complete manifestation, perishes when some selfish passion, in place of a moral ideal, is allowed to exploit its resources unopposed, for its own purposes. For the greed of acquisition, and the living principle of creation are antagonistic to each other. Life has brought with it the first triumph of freedom in the world of the inert, because it is an inner expression and not merely an external fact, because it must always exceed the limits of its substance, never allowing its materials to clog its spirit, and yet ever keeping to the limits of its truth. Its accumulation must not supress its harmony of growth, the harmony that unites the in and the out, the end and the means, and what is and what is to come.
Life does not store up but assimilates; its spirit and its substance, its work and itself, are intimately united. When the non-living elements of our surroundings are stupendously disproportionate, when they are mechanical systems and hoarded possessions, then the mutual discord between our life and our worlds end in the defeat of the former. The gulf thus created by the receding stream of soul we try to replenish with a continuous shower of wealth which may have the power to fill but not the power to unite. Therefore, the gap is dangerously concealed under the glittering quick-sands of things which by their own accumulating weight cause a sudden subsidence, while we are in the depth of our sleep.
But the real tragedy does not lie in the destruction of our material security, it is in the obstruction of man himself in the human world. In his creative activities man makes his surroundings instinct with his own life and love. But in his utilitarian ambition he deforms and defiles it with the callous handling of his voracity. This world of man’s manufacture with its discordant shrieks and mechanical movements, reacts upon his own nature, incessantly suggesting to him a scheme of universe which is an abstract system. In such a world there can be no question of mukti, because it is a solidly solitary fact, because the cage is all that we have, and no sky beyond it. In all appearance the world to us is a closed world, like a seed within its hard cover. But in the core of the seed there is the cry of Life for mukti even when the proof of its possibility is darkly silent. When some huge temptation tramples into stillness this living aspiration after mukti, then does civilisation die like a seed that has lost its urging for germination.
It is not altogether true that the ideal of mukti in India is based upon a philosophy of passivity. TheIshopanishad has strongly asserted that man must wish to live a hundred years and go on doing his work; for, according to it, the complete truth is in the harmony of the infinite and the finite, the passive ideal of perfection and the active process of its revealment; according to it , he who pursues the cult of the finite as complete in itself. He who thinks that a mere aggregation of changing notes has the ultimate value of unchanging music, is no doubt foolish; but his foolishness is exceeded by that of one who thinks that true music is devoid of all notes. But where is the reconciliation? Through what means does the music which is transcendental turn the facts of the detached notes into a vehicle of its expression? It is through the rhythm, the very limit of its composition. We reach the infinite through crossing the path that is definite. Is it this that is meant in the following verse of the Isha:
He who knows the truth of the infinite and that of the finite both united together, crosses
Death by the help of avidya, and by the help of vidya reaches immortality.
The regulated life is the rhythm of the finite through whose very restrictions we pass to the immortal life. This amritam, the immortal life, is not a mere prolongation of physical existence, it is in the realisation of the perfect, it is in the well-proportioned beautiful definition of life which every moment surpasses its own limits and expresses the Eternal. In the very first verse of Isha, the injunction is given to us Magridhah, Thou shall not covet. But why should we not? Because greed, having no limit, smothers the rhythm of life-the rhythm which is expressive of the limitless.
The modern civilisation is largely composed of atmahano-janah, who are spiritual suicides. It has lost its will for limiting its desires, for restraining its perpetual self-exaggeration. Because it has lost its philosophy of life, it loses its art of living. Like poetasters it mistakes skill for power and realism for reality. In the Middle ages, when Europe believed in the Kingdom of heaven, she struggled to modulate her life’s forces to effect their harmonious relation to this ideal, which always sent its call to her activities in the midst of the boisterous conflict of her passions. There was in this endeavour an ever present scheme of creation, something which was positive , which had the authority to say: Thou shalt not covet, thou must find thy true limits. To-day there is only a furious rage for raising numberless brick-kilns in place of buildings. The great scheme of the master-builder has been smothered under the heaps of brick-dust. It proves the severance of avidya from her union with vidya giving rise to an unrhythmic power, ignoring all creative plan, igniting a flame that has heat but no light.
Creation is in rhythm, -- the rhythm which is the border on which vidyancha avidyancha , the infinite and the finite, meet. We do not know how, from the indeterminate, the lotus flower finds its being. So long as it is merged in the vague, it is nothing to us, and yet it must have been everywhere. Somehow from the vast it has been captured in a perfect rhythmical limit, forming an eddy in our consciousness, arousing within us a recognition of delight at the touch of the infinite which finitude gives. It is the limiting process which is the work of a creator, who finds his freedom through his restraints, the truth of the boundless through the reality of the bounds. The insatiable idolatry of materials,that run along an ever-lengthening line of extravagance, is inexpressive; it belongs to those regions which are andhena tamasavritah, enveloped in darkness, which ever carry the load of their inarticulate bulk. The true prayer of man is for the Real not for the big, for the light which is not in incendiarism but in illumination, for immortality which is not a duration of time, but in eternity of the perfect.
Only because we have closed our path to the inner world of mukti, has the outer world become terrible in its exactions. It is a slavery to continue to live in a sphere where things are, yet where their meaning is obstructed. It has become possible for men to say that existence is evil, only because in our blindness we have missed something in which our existence has its truth. If a bird tries to soar in the sky with only one of its wings, it is offended with the wind for buffeting it down to the dust. All broken truths are evil. They hurt because they suggest something which they do not offer. Death does not hurt us, but disease does, because disease constantly reminds us of health and yet withholds it from us. And life in a half world is evil, because it feigns finality when it is obviously incomplete, giving us the cup, but not the draught of life. All tragedies consist in truth remaining a fragment, its cycle not being completed. Let me close with the Baul song, over a century old, in which the poet sings of the eternal bond of union between the infinite and the finite soul, from which there can be no mukti, because it is an interrelation which makes truth complete, because love is ultimate, because absolute independence is the blankness of utter sterility. The idea in it is the same as we have in the Upanishad, that truth neither in pure vidya nor in avidya, but in their union:
It goes on blossoming for ages, the soul-lotus, in which I am bound, as well as thou, without escape.
There is no end to the opening of its petals, and the honey in it has such sweetness that thou like an enchanted bee canst never desert it, and therefore thou art bound, and I am, and mukti is nowhere.
[Presidential Address at the Indian Philosophical Congress]
(i) (By the courtesy of THE VISVA- BHARTI QUARTERLY, which also publishes it in its January number)
Published in Modern Review, Vol 39, Jan-June, 1926, pp. 77-85