road we are is the only question of moment—all being imperfect-whether having to be imperfect, we cling to imperfections, or whether being full of imperfections, we strive to shed one imperfection after another. But, where is the place for the "hero" in this moving procession of imperfect men and women, most of them clinging to the wrong road, a few being on the right one? His place is as a man whose endurance and courage, whose resolve to suffer are for the benefit of any section of humanity, whatever be the arena in which these qualities are brought to play. There is room for such a man in the age of science as well as of poetry, in the age of political tyranny and spiritual thraldom as well as in an age of capitalist monopoly. The man who in rearing a bacteriological culture exposes himself every moment to infection and death, is a hero as much as Achilles or Arjuna. The men who have perished in the attempt to bring the atmospheric air under control for purposes of aerial navigation are heroes and martyrs; for while they could have well avoided the danger, they have faced it for
adding to the sum total of human achievements, in the domain of Science. In fact, but for the
