"It was once also universally supposed that slavery was a natural and quite legitimate institution --- a condition into which some were born, and to which they ought to submit as to a Divine ordination; nay, indeed, a great propor- tion of mankind hold this opinion still. A higher social development, however has generated in us a better faith, and we now to a considerable extend recog- nise the claims of humanity. But our civilization is our partial. It may by- and-by be perceived, that Equity utters dictates to which we have not yet listened; and men may then learn, that to deprive others of their rights to the use of the earth, is to commit a crime inferior only in wickedness to the crime of taking away their lives or personal libertines.

...We find that if pushed to its ultimate consequences, a claim to exclusive possession of the soil involves a land-owning despotism. We further find that such a claim is constantly denied by the enactments of our legislature. And we find lastly, that the theory of co-heirship of all men to the soil, is consistent with the highest civilization; and that however difficult it may be to embody that theory in fact, Equity sternly commands it to be done."

HERBERT SPENCER

PETER KROPOTKIN
AVE ATQUE VALE

The blood of Russia waters the stunted flowers
	That wilts in our western sun;
The heart of Russia beats in that holy hour
	When its petals one by one
Shall raise their potent splendor and imbue
	The sacrificial dew.



Comrade farewell! Your life was not indeed
	A martyrdom consoled
Maternally by Death: You lived to bleed
	Your years out, growing old
Captive or exile, steadfast soul unfurled
	For Russia and the world!


 

Kropotkin, when your ancestors owned slaves,
	That sinister name rang out
A challenge for their hirelings' lifted staves,
	The Russian whip, the KnoutÉ
Kropotkin, comrade, you have cleansed long since
	Your genial name for "prince!"



That virile, Mosaic beard, those glances keen,
	The famed clasp of your hand
Express a life as shriven and as clean
	As cleanly ocean-sand.
Tomorrow's dawn lights up your kindly head,
	And who would call you dead?...



Russia unbars her gates; night barely over,
	She does not see- she feels;
Her groping spirit years to know its lover:
	Sly footfalls dog her heelsÉ
Your grave is Russia's breast. Ð Peace to the two!
	Peace to Russia Ð and You!

ROSE FLORENCE FREEMAN