THE HARMONY OF VIRTUE

I. 1. The Harmony of Virtue19the moth lives in his hour: not even the wind bloweth where itlisteth unless it preserve the boundaries prescribed by Nature.Each is a separate syllable in the grand poem of the universe: itis all so inalterable because it is so perfect. Yes, Tennyson wasright, tho' like most poets, he knew not what he said, when hewrote those lines on the flower in the crannies: if we know whatthe flower is, we know also what God is and what man.Wilson: I begin to catch a glimpse of your drift. But is thereno discordant element in this universal harmony?Keshav: There is. As soon as we come to life, we find thatGod's imagination is no longer unerring; we almost think that hehas reached a conception which it is beyond his power to execute.It is true that there are grand and beautiful lines in the vastepic of life, but others there are so unmusical and discordantthat we can scarcely believe but that Chance was the author ofexistence. The beautiful lines are no doubt wonderful; amongthe insects the peacock-winged butterfly, the light spendthrift ofunclouded hours; the angry wasp, that striped and perilous tigerof the air; the slow murmuring bee, an artist in honey and withthe true artist's indolence outside his art: and then the birds —the tawny eagle shouting his clangorous aspiration against thesun, the cruel shrike, his talons painted in murder; the murmuringdove, robed in the pure and delicate hue of constancy; theinspired skylark with his matin-song descending like a rain offire from the blushing bosom of the dawn. Nay the beasts tooare not without their fine individualities: the fire-eyed lion, thecreeping panther, the shy fawn, the majestic elephant; each fill aline of the great poem and by contrast enhance harmony. Butwhat shall we say of the imaginations that inspire nothing butdisgust, the grub, the jackal, the vulture? And when we come toman, we are half inclined to throw up our theory in despair. Forwe only see a hideous dissonance, a creaking melody, a ghastlyfailure. We see the philosopher wearing a crown of thorns andthe fool robed in purple and fine linen; the artist drudging at adesk and the average driving his quill thro' reams of innocentpaper; we see genius thrust aside into the hedges and stupiditydriving her triumphal chariot on the beaten paths of social existence.Once we might have said that Nature like a novice in