〃To　make　hammers〃；　and　when　asked；　〃And　of　those　hammers；　what　is
  the　use？〃　answered；　〃To　make　hammers　again〃。　Just　as　such　a　man　would
  be　perpetually　putting　off　the　question　of　the　ultimate　use　of　carpentry；
  so　Mr。　Wells　and　all　the　rest　of　us　are　by　these　phrases　successfully
  putting　off　the　question　of　the　ultimate　value　of　the　human　life。
  The　case　of　the　general　talk　of　〃progress〃　is；　indeed；
  an　extreme　one。　　As　enunciated　today；　〃progress〃　is　simply
  a　comparative　of　which　we　have　not　settled　the　superlative。
  We　meet　every　ideal　of　religion；　patriotism；　beauty；　or　brute
  pleasure　with　the　alternative　ideal　of　progressthat　is　to　say；
  we　meet　every　proposal　of　getting　something　that　we　know　about；
  with　an　alternative　proposal　of　getting　a　great　deal　more　of　nobody
  knows　what。　　Progress；　properly　understood；　has；　indeed；　a　most
  dignified　and　legitimate　meaning。　　But　as　used　in　opposition
  to　precise　moral　ideals；　it　is　ludicrous。　　So　far　from　it　being
  the　truth　that　the　ideal　of　progress　is　to　be　set　against　that
  of　ethical　or　religious　finality；　the　reverse　is　the　truth。
  Nobody　has　any　business　to　use　the　word　〃progress〃　unless
  he　has　a　definite　creed　and　a　cast…iron　code　of　morals。
  Nobody　can　be　progressive　without　being　doctrinal；　I　might　almost
  say　that　nobody　can　be　progressive　without　being　infallible
  at　any　rate；　without　believing　in　some　infallibility。
  For　progress　by　its　very　name　indicates　a　direction；
  and　the　moment　we　are　in　the　least　doubtful　about　the　direction；
  we　become　in　the　same　degree　doubtful　about　the　progress。
  Never　perhaps　since　the　beginning　of　the　world　has　there　been
  an　age　that　had　less　right　to　use　the　word　〃progress〃　than　we。
  In　the　Catholic　twelfth　century；　in　the　philosophic　eighteenth
  century；　the　direction　may　have　been　a　good　or　a　bad　one；
  men　may　have　differed　more　or　less　about　how　far　they　went；　and　in
  what　direction；　but　about　the　direction　they　did　in　the　main　agree；
  and　consequently　they　had　the　genuine　sensation　of　progress。
  But　it　is　precisely　about　the　direction　that　we　disagree。
  Whether　the　future　excellence　lies　in　more　law　or　less　law；
  in　more　liberty　or　less　liberty；　whether　property　will　be　finally
  concentrated　or　finally　cut　up；　whether　sexual　passion　will　reach
  its　sanest　in　an　almost　virgin　intellectualism　or　in　a　full
  animal　freedom；　whether　we　should　love　everybody　with　Tolstoy；
  or　spare　nobody　with　Nietzsche；these　are　the　things　about　which　we
  are　actually　fighting　most。　　It　is　not　merely　true　that　the　age
  which　has　settled　least　what　is　progress　is　this　〃progressive〃　age。
  It　is；　moreover；　true　that　the　people　who　have　settled　least
  what　is　progress　are　the　most　〃progressive〃　people　in　it。
  The　ordinary　mass；　the　men　who　have　never　troubled　about　progress；
  might　be　trusted　perhaps　to　progress。　　The　particular　individuals
  who　talk　about　progress　would　certainly　fly　to　the　four
  winds　of　heaven　when　the　pistol…shot　started　the　race。
  I　do　not；　therefore；　say　that　the　word　〃progress〃　is　unmeaning；　I　say
  it　is　unmeaning　without　the　previous　definition　of　a　moral　doctrine；
  and　that　it　can　only　be　applied　to　groups　of　persons　who　hold
  that　doctrine　in　common。　　Progress　is　not　an　illegitimate　word；
  but　it　is　logically　evident　that　it　is　illegitimate　for　us。
  It　is　a　sacred　word；　a　word　which　could　only　rightly　be　used
  by　rigid　believers　and　in　the　ages　of　faith。
  III。　　On　Mr。　Rudyard　Kipling　and　Making　the　World　Small
  There　is　no　such　thing　on　earth　as　an　uninteresting　subject；
  the　only　thing　that　can　exist　is　an　uninterested　person。
  Nothing　is　more　keenly　required　than　a　defence　of　bores。
  When　Byron　divided　humanity　into　the　bores　and　bored；　he　omitted
  to　notice　that　the　higher　qualities　exist　entirely　in　the　bores；
  the　lower　qualities　in　the　bored；　among　whom　he　counted　himself。
  The　bore；　by　his　starry　enthusiasm；　his　solemn　happiness；　may；
  in　some　sense；　have　proved　himself　poetical。　　The　bored　has　certainly
  proved　himself　prosaic。
  We　might；　no　doubt；　find　it　a　nuisance　to　count　all　the　blades　of　grass
  or　all　the　leaves　of　the　trees；　but　this　would　not　be　because　of　our
  boldness　or　gaiety；　but　because　of　our　lack　of　boldness　and　gaiety。
