ware
of the other side. I do not think that any of the windings of the dark
wood of which Dante speaks are unknown to me, and there are few tracts
of dreariness that I have not trodden reluctantly. I have had physical
health and much seeming prosperity; but to be acutely sensitive to the
pleasures of happiness and peace is generally to be morbidly sensitive
to the burden of cares. Unhappiness is a subjective thing. As Mrs.
Gummidge so truly said, when she was reminded that other people had
their troubles, "I feel them more." And if I have upheld the duty of
seeking peace, it has been like a preacher who preaches most urgently
against his own bosom-sins. But I am sure of this, that however
impatiently one mourns one's fault and desires to be different, the
secret of growth lies in that very sorrow, perhaps in the seeming
impotence of that sorrow. What one must desire is to learn the truth,
however much one may shudder at it; and the longer that one persists in
one's illusions, the longer is one's learning-time. Is it not a bitter
comfort to know that the truth is there, and that what we believe or do
not believe about it makes no difference at all? Yes, I think it is
a comfort; at all events upon that foundation alone is it possible to
rest.

How far one drifts in thought away from the sweet scene which grows
sweeter every hour. The heat of the day is over now; the breeze curls
on the stream, the shadow of the tower falls far across the water. My
companion rises and smiles, thinking me lost in indolent content; he
hardly guesses how far I have been voyaging

"On strange seas of thought alone."

Does he guess that as I look back over my life, pain has so far
preponderated over happiness that I would not, if I could, live it
again, and that I would not in truth, if I could choose, have lived it
at all? And yet, even so, I recognise that I am glad not to have the
choice, for it would be made in an indolent and timid spirit, and I do
indeed believe that the end is not yet, and that the hour will assuredly
come when I shall rejoice to have lived, and see the meaning even of my
fears.

And then we retrace our way, and like the Lady of Shalott step down into
the boat, to glide along the darkling water-way in the westering light.
Why cannot I speak to my friend of such dark things as these? It would
be better perhaps if I could, and yet no hand can help us to bear our
own burden.

But the dusk comes slowly on, me