should explode； as it were； into bloom with audible sound； as you may
read in Keats's Endymion； or observe in your own garden。
There is a continual tendency in men to fence in themselves and a few
of their neighbors who agree with them in their ideas； as if they
were an exception to their race。 We must not allow any creed or
religion whatsoever to confiscate to its own private use and benefit
the virtues which belong to our common humanity。 The Good Samaritan
helped his wounded neighbor simply because he was a suffering fellow…
creature。 Do you think your charitable act is more acceptable than
the Good Samaritan's； because you do it in the name of Him who made
the memory of that kind man immortal？ Do you mean that you would not
give the cup of cold water for the sake simply and solely of the
poor； suffering fellow…mortal； as willingly as you now do； professing
to give it for the sake of Him who is not thirsty or in need of any
help of yours？ We must ask questions like this； if we are to claim
for our common nature what belongs to it。
The scientific study of man is the most difficult of all branches of
knowledge。 It requires； in the first place； an entire new
terminology to get rid of that enormous load of prejudices with which
every term applied to the malformations； the functional disturbances；
and the organic diseases of the moral nature is at present burdened。
Take that one word Sin； for instance： all those who have studied the
subject from nature and not from books know perfectly well that a
certain fraction of what is so called is nothing more or less than a
symptom of hysteria； that another fraction is the index of a limited
degree of insanity； that still another is the result of a congenital
tendency which removes the act we sit in judgment upon from the
sphere of self…determination； if not entirely； at least to such an
extent that the subject of the tendency cannot be judged by any
normal standard。
To study nature without fear is possible； but without reproach；
impossible。 The man who worships in the temple of knowledge must
carry his arms with him as our Puritan fathers had to do when they
gathered in their first rude meeting…houses。 It is a fearful thing
to meddle with the ark which holds the mysteries of creation。 I
remember that when I was a child the tradition was whispered round
among us little folks that if we tried to count the stars we should
drop down dead。 Nevertheless； the stars have been counted and the
astronomer has survived。 This nursery legend is the child's version
of those superstitions which would have strangled in their cradles
the young sciences now adolescent and able to take care of
themselves； and which； no longer daring to attack these； are watching
with hostile aspect the rapid growth of the comparatively new science
of man。
The real difficulty of the student of nature at this time is to
reconcile absolute freedom and perfect fearlessness with that respect
for the past； that reverence； for the spirit of reverence wherever we
find it； that tenderness for the weakest fibres by which the hearts
of our fellow…creatures hold to their religious convictions； which
will make the transition from old belief to a larger light and
liberty an interstitial change and not a violent mutilation。
I remember once going into a little church in a small village some
miles from a great European capital。 The special object of adoration
in this humblest of places of worship was a bambino； a holy infant；
done in wax； and covered with cheap ornaments such as a little girl
would like to beautify her doll with。 Many a good Protestant of the
old Puritan type would have felt a strong impulse to seize this
〃idolatrous〃 figure and dash it to pieces on the stone floor of the
little church。 But one must have lived awhile among simple…minded
pious Catholics to know what this poor waxen image and the whole
baby…house of bambinos mean for a humble； unlettered； unimaginative
peasantry。 He will find that the true office of this eidolon is to
fix the mind of the worshipper； and that in virtue of the devotional
thoughts it has called forth so often for so many years in the mind
of that poor old woman who is kneeling before it； it is no longer a
wax doll for her； but has undergone a transubstantiation quite as
real as that of the Eucharist。 The moral is that we must not roughly
smash other people's idols because we know； or think we know； that
they are of cheap human manufacture。
Do you think cheap manufactures encourage idleness？ said I。
