The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1900-01-12
Tie 3toIy Of On African Form.
By OLIVE soHRB1NBR.
CONTINUED

(CoNT1NUED.l
And, we add, growing a little colder
yet: '"There is no justice. The OK dies
in the yoke beneath it's masters whip.
1t turns it's anguish filled eyes on the
sunlight, but there is no sign of recon-
pense to be made it. The black man is
shot like a dog, and it goes we'll with
the shooter. The innocent are accused,
and the accuser triumphs. If you will
take the trouble to scratch the surface
anywhere, you will see under the skin
a sentient being writing in impotent
anguish"
And, we say further, and our heart
is as the heart of the dead for GOODNESS:
"There is no order. ALI things are
driven about by a blind chance"
What a soul drinks in with it's moth
er's milk will not leave it in a day.
From our earliest hour we have been
taught that the thought of the heart,
the shaping Of the r%aincloud, the
amount of wool that grows on a
sleeps back, the length of a draft
and the growing of the corn depend
on nothing that moves immutable, at
the heart Of all things; but on the
changeable will Of a changeable being
whom our prayers can alter. To us,
from the beginning, nature has been
but a poor, plastic thing, to be toyed
with this way or that, as man happens
to please his deity or not, to go to
church or not, to say his prayers right
or not, to travel on a Sunday or not.
Was it possible for us in an instant to
see nature as she is-the flowing vest
ment Of an unchanging reality? When
a soul breaks free from the arms Of q
superstition, bits Of the claws and
talons break themselves off in him. It
is not the work Of a day to squeeze
them out.
And so, for us, the humanlike driver
and guide being gone, all existence, as
we look out at it with our chilled, Won
dering eyes, is an aimless rise and
swell Of shifting waters. In all that
weltering chaos we can see no spot so
large as a mans hand on which we
may plant our foot.
Whether a nan believes in q human
like God or no is a small thing. Wheth-
er he looks into the mental and phys
ical world and sees no relation be-
tween cause and effect, no order but q
blind chance sporting, this Is the
mightiest fact that can be recorded in
any spiritual existence. 1t were al
most a mercy to cut his throat, If in
deed he does not do it for himself.
We, however, do not cut our throats.
To do so would imply some desire and
feeling, and we have no desire and no
feeling. We are only cold. We do not
wish to live, and we do not wish to die.
One day a snake curls itself round the
waist Of a Kaf1r woman. We take 1t
in our hand, swing it round and round
and fling it on the ground-dead. .Ev-
cry one looks at us with eyes Of admi-
ration. We almost laugh. Is it wonder
full to risk that for which we care
nothing?
In truth, nothing matters. This dirty
little world full of confusion. and the
blue rag stretched overhead for a sky
is SO low we could touch it with our
hand.
Existence is q great pot, and the old
fate who stirs it round cares nothing
what rises to the top and what goes
down and laughs when the bubbles
burst. And we do not care. Let it
boil about. Why should we trouble
ourselves? Nevertheless the physical
sensations are real. Hunger hurts, and
thirst; therefore we eat and drink. In.
action pains us; therefore we work like
galley slaves. No one demands it, but
we set ourselves to build a great dam
in red sand beyond the graves.
In he gray dawn before the sheep
are let out we work at it. All day,
while the young ostriches we tend
feed about us, we work on through the
fercest heat. The people wonder
what new spirit has seized us now.
They do not know we are working for
life. We bear the greatest stones and
feel a satisfaction when we stagger
under them and are hurt by q pang
that shoots through our chest. While
we eat u dinner we carry on baskets
full Of earth, as though the devil drove
us. The Kafir servants have a story
that at night a witch and two white
OASu SoAle W uelp US. mo q they
say, could grow so quickly under one
mans hands.
At night, alone in our cabin, we sit
no more brooding over the fire. What
should we think of now? All is empti-
ness. So we take the old arithmetic,
n the multiplication table, which
with SO much pains we learned long
ago and forgot directly, we learn now
in a few hours and never forget again.
We take a strange satisfaction in
working arithmetical problems. We
pause in our building to cover the
stones with figures and calculations.
we save money for a Latin grammar
n an algebra and carry them about
IN our pockets, porting over them as
over our Bible Of old. We have thought,
we were utterly stupid, incapable Of
remembering anything, Of learning
anything. Now we find that all is
easy. Has a new soul crept into this
old body, that even our intellectual
faculties ara chapnodo W. ,,o,u1