May not that law of being run deeper still? we think
of nature being ever strong, ever young, ever joyful; but may not
the very shadow of sorrow and suffering in the world be the sign
that nature too grows old and weary? May there have been a dim age,
far back beyond history or fable or scientific record, when she,
too, was young and light-hearted? The sorrows of the world are at
present not like the sorrows of age, but the sorrows of maturity.
There is no decrepitude in the world: its heart is restless, vivid,
and hopeful yet; its melancholy is as the melancholy of youth--a
melancholy deeply tinged with beauty; it is full of boundless
visions and eager dreams; though it is thwarted, it believes in its
ultimate triumph; and the growth of humour in the world may be just
the shadow of hard fact falling upon the generous vision, for that
is where humour resides; youth believes glowingly that all things
are possible, but maturity sees that to hope is not to execute, and
acquiesces smilingly in the incongruity between the programme and
the performance.
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