that have guided ours--not the one voice that has so often soothed
us in our darker hours, will save the sex: All are massed in one
common sentence: all bad. There may be Delilahs: there are many
Ruths. We should not lightly give them up. Napoleon lost France when
he lost Josephine. The one light in Rembrandt's gloomy life was his
sister.

And all are to be approached at some point. The proudest bends to
some feeling--Coriolanus conquered Rome: but the husband conquered
the hero. The money-maker has influences beyond his gold--Reynolds
made an exhibition of his carriage, but he was generous to
Northcote, and had time to think of the poor Plympton
schoolmistress. The cold are not all ice. Elizabeth slew Essex--the
queen triumphed; the woman _died._

There is Good in All. Let us show our faith in it. When the lazy
whine of the mendicant jars on your ears, think of his unaided,
unschooled childhood; think that his lean cheeks never knew the
baby-roundness of content that ours have worn; that his eye knew no
youth of fire--no manhood of expectancy. Pity, help, teach him. When
you see the trader, without any pride of vocation, seeking how he
can best cheat you, and degrade himself, glance into the room behind
his shop and see there his pale wife and his thin children, and
think how cheerfully he meets that circle in the only hour he has
out of the twenty-four. Pity his narrowness of mind; his want of
reliance upon the God of Good; but remember there have been
Greshams, and Heriots, and Whittingtons; and remember, too, that in
our happy land there are thousands of almshouses, built by the men
of trade alone. And when you are discontented with the great, and
murmur, repiningly, of Marvel in his garret, or Milton in his