  The　bore　would　go　onward；　bold　and　gay；　and　find　the　blades　of
  grass　as　splendid　as　the　swords　of　an　army。　　The　bore　is　stronger
  and　more　joyous　than　we　are；　he　is　a　demigodnay；　he　is　a　god。
  For　it　is　the　gods　who　do　not　tire　of　the　iteration　of　things；
  to　them　the　nightfall　is　always　new；　and　the　last　rose　as　red
  as　the　first。
  The　sense　that　everything　is　poetical　is　a　thing　solid　and　absolute；
  it　is　not　a　mere　matter　of　phraseology　or　persuasion。　　It　is　not
  merely　true；　it　is　ascertainable。　　Men　may　be　challenged　to　deny　it；
  men　may　be　challenged　to　mention　anything　that　is　not　a　matter　of　poetry。
  I　remember　a　long　time　ago　a　sensible　sub…editor　coming　up　to　me
  with　a　book　in　his　hand；　called　〃Mr。　Smith；〃　or　〃The　Smith　Family；〃
  or　some　such　thing。　　He　said；　〃Well；　you　won't　get　any　of　your　damned
  mysticism　out　of　this；〃　or　words　to　that　effect。　　I　am　happy　to　say
  that　I　undeceived　him；　but　the　victory　was　too　obvious　and　easy。
  In　most　cases　the　name　is　unpoetical；　although　the　fact　is　poetical。
  In　the　case　of　Smith；　the　name　is　so　poetical　that　it　must
  be　an　arduous　and　heroic　matter　for　the　man　to　live　up　to　it。
  The　name　of　Smith　is　the　name　of　the　one　trade　that　even　kings　respected；
  it　could　claim　half　the　glory　of　that　arma　virumque　which　all
  epics　acclaimed。　　The　spirit　of　the　smithy　is　so　close　to　the　spirit
  of　song　that　it　has　mixed　in　a　million　poems；　and　every　blacksmith
  is　a　harmonious　blacksmith。
  Even　the　village　children　feel　that　in　some　dim　way　the　smith
  is　poetic；　as　the　grocer　and　the　cobbler　are　not　poetic；
  when　they　feast　on　the　dancing　sparks　and　deafening　blows　in
  the　cavern　of　that　creative　violence。　　The　brute　repose　of　Nature；
  the　passionate　cunning　of　man；　the　strongest　of　earthly　metals；
  the　wierdest　of　earthly　elements；　the　unconquerable　iron　subdued
  by　its　only　conqueror；　the　wheel　and　the　ploughshare；　the　sword　and
  the　steam…hammer；　the　arraying　of　armies　and　the　whole　legend　of　arms；
  all　these　things　are　written；　briefly　indeed；　but　quite　legibly；
  on　the　visiting…card　of　Mr。　Smith。　　Yet　our　novelists　call　their
  hero　〃Aylmer　Valence；〃　which　means　nothing；　or　〃Vernon　Raymond；〃
  which　means　nothing；　when　it　is　in　their　power　to　give　him
  this　sacred　name　of　Smiththis　name　made　of　iron　and　flame。
  It　would　be　very　natural　if　a　certain　hauteur；　a　certain　carriage
  of　the　head；　a　certain　curl　of　the　lip；　distinguished　every
  one　whose　name　is　Smith。　　Perhaps　it　does；　I　trust　so。
  Whoever　else　are　parvenus；　the　Smiths　are　not　parvenus。
  From　the　darkest　dawn　of　history　this　clan　has　gone　forth　to　battle；
  its　trophies　are　on　every　hand；　its　name　is　everywhere；
  it　is　older　than　the　nations；　and　its　sign　is　the　Hammer　of　Thor。
  But　as　I　also　remarked；　it　is　not　quite　the　usual　case。
  It　is　common　enough　that　common　things　should　be　poetical；
  it　is　not　so　common　that　common　names　should　be　poetical。
  In　most　cases　it　is　the　name　that　is　the　obstacle。
  A　great　many　people　talk　as　if　this　claim　of　ours；　that　all　things
  are　poetical；　were　a　mere　literary　ingenuity；　a　play　on　words。
  Precisely　the　contrary　is　true。　　It　is　the　idea　that　some　things　are
  not　poetical　which　is　literary；　which　is　a　mere　product　of　words。
  The　word　〃signal…box〃　is　unpoetical。　　But　the　thing　signal…box　is
  not　unpoetical；　it　is　a　place　where　men；　in　an　agony　of　vigilance；
  light　blood…red　and　sea…green　fires　to　keep　other　men　from　death。
  That　is　the　plain；　genuine　description　of　what　it　is；　the　prose　only
  comes　in　with　what　it　is　called。　　The　word　〃pillar…box〃　is　unpoetical。
  But　the　thing　pillar…box　is　not　unpoetical；　it　is　the　place
  to　which　friends　and　lovers　commit　their　messages；　conscious　that
  when　they　have　done　so　they　are　sacred；　and　not　to　be　touched；
  not　only　by　others；　but　even　（religious　touch！）　by　themselves。
  That　red　turret　is　one　of　the　last　of　the　temples。　　Posting　a　letter　and
  getting　married　are　among　the　few　things　left　that　are　entirely　romantic；
  for　to　be　entirely　romantic　a　thing　must　be　irrevocable。
  We　think　a　pillar…box　prosaic；　because　there　is　no　rhyme　to　it。
  We　think　a　pillar…box　unpoetical；　because　we　have　never　seen　it
  in　a　poem。　　But　the　bold　fact　is　entirely　on　the　side