At this juncture a remarkable political writer made his appearance. From the discipleship of Calvin, from the republic of Geneva, from the abodes of poverty, Jean Jacques Rosseau came as the advocate of the poor and the oppressed. Through him the "sons of toil" breathed out their wrongs, {163} and a new class gained a voice in the world of published thought. Though full of weaknesses and jealousies and betrayed by poverty into shameful deeds, he possessed a deep and real feeling for humanity. In an age of skepticism he solaced the ills of life by trust in God. Fearlessly questioning all the grandeurs of the world, he breathed the spirit of revolution into words of flame. What though the church of Rome cursed his writings with her ban; and parliaments burned them at the gibbet by the hangman's hand! What though France drove him from her soil, and the republic of his birth disowned her son! What though the wise and noble hooted at his wildness! Yet from the woes of the world in which he had suffered, from the wrongs of the down-trodden which he had shared, he derived an eloquence that went to the heart of the masses of Europe. Beyond most men of his time he saw the hand of Providence in the history of men. "Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storm and rides upon the wind." Institutions may crumble and governments fall, but it is only that they may renew a better youth; the petals of the flower wither that fruit may form. On the banks of the stream of time not a great deed has been done by a hero, or monument raised by a nation, but tells the story of human progress. Each people that has disappeared, every great institution that has passed away, has been but a step in the ladder by which humanity ascends to a higher plane. The generations that handed the truth, from rank to rank down the ages, have themselves become dust; but the light still increases its ever-burning flame. From the intelligence that had been slowly ripening sprang the American revolution. While Rosseau was putting his burning thoughts in print, and Voltaire, the prince of scoffers, was hurling his venomed shafts of sarcasm at the priesthood of the Roman church, farther north was the little country, Holland, which had already gained a large share of civil and religious liberty. Here thought ranged through the wide domain of speculative reason; here the literary fugitive found an asylum, and the boldest writings, which in other countries were circulated by stealth, were openly published to the world.