Set sail for that isle of mystery,
Or a whisper of apology
From our mute, malign marooner.

The strain of pessimism in this is even more marked than in Thompson's
"Anthem"; and indeed it is hard to deny that the resolute silence of
the "Veiled Being," the "Invisible King," and all the Gods and
godlings ever propounded to mortal piety, is one of their most
suspicious characteristics. Yet it may be that this reproach, however
natural, does the Veiled Being--or the Younger Power of our
alternative myth--a measure of injustice. It may be that the great
Dramaturge keeps his plot to himself precisely in order that the
interest may be maintained up to the fall of the curtain. It may be
that its disclosure would upset the conditions of some vast experiment
which he is working out. Where would be the interest of a race if its
result were a foregone conclusion? Where the passion of a battle if
its issue were foreknown? What if we should prove to be somnambulists
treading some dizzy edge between two abysses, and able to reach the
goal only on condition that we are unconscious of the process? Perhaps
the sanest view of the problem is that presented in Bliss Carman's
haunting poem

THE JUGGLER

Look how he throws them up and up,
The beautiful golden balls!
They hang aloft in the purple air,
And there never is one that falls.

He sends them hot from his steady hand,
He teaches them all their curves;
And whether the reach be little or long,
There never is one that swerves.

Some, like the tiny red one there,
He never lets go far;
And some he has sent to the roof of the tent
To swim without a jar.

So white and still they seem to hang,
You wonder if he forgot
To reckon the time of their return
And measure their golden lot.

Can it be that, hurried or tired out,
The hand of the juggler shook?
O never you fear, his eye is clear,
He knows them all like a book.

And they will home to his hand at last,
For he pulls them by a cord
Finer than silk and strong as fate,
That is just the bid of his word.

Was ever there such a sight in the world?
Like a wonderful winding skein,--
The way he tangles them up together
And ravels them out again!

* * * * *

If I could have him at the inn
All by myself some night,--
Inquire his country, and where in the world
He came by that cunning sleight!

Where do you guess he lear