dom and order: so earnest men were maddened, and sought to tear
out this cancerous mass, with all its burning roots.

But for Richelieu's great fault there is an excuse. His mind was
saturated with ideas of the impossibility of inducing freed peasants to
work,--the impossibility of making them citizens,--the impossibility, in
short, of making them _men_. To his view was not unrolled the rich newer
world-history, to show that a working class is most dangerous when
restricted,--that oppression is more dangerous to the oppressor than to
the oppressed,--that, if man will hew out paths to liberty, God will
hew out paths to prosperity. But Richelieu's fault teaches the world not
less than his virtues.

At last, on the third of December, 1642, the great statesman lay upon
his death-bed. The death-hour is a great revealer of motives, and as
with weaker men, so with Richelieu. Light then shot over the secret of
his whole life's plan and work.

He was told that he must die: he received the words with calmness. As
the Host, which he believed the veritable body of the Crucified, was
brought him, he said, "Behold my Judge before whom I must shortly
appear! I pray Him to condemn me, if I have ever had any other motive
than the cause of religion and my country." The confessor asked him if
he pardoned his enemies: he answered, "I have none but those of the
State."

So passed from earth this strong man. Keen he was in sight, steady in
aim, strong in act. A true man,--not "non-committal," but wedded to a
great policy in the sight of all men: seen by earnest men of all times
to have marshalled against riot and bigotry and unreason divine forces
and purposes; seen by earnest men of these times to have taught the true
method of grasping desperate revolt, and of strangling that worst foe of
liberty and order in every age,--a serf-owning aristocracy.

UNDER THE SNOW.

The spring had tripped and lost her flowers,
The summer sauntered through the glades,
The wounded feet of autumn hours
Left ruddy footprints on the blades.

And all the glories of the woods
Had flung their shadowy silence down,--
When, wilder than the storm it broods,
She fled before the winter's frown.

For _her_ sweet spring had lost its flowers,
She fell, and passion's tongues of flame
Ran reddening through the blushing bowers,
Now haggard as her naked shame.

One secret thought her soul had screened,
When prying matrons sought her wrong,
A