hiss 'coward' in the face of the Eternal. Nay, he can even laugh at his
sufferings--thanks to the spirit of humour, that most blessed of
ministering angels, without which surely the heart of humanity had long
since broken, by which man is able to look with a comical eye upon
terrors, as it were taking themselves so seriously, coming with such
Olympian thunders and lightnings to break the spirit of a mere six foot
of earth!

But while his courage and his humour are defences of which he cannot be
disarmed, whatever be the intention of the Eternal, it is by no means
certain that nature does not mean kindly by man. Perhaps the pain of the
world is but the rough horseplay of great powers that mean but jest--and
kill us in it: as though one played at 'tick' with an elephant!

Perhaps, after all,--who knows?--God is love, and His great purpose
kind.

Surely, when you think of it, the existence in man of the senses of love
and pity implies the probability of their existence elsewhere in the
universe too.

'Into that breast which brings the rose
Shall I with shuddering fall.'

So runs the profoundest thought in modern poetry--and need I say it is
Mr. Meredith's?

As the fragrance and colour of the rose must in some occult way be
properties of the rude earth from which they are drawn by the sun, may
not human love also be a kindly property of matter--that mysterious