The Master stared。 Well he might； for I had been getting a little
drowsy； and wishing to show that I had been awake and attentive；
asked a question suggested by some words I had caught； but which
showed that I had not been taking the slightest idea from what he was
reading me。 He stared； shook his head slowly； smiled good…humoredly；
took off his great round spectacles； and shut up his book。
Sat prates biberunt；he said。 A sick man that gets talking about
himself； a woman that gets talking about her baby； and an author that
begins reading out of his own book； never know when to stop。 You'll
think of some of these things you've been getting half asleep over by
and by。 I don't want you to believe anything I say； I only want you
to try to see what makes me believe it。
My young friend； the Astronomer； has； I suspect； been making some
addition to his manuscript。 At any rate some of the lines he read us
in the afternoon of this same day had never enjoyed the benefit of my
revision； and I think they had but just been written。 I noticed that
his manner was somewhat more excited than usual； and his voice just
towards the close a little tremulous。 Perhaps I may attribute his
improvement to the effect of my criticisms； but whatever the reason；
I think these lines are very nearly as correct as they would have
been if I had looked them over。
WIND…CLOUDS AND STAR…DRIFTS。
VII
What if a soul redeemed； a spirit that loved
While yet on earth and was beloved in turn；
And still remembered every look and tone
Of that dear earthly sister who was left
Among the unwise virgins at the gate；
Itself admitted with the bridegroom's train；
What if this spirit redeemed； amid the host
Of chanting angels； in some transient lull
Of the eternal anthem； heard the cry
Of its lost darling； whom in evil hour
Some wilder pulse of nature led astray
And left an outcast in a world of fire；
Condemned to be the sport of cruel fiends；
Sleepless； unpitying； masters of the skill
To wring the maddest ecstasies of pain
》From worn…out souls that only ask to die；
Would it not long to leave the bliss of Heaven；
Bearing a little water in its hand
To moisten those poor lips that plead in vain
With Him we call our Father？ Or is all
So changed in such as taste celestial joy
They hear unmoved the endless wail of woe；
The daughter in the same dear tones that hushed
Her cradled slumbers； she who once had held
A babe upon her bosom from its voice
Hoarse with its cry of anguish； yet the same？
No！ not in ages when the Dreadful Bird
Stamped his huge footprints； and the Fearful Beast
Strode with the flesh about those fossil bones
We build to mimic life with pygmy hands；
Not in those earliest days when men ran wild
And gashed each other with their knives of stone；
When their low foreheads bulged in ridgy brows
And their flat hands were callous in the palm
With walking in the fashion of their sires；
Grope as they might to find a cruel god
To work their will on such as human wrath
Had wrought its worst to torture； and had left
With rage unsated； white and stark and cold；
Could hate have shaped a demon more malign
Than him the dead men mummied in their creed
And taught their trembling children to adore！
Made in his image！ Sweet and gracious souls
Dear to my heart by nature's fondest names；
Is not your memory still the precious mould
That lends its form to Him who hears my prayer？
Thus only I behold him； like to them；
Long…suffering； gentle； ever slow to wrath；
If wrath it be that only wounds to heal；
Ready to meet the wanderer ere he reach
The door he seeks； forgetful of his sin；
Longing to clasp him in a father's arms；
And seal his pardon with a pitying tear！
Four gospels tell their story to mankind；
And none so full of soft； caressing words
That bring the Maid of Bethlehem and her Babe
Before our tear…dimmed eyes； as his who learned
In the meek service of his gracious art
The tones which like the medicinal balms
That calm the sufferer's anguish； soothe our souls。
Oh that the loving woman； she who sat
So long a listener at her Master's feet；
Had left us Mary's Gospel；all she heard
Too sweet； too subtle for the ear of man！
Mark how the tender…hearted mothers read
The messages of love between the lines
Of the same page that loads the bitter tongue
Of him who deals in terror as his trade
With threatening words of wrath that scorch like flame！
They tell of angels whispering round the bed
Of the sweet infant smiling in its dream；
Of lambs enfolded in the Shepherd's arms；
Of Him who blessed the children； of the land
Where crystal rivers feed unfadin