oliceman; that all noble thought is but a
politician's catchword. History sees only the destroying conflagrations,
she takes no thought of the sweet fire-sides. History notes the wrong;
but the patient suffering, the heroic endeavour, that, slowly and
silently, as the soft processes of Nature re-clothing with verdure the
passion-wasted land, obliterate that wrong, she has no eyes for. In
the days of cruelty and oppression--not altogether yet of the past, one
fears--must have lived gentle-hearted men and women, healing with their
help and sympathy the wounds that else the world had died of. After the
thief, riding with jingle of sword and spur, comes, mounted on his ass,
the good Samaritan. The pyramid of the world's evil--God help us! it
rises high, shutting out almost the sun. But the record of man's good
deeds, it lies written in the laughter of the children, in the light of
lovers' eyes, in the dreams of the young men; it shall not be forgotten.
The fires of persecution served as torches to show Heaven the heroism
that was in man. From the soil of tyranny sprang self-sacrifice, and
daring for the Right. Cruelty! what is it but the vile manure, making
the ground ready for the flowers of tenderness and pity? Hate and
Anger shriek to one another across the ages, but the voices of Love and
Comfort are none the less existent that they speak in whispers, lips to
ear.

We have done wrong, oh, ye witnessing Heavens, but we have done good. We
claim justice. We have laid down our lives for our friends: greater love
hath no man than this. We have fought for the Right. We have died for
the Truth--as the Truth seemed to us. We have done noble deeds; we have
lived noble lives; we have comforted the sorrowful; we have succoured
the weak. Failing, falling, making in our blindness many a false step,
yet we have striven. For the sake of the army of just men and true, for
the sake of the myriads of patient, loving women, for the sake of the
pitiful and helpful, for the sake of the good that lies hidden within
us,--spare us, O Lord.

ON THE MOTHERLINESS OF MAN

It was only a piece of broken glass. From its shape and colour, I should
say it had, in its happier days, formed portion of a cheap scent-bottle.
Lying isolated on the grass, shone upon by the early morning sun, it
certainly appeared at its best. It attracted him.

He cocked his head, and looked at it with his right eye. Then he hopped
round to the other side, and looke