Criticism can only be justified in two forms: when it condemns a great wrong or a grave deceit—and then we should see to it that it is our law, not criticism, that deals out judgment with certain understanding; and, in the other case, when it is uttered in good spirit with helpful purpose—and then it were more rightly called advice. Surely it is wrong entirely to condemn, in bitter and unsubstantiated speech, the thoughts and purpose of another body which dares to see a phase of life, or government, in other light, and with another brain. Were it not far better to prove by deed, by clear-sighted example—not merely by words—the value of thought? And, if the opponent be a man, he will come to thank you, and both views, in the process of discussion, will become enlightened and instructive. If he is not ‘a man’ his scheme of things opposed to yours should crumble away if our laws are right, and concur with the common law of decay which decrees that ill-fed roots cannot live and flourish. Does any man do right to sit on a stool at home looking for trouble in the machinery of the nation, when millions toil in endless endeavour, his object to descry weakness or fault, or to direct to his temple of ideas, while he raises no active hand to prove his knowledge or his understanding? Is he certain of his usefulness? Does his position as a man of letters entitle him, by self-appointment, to be king of people? Is there not a more noble, if harder, method of reasoning a cause to greatness? If we are to be truly great we must see the main views together, listening to all from every human standpoint—and framing the final law with certain wisdom—for the greatness of nations must spring from absolute unity of purpose, and with an honesty near to the goodness of God. And is it not by example, by action, and thereafter with broader vision, by help and advice, that mankind should build together their fortresses of strength against the battles of to-day and of the future? Have you seen a grim figure, grimly occupied during an action, defending his yard of trench—which is to him his Britain’s all—and dealing death with certain purpose and unshakable resolution? He has nothing to say—only by deed can he hope to hold this little yard for Britain’s honour. He has no need for criticism. He has risen beyond any fault-finding or narrowness. He may live but to-day, but he lives those hours for the good and the greatness of his motherland. Should he criticise, if he comes through, methinks his words will be measured with a new seriousness, and with warmth of comradeship more than with enmity and bitterness. And does not that common picture show the nobleness of _action_, and its accomplishment—while criticism, ignorant and powerless, is blown back into the four winds ashamed of its fragility? ALONE