look upon the people as a mere instrument of their power; when, by compelling weaker races to slavery and trying to keep them down by every means, man struck at the foundation of his greatness. Civilisation can never sustain itself upon cannibalism of any form."
If it is hard for us now to read a book or listen to poetry without thinking of battle, murder and sudden death, and the mortal hatred of struggling nations, yet we must not leave this messenger of the dawn standing finally in a vista of war. Rather let us turn to his books in the spirit of a letter written to a friend in England about a year ago:
"A great pleasure," he said, "to imagine you cutting the pages of my new book, making discovery of some poem or other that strikes you with some new surprise, though you had read it before in the manuscript. I am sure these poems of mine are not mere literature to you, but convey to your heart the living voice of a friend who has often sat by your side."
The same letter gives a winter picture of the
