We live in a hard period marked by the turmoil of the human spirit and the instability of society, because the human civilization we have built with sweat and blood is on the verge of entering a new epoch that may be perfumed with immense possibilities.

But a period of transition is an anxious period, marked by doubt and perplexity. Creeds have been shaken and other creeds have appeared; values have crumbled and upon their ruins values have risen; opinions have spread and theories have circulated, until you see people the whole world over in a kind of distressing spiritual bewilderment and a gnawing anxiety of soul.

Someone may suppose that this crisis of ours is unique, or that it will destroy civilization. That is an error in historical thinking, for this crisis is but one link in a long chain of successive crises through which mankind has passed, and out of which the human spirit has always come victorious. The values of civilization do not die. A setback strikes them and a

weakness besets them, but before long they come out of the darkness vigorous again, thanks to the cre-ative minority that keeps its faith and its high ideals.

In the blackness of crises people grope for the light; in the fog they yearn toward the summits robed in light. And in hardships people look about for the

leader — and leadership has always lain with the good, luminous minority, rich in its spirit, great in its daring.

Come with me in your imagination to a splendid monument standing on the two banks of a pool in a public garden of a great Western city — a monument with which a spiritual bond grew up in me when I was a student, so that I would find myself walking toward it whenever I felt a weariness in my soul.

The monument is two pieces of rock. One represents Time, and the second represents Humanity. The statue of Time is fearful to look upon: a huge phantom, towering of stature, still with the stillness of death, wrapped in a robe that shrouds it as though it were a specter come up from the depths of the earth. Its sunken eyes, fixed on the far horizon, and its mocking, scornful smile kindle no warmth in you — for what has no life in it has no warmth. So you turn your face to the second piece of the monument, on the opposite bank: the statue of Humanity, throbbing with life. This great rock, which ends in a summit at the farthest east, from behind which the light breaks forth — this great rock, I say, represents the history of man. In this rock the sculptor's chisel has figured the processions of humanity coming out of dark caverns, crawling upward toward the summit of light; and in their crawling is figured life with its cruelty,

its misery, and its wretchedness. Hunger and disease, crime and persecution, despair and gloom — they are all there. Gentle, weeping childhood, pale, suffering motherhood, and burdened, mournful old age — you see them all moving with the caravan at a slow pace. And that fearful monument, the monument of Time, stands mocking man's struggle.

But the monument has a radiant face as well, for in it is figured also life in its greatness, and man in his might. In this caravan crawling toward the light there rise above the shoulders of men heads with radiant faces; in their loftiness is majesty, and in their steps is resolve. You see Socrates, the cup of death in his hand. You see Plato in his grove. You see Alexander and his hosts. You see a crucified one, and at the foot of his cross weeping women. You see the Arab Prophet. You see Paul in his prison. You see a pile of firewood upon which a man of learning or a reformer burns. You see Luther translating his Bible. You see Pasteur and his microscope. And as you follow the

caravan's march you see here and there a head held high, or a hand stretched out to a weak man, a wretch, or a beggar — and the caravan, all of it together, moves toward the rays breaking forth from behind the summit of light.

You stand before the statue as I stood, and you linger long as I lingered, and no

weariness comes over you; rather, the longer you gaze at it, the more the processions of bitter history and of radiant history take shape before you.

And you will stand, as I stood, a long while, gazing at the lifted heads — at the active, creative minority which led, and still leads, the human caravan toward the light.

Search out the victors in the battle of life, the immortals in the register of humanity, the creators in the world of thought and spirit — and whom do you find? The insolent oppressors, or the spirit of justice crying out in the face of aggression? Nero, or his martyrs? Socrates, or those who condemned him to death? Pilate, or Christ? The noble Arab Prophet, or his persecutors of Quraysh? Paul in his prison, or Rome swaggering in its might?

In science, and the blessings that have flowed from it, who unveiled the obscurities of the universe and solved its riddles? A few among men. In society, in reform, who was crucified? Who was persecuted? Who was burned? A few among men. In the battle of life — and history is the record of the battle of freedom — in the battle of life, I say, who shed his blood, who fell slain in the fight, that you might enjoy the blessings of freedom?

A few among men. And in the decisive hours, who took the decisions? Who dared to face the mob? Who