“Ah, if the violence of fate snatch thee from me, thou half of my soul, how can I, the other half, still linger here?” So wrote the old cynical, worldly, Latin poet of his friend—­that poet whom, for all his deftness and grace, we are apt to accuse of a certain mundane heartlessness, though once or twice there flickers up a sharp flame from the comfortable warmth of the pile.  Had he the secret hidden in his heart all the time?  If one could dream of a nearness like that, which doubts nothing, and questions nothing, but which teaches the soul to move in as unconscious a unison with another soul as one’s two eyes move, so that the brain cannot distinguish between the impressions of each, would not that be worth the loss of all that we hold most sweet?  We pay a price for our qualities; the thistle cannot become the vine, or the oak the rose, by admiration or desire.  But we need not doubt of the divine alchemy that gives good gifts to others, and denies them to ourselves.  And thus I can gratefully own that there are indeed these high mysteries of friendship, and I can be glad to discern them afar off, as the dweller on the high moorland, in the wind-swept farm, can see, far away in the woodland valley, the smoke go up from happy cottage-chimneys, nestled in leaves, and the spire point a hopeful finger up to heaven.  Life would be a poorer thing if we had all that we desired, and it is permitted to hope that if we are faithful with our few things, we may be made rulers over many things!

IV

HUMOUR

There is a pleasant story of a Cambridge undergraduate finding it necessary to expound the four allegorical figures that crown the parapet of Trinity Library.  They are the Learned Muses, as a matter of fact.  “What are those figures, Jack?” said an ardent sister, labouring under the false feminine impression that men like explaining things.  “Those,” said Jack, observing them for the first time in his life—­“those are Faith, Hope, and Charity, of course.”  “Oh! but there are four of them,” said the irrepressible fair one.  “What is the other?” Jack, not to be dismayed, gave a hasty glance; and, observing what may be called philosophical instruments in the hands of the statue, said firmly, “that is Geography.”  It made a charming quaternion.

I have often felt myself that the time has come to raise another figure to the hierarchy of Christian Graces.  Faith, Hope, and Charity, were sufficient in a more elementary and barbarous age; but, now that the world has broadened somewhat, I think an addition to the trio is demanded.  A man may be faithful, hopeful, and charitable, and yet leave much to be desired.  He may be useful, no doubt, with that equipment, but he may also be both tiresome, and even absurd.  The fourth quality that I should like to see raised to the highest rank among Christian graces is the Grace of Humour.