The courier. (Lincoln, Neb.) 1894-1903, 1895-11-02

thought that the race would die out
altogether. In the days Of the robber
barops men said that chaos had come to
stay. But none OF these things was
true. We are always taking temporary
tendencies Of humanity and regarding
them as final But the final tendencies
and destiny are in the keeping OF a
greater hand than ours, OF that
great intelligence, who, when the Roman
world had corrupted the civilization it
had made, enslaved the state it had
freed, grown monstrous in its pleasures,
had the barbarian races ready to destroy
and renew, brought down the SHOWS OF
the Danube to cool the heated blood Of
the south. and the great hammer OF
Thor 10 crush the detileC affairs OF
Aphrodite into dust. Humanity cannot
utterly blast itself, even when it tries.
Some day, perhaps, when our civiliza-
ton has grown too utterly complex,
when our introspection cuts off all &C.
ton, when our forms have killed all
ambition, when sincerity and simplicity
have utterly gone from US and We are
only bundle of nerves, then the savage
strength Of the Slav or the Bushmen
will come upon us and will burn our
psychologists and carry us away into
captivity and make us dress the vines
and pillow the earth and teach us that
after all nature is best. Gods scheme
is 30 big, his resources so many.
Humanity is always SO much of
child, it's disgressions and sins are
always more pitiful than terrible, and it
always, when its small boy pranks are
done. someway comes back to its mother,
whose forgiveness seems to be without
end. Nature is pretty rough on the in
dividual at times. but to the type she is
wonderfully kind, and her mercy is
from everlasting to everlasting. When
she has one nation that liz wholly aband-
oned and given over to its emotions, and
another that analy yes more than it
feels, she puts them together aud let's
them fight it out and they strike an
equilibrium somewhere. She is Spar
tan mother, but she has unruly sons to
handle. We are growing too analytical
ourselves, and we need young men like
Rudyard Kipling and Anthony Hope,
not because of the greatness of their
talent, but because Of the sincerity of
their motive, because the atmosphere of
their work is one in which men may
love and work and fight and die like
men. Because in their own small way
they are carrying out the task OF their
great master and chief who died down
in the blue Pacific last winter when the
winds OF December were covering us
with snow. We owe him much, that great
master OF pure romance, even his death
blessed us, for it drew the worlds atten-
ton to his work and the greatness If it.
to his faith and the sublimity of it.
showed us how vast was the future for
work like his. Living he enriched us
by his life; dying, by his death. 10
nance is the highest form of fiction, and
it will never desert us. Ii Stevenson
did not accomplish its revival. some
other man will. 1t will come back to
us in all its radiance and eternal fresh
ness in some one Of the dawning seasons
of Time. Ibsens and Zolas are great,
but they are temporary. Children, the
sea, the sun, God himself are all re-
Clouds cover the sun some
times, and there is darkness upon the
face OF the deep, and God hides his
face from us. But they come again, and
a. Al =.