She
had a book of his with her as a companion to her walk this very
morning, and as she entered the Pamphili woods, where she had a
special "permesso" to go whenever she chose, and trod the mossy
paths, where the morning sun struck golden shafts between the dark
ilex-boughs, as though pointing to the thousands of violets that
blossomed in the grass beneath, she opened it at a page containing
these lines:--
"Who is it that dares assert that his life or his thoughts are his
own? No man's life is his own! It is given to him in charge to use
for the benefit of others,--and if he does not so use it, it is
often taken from him when he least expects it. 'THOU FOOL, THIS
NIGHT THY LIFE SHALL BE REQUIRED OF THEE!' No man's thoughts even,
are his own. They are the radiations of the Infinite Mind of God
which pass through every living atom. The beggar may have the same
thought as the Prime Minister,--he only lacks the power of
expression. The more helpless and inept the beggar, the greater the
responsibility of the Premier. For the Premier has received
education, culture, training, and the choice of the people, and to
him is given the privilege of voicing the beggar's thought. And not
only the beggar's thought, but the thoughts of all in the nation who
have neither the skill nor the force to speak.
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