brethren. We imprison people whom we find wandering about without a home; we imprison utter poverty; we imprison hopeless misfortune. We may not all of us think that a very fine thing; but we have to draw the line somewhere, and if we are brought to look about it, we shrug our shoulders and ask, 'What are we to do? Are we to give tramps a decent lodging? Are we to secure misfortune without shutting it up and putting it to shame?' These questions, which are of our own asking, must be of our own answering. It is not that misery is growing, but that it is growing intolerable, if not to the sufferer, then to the witness. Jailer or brother, which shall it be? There is no middle choice, and there never was, and if we do not choose brother, jailer will choose itself. There is something terribly active in evil; it is positive, full of initiative The weed comes, and flourishes against the hoe; the useful plant must be coaxed to come, and must be carefully tended; the flower must be cherished. All morality, all civility, is the effect of trying to be good."

There came to my office the other day a man seeking subscriptions for helping friendless men, discharged criminals. These Christian workers stand at the doors of our prisons and as terms are ended they take the convicts in charge and find homes and work for them. I did not know that there was such a society. And why? Simply because I have been living a life in which the keeping of my brother has been the least of it, and the very thought makes one ashamed. The shame is all the greater to those of us who are supposed to have received all the light there is in Masonry.

Let us consider for a moment the relation of brotherly love to other sentiments of affection, and thus, perhaps, we may come to a fuller realization of the possibility of the performance of our duties to our fellow-men. In the first place, brotherly love is not friendship,-not that sacred feeling between two men which makes the companionship and com

POETRY IN SONG.

munion of one indispensable to the happiness of the other. I mean that friendship the two elements of which, says Emerson, are Truth and Tenderness.

And what is meant by truth between friends? Emerson answers it by saying: "A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud." Surely such sincerity is a rare sort of thing. Let me ask you here to-night if there has ever come into your life any person, divine or human, man or woman, before whom you have dared to think aloud-that is, to whom you have dared to express all your thoughts. Probably not, but doubtless there have come into your life more than once men to whom you have uncovered yourself in a way and to a degree that would be impossible to a group or society of persons, regardless of the oaths that bound them. In the ordinary meaning of the terms, we are friends and brothers. We would make sacrifice for one another freely and fully, if need for it ever should be, but there is not between us that element of truth which Emerson describes. We give and take from one another in sentiment more than other men do perhaps. There is a good fellowship among us that is to be cherished and fostered and increased and cultivated, but absolute truth is not here.

And what is this tenderness that is one element of real friendship? Another has said: "We are holden to men by every sort of tie, by blood, by pride, by fear, by hone, by lucre, by lust, by hate, by admiration, by every circumstance, badge and trifle, but we can scarce believe that so much character can subsist in another as to draw us by love. Can another be so blessed, and we so pure, that we can offer him tenderness? When a man becomes dear to me, I have touched the goal of fortune." What a beautiful thought that is! Genuine love between men is so unusual a thing that its very existence is doubted by many minds. But one into whose heart it has come has no misgiving about it. There is in it

POETRY IN SONG.

the softest tenderness of life. A man's love for a woman ofttimes brings restlessness, but his love for a man brings peace.

It is proper in this connection to make recognition of the difference in our physical organisms which makes the truth and tenderness of genuine love impossible. We all know that there are healing and peace and rest and confidence in the touch of one person, and restlessness and nervousness in that of another to such a degree that genuine affection is an impossibility. Yet between such men there may be all the necessary elements of brotherly love. One may serve and sacrifice for another even though he may not soothe him.

To return to the first question: I believe that as men receive more light in Masonry their hearts become larger; that the cross and the rose, and all the signs and symbols from the third to the thirty-third degree, give an added meaning to the square and compass.

To quote Ruskin: "There is no wealth but life-life, including all its power of love, of joy, and admiration. That country is the richest which nourishes the greatest number of noble and happy human beings; that man is richest who, having perfected the functions of his own life to the utmost, has also the widest helpful influence, both personal and, by means of his possessions, over the lives of others. A strange political economy; the only one, nevertheless, that ever was or can be; all political economy founded on self-interest being but the fulfillment of that which once brought schism into the policy of angels and ruin into the economy of Heaven.'

This practice of love for one's fellow-men is its own exceeding great reward. The utter satisfaction that comes from it is an inexpressible thing, and the evidence of it stamps itself on the outer as well as the inner man. It makes for one a new heaven and a new earth,-in a word, a new life. It may not prevent the coming of silvery hairs, but it will wipe the wrinkles all away. Strange it is how a large heart

POETRY IN SONG.

makes a beaming brow, but we see the miracle day after day as we go up and down the world. Some years ago Mr. John Burroughs expressed the thought in an essay in these beautiful words:

"But nothing can take the place of love. Love is the measure of life; only so far as we love do we really live. The variety of our interests, the width of our sympathies, the susceptibilities of our hearts-if these do not measure our lives, what does? As the years go by, we are all of us more or less subject to two dangers, the danger of petrifaction and the danger of putrifaction; either that we will become hard and callous, crusted over with customs and conventions till no new ray of light or of joy can reach us, or that we will become lax and disorganized, losing our grip upon the real and vital sources of happiness and power. Now, there is no preservative and antiseptic, nothing that keeps one's heart young like love, like sympathy, like giving one's self with enthusiasm to some worthy thing or cause."

As age comes many of us are prone to crawl back into our shells and there grow hard or waste ourselves away, wilfully forgetting how much more glorious it is to be afield amidst the budding and the blooming of human life and all other Nature. There love abounds and one cannot get away from him, for he is ever knocking at the heart's door. Let him in, and the years will never come "when thou shalt say I have no pleasure in them;" "nor the clouds return after the rain."

POETRY IN SONG.

WASHINGTON.

HE events of the last few years have revived within the hearts of the American people the spirit of hero-worship, and every knee has bended at its altar. We have apostrophized and apotheosized everything and everybody, from "the maid who bound her warrior's sash" to "the conquering hero who returned." There have been some exceptions, of course. There has been some slight friction among the heroes, owing to differences in the heights of their pedestals, but it has not prevailed to any great extent-for which all good men ought to be and are duly thankful.

we fear

"We all love great men, and no nobler or more blessed feeling dwells in man's heart," said that Carlyle who told us why and how we worship heroes. We Americans hesitate a little about admitting that we are hero-worshipers, the custom is not quite in line with our professed ideas regarding equality, liberty and the like, but the record of old and of late is against us. Perhaps a charge of fickleness in some instances might be proved, but the ultimate findings of our heads and hearts are generally just. Occasionally one comes across a man who vehemently denies that he is a worshiper of any living man, but a brief acquaintance will prove that such a man is ever a hero to himself-that he not only insists that he is quite as good as every other man, but hesitates to admit that any other man is quite as good as he. Some men seem determined never to learn that they cannot pull themselves up by pulling others down,-that it is so much easier to get a

POETRY IN SONG.