But Nature
seems to think it worth her while to fashion these huge useless
stones, if in them she may hide away her precious metals. Perhaps,
also, in human nature, she cares little for the mass of dross,
provided that by crushing and cleansing she can extract from it a
little gold, sufficient to repay her for the labour of the world.
We wonder why she troubles to make the stone. Why cannot the gold
lie in nuggets on the surface? But her methods are secrets to us.
Perchance there is a reason for the quartz. Perchance there is a
reason for the evil and folly, through which run, unseen to the
careless eye, the tiny veins of virtue.
Aye, the stone predominates, but the gold is there. We claim to
have it valued. The evil that there is in man no tongue can tell.
We are vile among the vile, a little evil people. But we are great.
Pile up the bricks of our sins till the tower knocks at Heaven's
gate, calling for vengeance, yet we are great--with a greatness and
a virtue that the untempted angels may not reach to. The written
history of the human race, it is one long record of cruelty, of
falsehood, of oppression. Think you the world would be spinning
round the sun unto this day, if that written record were all?
Sodom, God would have spared had there been found ten righteous men
within its walls.
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