And yet some tell us--ay, some of us, Englishmen whose fathers passed through these dreadful scenes, leaving to their sons such awful memories,--they tell us it were better to leave those memories sleeping. "Why rake up such disagreeable reminiscences? They belong to past ages. Rome is different now, just as society is different. Is this charity, peace, forbearance?" I reply, it _is_ charity, and of the highest type. When a man sees his friend in the grasp of a tiger, he does not drop his levelled gun on the plea of charity _to the tiger_. And Rome is not different. She only looks so, because the wisdom of our fathers circumscribed her opportunities, just as the tiger looks harmless in a cage in the Zoological Gardens. Shall we therefore open the cage door? And we, who are bent on pulling down as fast as we can those bars which our fathers forged in tears and blood,--let us be a little more consistent. Let us take away the locks from our doors, because for ten years there has been no attempt at burglary in that street. Let us pull down the hurdles which surround our sheep-pens, because for some time no lamb has been lost from that particular flock. We are not such fools as to do these things. Men's bodies, and still more men's property, are safely protected among us. But how is it about men's souls? How will it be when the rulers of England shall stand at the Bar whence there is no appeal, and hear from the great Judge the awful requirement,--"Where is thy flock that was given thee, thy beautiful flock?" Shall we hear about "want of power"--which generally means want of will--about "the voice of the nation," and "the spirit of the age," and "respect to the opinions of others," and the numberless little fictions with which men wile their souls to sleep, here and now? Will the Bishop who swore before God to "drive away all erroneous and strange doctrine contrary to His Word," offer to the Judge then those convenient excuses with which he salves over his conscience now? Will the statesman who followed the multitude to do evil, instead of leading them to do good, urge in His presence who seeth in secret the platitudes about majorities and the national will which he finds satisfactory now? There is a very solemn passage in God's neglected and despised Word, concerning him who knew his Lord's will, and did it not. Another Easter passed away, and left them safe. The summer was a season, not so much of suffering, as of fear and waiting. They were tarrying the Lord's leisure. A few months later, Isoult Avery wrote in her diary-- "My birthday, and I am now forty-five years of age. It is not unmeet that I should tarry a while at the milestones, and look back on the way by which the Lord hath led me. This last year hath been very woeful and weary. What shall the next be?