within that realm, where disaster ever will rule. Some stricken ones
there will always be, victims to irreducible injustice; and yet will
the true wisdom, in the midst of its sorrow, only be fortified
thereby, only gain in self-reliance and humanity all that it, may
lose in more mystic qualities. We become truly just only when it is
finally borne home to us that we must search within ourselves for
our model of justice. Again, it is the injustice of destiny that
restores man to his place in the universe. It is not well that he
should for ever be pasting anxious glances about him, like the child
that has strayed from its mother's side. Nor need we believe that
these disillusions must necessarily give rise to moral
discouragement; for the truth that seems discouraging does in
reality only transform the courage of those strong enough to accept
it; and, in any event, a truth that disheartens, because it is true,
is still of far more value than the most stimulating of falsehoods.
But indeed no truth can discourage, whereas much that passes as
courage only bears the semblance thereof. The thing that enfeebles
the weak will but help to strengthen the strong. "Do you remember
the day," wrote a woman to her lover, "when we sat together by the
window that looked on to the sea, and watched the meek procession of
white-sailed ships as they followed each other into harbour? . . .
Ah! how that day comes back to me! . . . Do you remember that one
ship had a sail that was nearly black, and that she was the last to
come in? And do you remember, too, that the hour of separation was
upon us, and that the arrival of the last boat of all was to be our
signal for departure? We might perhaps have found cause for sadness
in the gloomy sail that fluttered at her mast; but we who loved each
other had 'accepted' life, and we only smiled as we once more
recognised the kinship of our thoughts." Yes, it is thus we should
act; and though we cannot always smile as the black sail heaves in