invaded by cold philosophers, losing themselves in searching unreal and
vague philanthropies, none so practical in beneficence as to take her by
the hand, saying, "Go, and sin no more."

But whenever the path of benevolence is intricate and doubtful, whenever
the work is linked with a riddle whose solving will breed discord and
trouble among men, whenever there is a chance to make philanthropy a
plea for hate, and bitterness and charity can be made a battle-cry to
arouse the spirit of destruction, and spread ruin and desolation over
the fair face of the earth, then will the domes of our churches resound
with eloquence, then will the journals of the land teem with their
mystic theories, then will the mourners of human woe be loud in
lamentation, and lift up their mighty voices to cry down an abstract
evil. When actual misery appeals to them, they are deaf; when the plain
and palpable error stalks before them, they turn aside. They are too
busy with the tangles of some philanthropic Gordian knot, to stretch out
a helping hand to the sufferer at their sides. They are frenzied with
their zeal to build a bridge over a spanless ocean, while the drowning
wretch is sinking within their grasp. They scorn the simple charity of
the good Samaritan; theirs must be a gigantic and splendid achievement
in experimental beneficence, worthy of their philosophic brains. The
wrong they would redress must be one that half the world esteems a
right; else there would be no room for their arguments, no occasion for
their invective, no excuse for their passion. To do good is too simple
for their transcendentalism; they must first make evil out of their
logic, and then, through blood and wasting flames, drive on the people
to destruction, that the imaginary evil may be destroyed. While Charity
soars so high among the clouds, she will never stoop to lift the
Magdalen from sin.