It was not given to
these leaders to enter into the fruits of their labors. Vicariously
they died. With a few exceptions, their very names remain unknown.
But let us hasten to confess that their vicarious suffering stayed the
onset of despotism and achieved our liberty. They ransomed us from
serfdom and bought our liberty with a great price. Compared to those,
our bravest deeds do seem but brambles to the oaks at whose feet they
grow.

Having made much of the principles of the solidarity of society,
science is now engaged in emphasizing the principle of vicarious
service and suffering. The consecrated blood of yesterday is seen to
be the social and spiritual capital of to-day. Indeed, the civil,
intellectual and religious freedom and hope of our age are only the
moral courage and suffering of past ages, reappearing under new and
resplendent forms. The social vines that shelter us, the civic bough
whose clusters feed us, all spring out of ancient graves. The red
currents of sacrifice and the tides of the heart have nourished these
social growths and made their blossoms crimson and brilliant. Nor
could these treasures have been gained otherwise. Nature grants no
free favors. Every wise law, institution and custom must be paid for
with corresponding treasure. Thought itself takes toll from the brain.
To be loved is good, indeed; but love must be paid for with toil,
endurance, sacrifice--fuel that feeds love's flame.

Generous giving to-day is a great joy; but it is made possible only by
years of thrift and economy. The wine costs the clusters. The linen
costs the flax. The furniture costs the forests. The heat in the
house costs the coal in the cellar. Wealth costs much toil and sweat
by day. Wisdom costs much study and long vigils by night. Leadership
costs instant and untiring pains and service. Character costs the
long, fierce conflict with vice and sin. When Keats, walking in the
rose garden, saw the ground under the bushes all covered with pink
petals, he exclaimed; "Next year the roses should be very red!" When
Aeneas tore the bough from the myrtle tree, Virgil says the tree exuded
blood. But this is only a poet's way of saying that civilization is a
tree that is nourished, not by rain and snow, but by the tears and
blood of the patriots and prophets of yesterday.

Fortunately, in manifold ways, nature and life witness to the
universality of vicarious service and suffering. Indeed, the very