t 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 sight, yet is it
possible for us to find in our life something that shall absorb us to
the exclusion of sadness, as her love absorbed the woman whose words I
have quoted. Complaints of injustice grow less frequent as the brain
and the heart expand. It is well to remind ourselves that in this
world, whose fruit we are, all that concerns us must necessarily be
more conformable with our existence than the most beneficent law of our
imagination. The time has arrived perhaps when man must learn to place
the centre of his joys and pride elsewhere than within himself. As this
idea takes firmer root within us, so do we become more conscious of our
helplessness beneath its overwhelming force; yet is it at the same time
borne home to us that of this force we ourselves form part; and even as
we writhe beneath it, we are compelled to admire, as the youthful
Telemachus admired the power of his father's ar