It has been found that several tribes in Africa and in America worship the moon, and not the sun; a great number worship both; but no tribes are known to adore the sun, and not the moon.  On her depend the tides; and she is Selene, mother of Herse, bringer of the dews that recurrently irrigate lands where rain is rare.  More than any other companion of earth is she the Measurer.  Early Indo-Germanic languages knew her by that name.  Her metrical phases are the symbol of the order of recurrence.  Constancy in approach and in departure is the reason of her inconstancies.  Juliet will not receive a vow spoken in invocation of the moon; but Juliet did not live to know that love itself has tidal times—­lapses and ebbs which are due to the metrical rule of the interior heart, but which the lover vainly and unkindly attributes to some outward alteration in the beloved.  For man—­except those elect already named—­is hardly aware of periodicity.  The individual man either never learns it fully, or learns it late.  And he learns it so late, because it is a matter of cumulative experience upon which cumulative evidence is long lacking.  It is in the after-part of each life that the law is learnt so definitely as to do away with the hope or fear of continuance.  That young sorrow comes so near to despair is a result of this young ignorance.  So is the early hope of great achievement.  Life seems so long, and its capacity so great, to one who knows nothing of all the intervals it needs must hold—­intervals between aspirations, between actions, pauses as inevitable as the pauses of sleep.  And life looks impossible to the young unfortunate, unaware of the inevitable and unfailing refreshment.  It would be for their peace to learn that there is a tide in the affairs of men, in a sense more subtle—­if it is not too audacious to add a meaning to Shakespeare—­than the phrase was meant to contain.  Their joy is flying away from them on its way home; their life will wax and wane; and if they would be wise, they must wake and rest in its phases, knowing that they are ruled by the law that commands all things—­a sun’s revolutions and the rhythmic pangs of maternity.

DOMUS ANGUSTA

The narrow house is a small human nature compelled to a large human destiny, charged with a fate too great, a history too various, for its slight capacities.  Men have commonly complained of fate; but their complaints have been of the smallness, not of the greatness, of the human lot.  A disproportion—­all in favour of man—­between man and his destiny is one of the things to be taken for granted in literature:  so frequent and so easy is the utterance of the habitual lamentation as to the trouble of a “vain capacity,” so well explained has it ever been.

   Thou hast not half the power to do me harm
   That I have to be hurt,