them to admirable uses. A feast of the
senses was to him as spiritually precious as a fast might be to one who
only by fasting could attain to higher joys than those of sense. And
this, he would maintain, is a better condition for a human being than
that which renders expedient the plucking out of an eye, the cutting off
of a hand. Joy for Browning means praise and gratitude; and in
recognising the occasions for such praise and thanks let us not wind
ourselves too high. Let us praise God for the little things that are so
considerately fitted to our little human wants and desires. The
morning-stars will sing together without our help; if we must choose our
moment for a _Te Deum_, let it be when we have enjoyed our plate of
cherries. The glorious lamp in the Shah's pavilion lightens other eyes
than mine; but to think that the Shah's goodness has provided slippers
for my feet in my own small chamber, and of the very colour that I most
affect! Nor, in returning thanks, should it cause us trouble that our
best thanks are poor, or even that they are mingled with an alloy of
earthly regards, "mere man's motives--"

Alas, Friend, what was free from this alloy,--
Some smatch thereof,--in best and purest love
Preferred thy earthly father? Dust thou art,
Dust shall be to the end.

Our little human pleasures--do they seem unworthy to meet the eye of
God? That is a question put by distrust and spiritual pride. God gives
each of us His little plot, within which each of us is master. The
question is not what compost, what manure, makes fruitful the soil; we
need not report to the Lord of the soil the history of our manures; let
us treat the ground as seems best, if only we bring sacks to His granary
in autumn. Nay, do not I also tickle the palate of my ass with a
thistle-bunch, so heartening him to do his work?

In _A Pillar at Sebzevah_, Ferishtah-Browning confronts the objection
that he has deposed knowledge and degraded humanity to the rank of an
ass whose highest attainment is to love--what? "Husked lupines, and
belike the feeder's self." The Dervish declares without shrinking the
faith that is in him:--

"Friend," quoth Ferishtah, "all I seem to know
Is--I know nothing save that love I can
Boundlessly, endlessly."

[Illustration]

If there be knowledge it shall vanish away; but charity never faileth.
As for knowledge, the prize is in the process; as gain we must
mistrust it, not as a road to