Many there are whom the influences of religion do not move, and upon whose hearts most generous sentiments knock in vain, who still are overawed and bowed by the magnitude of this catastrophe. No matter what they believe about it, the effect is the same. The effect is to reduce a man from the swaggering braggart--the vainglorious lord of what he sees--the self-made master of fate, of nature, of time, of space, of everything--to his true microscopic stature in the cosmos. He goes in tears to put together again the fragments of the few, small, pitiful things that belonged to him. "Though Love may pine, and Reason chafe, There came a Voice without reply." The only comfort, all that can bring surcease of sorrow, is that men fashioned in the image of their Maker rose to the emergency like heroes, and went to their grave as bravely as any who have given their lives at any time in war. The hearts of those who waited on the land, and agonized, and were impotent to save, have been laid upon the same altars of sacrifice. The mourning of those who will not be comforted rises from alien lands together with our own in a common broken intercession. How little is the 882 feet of the "monster" that we launched compared with the arc of the rainbow we can see even in our grief spanning the frozen boreal mist! "The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!" THE ANCIENT SACRIFICE And still our work must go on. It is the business of men and women neither to give way to unavailing grief nor to yield to the crushing incubus of despair, but to find hope that is at the bottom of everything, even at the bottom of the sea where that glorious virgin of the ocean is dying. "And when she took unto herself a mate She must espouse the everlasting sea."