Sometimes at prayers A vision seems to rise-- Borne on an air Mayhap that blows from Hell. And then I see the great Lord Jove And all His mighty peers Who ruled so many years Above the ancient heavens, Dwindle, and fade, and pass away, And only Love remains-- I see the doctors of the ancient schools, Great Egypt's sages, those who made the rules Of wisdom in the Academe, Fade also like a dream; All their wise thoughts grow foolishness And all their learning turns to dust, And only Love remains Forever young, forever wise and great, And in the time to come I see the same strong fate Seize on our Mighty God Who binds us in his chains, And makes our love a sin To drive our souls to Hell, He too, with all his doctors Fades--and only Love remains Forever and forever. Fare you well. November 30. Yumei Mujitsu. The Japanese possess a delightful word--Yumei Mujitsu--which signifies "Having-the-Name-but-not-the-Reality." They use it to express certain assumptions--such, for example, as the claim of the Mikado's descent from the Sun Goddess, which, like the formulæ of Algebra, achieve desired results though they recognize that in itself it has no existence. How valuable such a word would be to express the attitude of the Sentimentalist regarding a coloured man named Booker Washington, much discussed of late. Now if there is one creature more than a saint whom I fear and distrust it is the Sentimentalist, whom Hawthorne pungently characterizes as "that steel machine of the Devil's own make." The ruthless heartlessness of the Sentimentalist would be unbelievable if one had not seen it with one's own eyes. Take, for example, the Abolitionists. To gratify their own emotions they caused the death of a million men, the infliction of wounds and pain that make the imagination shudder, and all that long succeeding anguish of a people--the grief, the poverty, humiliation, and despair that burned itself indelibly upon the hearts of those who shared it. Stevenson--that misunderstood moralist now chiefly remembered as a story teller!--put his finger upon the enigma of the Sentimentalist's cruelty: "Everywhere some virtue cherished or affected, everywhere some decency of thought or carriage, everywhere the ensign of man's ineffectual goodness:--Ah, if I could show you these! if I could show you these men and women all the world over ... clinging in the brothel and on the scaffold to some rag of honour, the poor jewel of their souls!... They may seek to escape and yet they cannot ... they are condemned to some nobility, all their lives the desire of good is at their heels, the implacable hunter.... To touch the heart of his mystery we find in him the thought of something owing to himself, to his neighbour, to his God."