beautiful their savage slopes appeared. Light and shade, ominous gloom
and shining crag were hid from view. How often thus the morn of life,

"In dim eclipse disastrous twilight sheds."

A twilight not dispelled until the light dawns on a retrospect whose
bitterness could not be borne unless seen side by side with the other
picture of Paradise.

But he had no thoughts other than of glad anticipation. Past pain and
recent unrest were forgotten in the renewed joy of freedom. He cast care
to the breeze for he had not lived long enough to know that the
discontent which is the birthright of the children of Adam is not
dependent on circumstances, but often attains most baleful activity when
events seem least likely to harass the spirit. It was the morning of
life and of love, and the obscurity in which youth walks is no dull haze
but a golden glamour.

In one old form of the creation story is told the first utterance of
Nature, the cry of chaos, "Let love be!" Through what inspiration of
wisdom it comes to us out of the silence we do not know, but feel that
the earlier tale of a divine mandate, "Light be!" is not at variance
with it. The cry of chaos lingers in the heart of the race, and each new
man in the morning of his being utters it in no doubt of its fulfilment
in his own destiny. He loves mankind, and would be beloved; he loves
nature, and perceives no relentless purpose in her variable moods; and
perhaps most of all he loves his own soul with a love whose
disenchantment is to be the sorest agony that an eternity can afford.

The cry of chaos lingers, and the story of creation is repeated in each