distant
bell, the barking of a dog in the still evening, the green path in the
wood with the sunlight glinting on it, the way of the moon upon the
waters, the candlestick of the Bishop for Jean Valjean, the passing of
a convict for Dean Maitland, the drop of blood for Donatello--these
may, through the events associated therewith, turn the heart to stone
and fill the life with a dumb agony of remorse.

Moreover, Shakespeare indicates how conscience in its magisterial
aspects has skill for reviving forgotten deeds. In the laboratory
scientists take two glasses, each containing a liquid colorless as
water and pour them together, when lo! they unite and form a substance
blacker than the blackest ink. As the chemical bath brings out the
picture that was latent in the photographic plate, so in its higher
moods events half-remembered and half-forgotten rise into perfect
recollection. History tells us of the Oriental despot who in an hour
of revelry commanded his butler to slay a prophet whom he had
imprisoned and bring the pale head in upon a charger. Long afterward
there came a day when, sitting in the seclusion of his palace, a
soldier told those around the banqueting-table the story of a
wonder-worker whom he had seen upon his journey. When the banqueters
were wondering who this man was, suddenly the king arose pale and
trembling and cried out. "I know! It is John the Baptist whom I have
beheaded; he is risen from the dead!"

This old-time story tells us that dormant memories are not dead, but
are like hibernating serpents that with warmth lift their heads to
strike. It fulfills, as has been said, the old-time story of the man
groping along the wall until his fingers hit upon a hidden spring,
when the concealed door flew open and revealed the hidden skeleton. It
tells us that much may be forgotten in the sense of being out of mind,
but nothing is forgotten in the sense that it cannot be recalled.
Every thought the mind thinks moves forward in character, even as
foods long forgotten report themselves in flesh and blood. Memory is a
canvas above and the man works beneath it. Every faculty is a brush
with which man thinks out his portrait. Here and now, deceived by
siren's song, each Macbeth thinks himself better than he is. But the
time comes at last when memory cleanses the portrait and causes his
face to stand forth ineffaceable in full revelation.

But memory also hath aspects gracious and most inspiring. "I have
lived