The world is saved by its just men. History sees
them not; she is but the newspaper, a report of accidents. Judge
you life by that? Then you shall believe that the true Temple of
Hymen is the Divorce Court; that men are of two classes only, the
thief and the policeman; 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.
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