the heavens must be laughing indeed. In Prometheus the Greek spirit puts
up its daring plea for man. It pleads not for pity merely, but for the
worth of human nature. The strong gods cannot be justified in oppressing
man upon the plea that might is right, and that they may do what they
please. The protest of Prometheus, echoed by Browning's protest of
Ixion, appeals to the conscience of the world as right; and, kindling a
noble Titanism, puts the divine oppressor in the wrong. Finally, there
dawns over the edge of the ominous dark, the same hope that Prometheus
vaguely hinted to the Greek. To him who has understood the story of
Calvary, the ultimate interpretation of all human suffering is divine
love. That which the cross of Prometheus in all its outrageous cruelty
yet hints as in a whisper, the Cross of Christ proclaims to the end of
time, shouting down the centuries from its blood and pain that God is
love, and that in all our affliction He is afflicted.

Another myth of great beauty and far-reaching significance is that of
Medusa. It is peculiarly interesting on account of its double edge, for
it shows us both the high possibilities of ideal beauty and the deepest
depths of pagan horror. Robert Louis Stevenson tells us how, as he hung
between life and death in a flooded river of France, looking around him
in the sunshine and seeing all the lovely landscape, he suddenly felt
the attack of the other side of things. "The devouring element in the
universe had leaped out against me, in this green valley quickened by a
running stream. The bells were all very pretty in their way, but I had
heard some of the hollow notes of _Pan's_ music. Would the wicked river
drag me down by the heels, indeed? and look so beautiful all the time?"
It was in this connection that he gave us that striking and most
suggestive phrase, "The beauty and the terror of the world." It is this
combination of beauty and terror for which the myth of Medusa stands. It
finds its meaning in a thousand instances. On the one hand, it is seen