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everywhere. It was in no one assignable thing; it was all within myself; it could not leave me for a single instant."

      If moods like this could be made permanent, and constitutions like these universal, there would never be any occasion for such discourses as the present one. No philosopher would seek to prove articulately that life is worth living, for the fact that it absolutely is so would vouch for itself, and the problem disappear in the vanishing of the question rather than in the coming of anything like a reply. But we are not magicians to make the optimistic temperament universal; and alongside of the deliverances of temperamental optimism concerning life, those of temperamental pessimism always exist, and oppose to them a standing refutation. In what is called 'circular insanity,' phases of melancholy succeed phases of mania, with no outward cause that we can discover; and often enough to one and the same well person life will present incarnate radiance to-day and incarnate dreariness to-morrow, according to the fluctuations of what the older medical books used to call "the concoction of the humors." In the words of the newspaper joke, "it depends on the liver." Rousseau's ill-balanced constitution undergoes a change, and behold him in his latter evil days a prey to melancholy and black delusions of suspicion and fear. Some men seem launched upon the world even from their birth with souls as incapable of happiness as Walt Whitman's was of gloom, and they have left us their messages in even more lasting verse than his,—the exquisite Leopardi, for example; or our own contemporary, James Thomson, in that pathetic book, The City of Dreadful Night, which I think is less well-known than it should be for its literary beauty, simply because men are afraid to quote its words,—they are so gloomy, and at the same time so sincere. In one place the poet describes a congregation gathered to listen to a preacher in a great unillumined cathedral at night. The sermon is too long to quote, but it ends thus:—

      "'O Brothers of sad lives! they are so brief;

      A few short years must bring us all relief:

      Can we not bear these years of laboring breath.

      But if you would not this poor life fulfil,

      Lo, you are free to end it when you will,

      Without the fear of waking after death.'—

      "The organ-like vibrations of his voice

      Thrilled through the vaulted aisles and died away;

      The yearning of the tones which bade rejoice

      Was sad and tender as a requiem lay:

      Our shadowy congregation rested still,

      As brooding on that 'End it when you will.'

*****

      "Our shadowy congregation rested still,

      As musing on that message we had heard,

      And brooding on that 'End it when you will,'

      Perchance awaiting yet some other word;

      When keen as lightning through a muffled sky

      Sprang forth a shrill and lamentable cry;—

      "'The man speaks sooth, alas! the man speaks sooth:

      We have no personal life beyond the grave;

      There is no God; Fate knows nor wrath nor ruth:

      Can I find here the comfort which I crave?

      "'In all eternity I had one chance,

      One few years' term of gracious human life,—

      The splendors of the intellect's advance,

      The sweetness of the home with babes and wife;

      "'The social pleasures with their genial wit;

      The fascination of the worlds of art;

      The glories of the worlds of Nature lit

      By large imagination's glowing heart;

      "'The rapture of mere being, full of health;

      The careless childhood and the ardent youth;

      The strenuous manhood winning various wealth,

      The reverend age serene with life's long truth;

      "'All the sublime prerogatives of Man;

      The storied memories of the times of old,

      The patient tracking of the world's great plan

      Through sequences and changes myriadfold.

      "'This chance was never offered me before;

      For me the infinite past is blank and dumb;

      This chance recurreth never, nevermore;

      Blank, blank for me the infinite To-come.

      "'And this sole chance was frustrate from my birth,

      A mockery, a delusion; and my breath

      Of noble human life upon this earth

      So racks me that I sigh for senseless death.

      "'My wine of life is poison mixed with gall,

      My noonday passes in a nightmare dream,

      I worse than lose the years which are my all:

      What can console me for the loss supreme?

      "'Speak not of comfort where no comfort is,

      Speak not at all: can words make foul things fair!

      Our life 's a cheat, our death a black abyss:

      Hush, and be mute, envisaging despair.'

      "This vehement voice came from the northern aisle,

      Rapid and shrill to its abrupt harsh close;

      And none gave answer for a certain while,

      For words must shrink from these most wordless woes;

      At last the pulpit speaker simply said,

      With humid eyes and thoughtful, drooping head,—

      "'My Brother, my poor Brothers, it is thus:

      This life holds nothing good for us,

      But it ends soon and nevermore can be;

      And we knew nothing of it ere our birth,

      And shall know nothing when consigned to earth;

      I ponder these thoughts, and they comfort me.'"

      "It ends soon, and never more can be," "Lo, you are free to end it when you will,"—these verses flow truthfully from the melancholy Thomson's pen, and are in truth a consolation for all to whom, as to him, the world is far more like a steady den of fear than a continual fountain of delight. That life is not worth living the whole army of suicides declare,—an army whose roll-call, like the famous evening gun of the British army, follows the sun round the world and never terminates. We, too, as we sit here in our comfort, must 'ponder these things' also, for we are of one substance with these suicides, and their life is the life we share. The plainest intellectual integrity,—nay, more, the simplest manliness and honor, forbid us to forget their case.

      "If suddenly," says Mr. Ruskin, "in the midst of the enjoyments of the palate and lightnesses of heart of a London dinner-party, the walls of the chamber were parted, and through their gap the nearest human beings who were famishing and in misery were borne into the midst of the company feasting and fancy free; if, pale from death, horrible in destitution, broken by despair, body by body they were laid upon the soft carpet, one beside the chair of every guest,—would only the crumbs of the dainties be cast to them; would only a passing glance, a passing thought, be vouchsafed to them? Yet the actual facts, the real relation of each Dives and Lazarus, are not altered by the intervention of the house-wall between the table and the sick-bed,—by the few feet of ground (how few!) which are, indeed, all that separate the merriment from the misery."

II

      To come immediately to the heart of my theme, then, what I propose is to imagine ourselves reasoning with a fellow-mortal who is on such terms with life that the only comfort

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