for an instant upon the long ages of animal life upon this globe, one long track of blood, in order to shudder at the cruelty endured.

Is not this struggle of the higher against the lower, whether under the waters of ocean, in preglacial jungles, or in our own hearts, as wonderful and splendid as the conflict of Michael and the host of heaven against the rebellious angels? Surely, yes.

Suppose that man is the highest life in all the universe, suppose that his race and all animal life is doomed to destruction as our planet cools off, is it not better to have endeavored and suffered than never to have endeavored at all? Possibly, somewhere, a memory may live of how the human race rose from bestiality and lust to devotion to beauty, truth, and love. But even if no memory of man shall continue after he has perished, still, throughout the universe, the restless energy that animated him will continue undaunted, making its experiments, striving to change that which is into that which, according to our human judgment, shall be better. Is not this a Divine Spirit, whether it works through visible, tangible, ponderable things, or through spiritual essences; whether it be an archangel or physico-chemical activity that has created the soul of man?

Is not this the aspect of the Trinity that must, as the disciples of Joachim believed, outlive its other aspects, and do most to satisfy the yearning desire of man to find something holy in the universe? May we not all repeat: Credo in Spiritum Sanctum?

ON BEING ILL

THERE are, according to the poet, "four seasons in the mind of man"; and each has its appropriate mood, its range of vision, its philosophy. But, in addition to these four seasons, there are two other categories which shift a man's thoughts, the object of his vision and his philosophy, even more than the change from Spring to Summer or from Autumn to Winter. These other categories are health and sickness. In these two states man beholds two very different worlds; so different are these worlds, that if a man should live in one only, he would know but half the human universe.

Health is the normal state. In it the faculties are in equilibrium and fulfil their obvious duties. Upon it, as if it was a sure foundation, science builds hypotheses and dogmas, and men of action with a turn for literature construct what they call a sane and happy philosophy of life. Health is the condition of life's daily routine. Health accepts life as a matter of course, without

demur, without criticism, almost without appreciation. A healthy man is indifferent to all theories about the universe; one theory is as good as another. He himself is the centre of his universe; and his senses, like so many radii, describe its uttermost bounds.

Suppose the healthy man to be a farmer. Then the prime interests of his life will cluster around his barn, his cowshed and his vegetable garden. His affections embrace his potato hillocks, his purpling cabbages, and the cornpatch, where in July the stately stalks deck their heads with plumes and outdo in parallel symmetry the spears of Velasquez' conquering Spaniards at Breda. Here is his universe house, barn, woodpile, chicken run, pump, orchard and meadows - what to him are the outlying regions beyond the farm limits? How is he concerned with fields and woodland across the county turnpike, with countries over seas, or with the ethereal distances that encompass our solar system? Health has fixed the bourns of his intellectual kingdom. Its axis is in the stable, and all the cloud-capped hypotheses that science with infinite industry has built up concerning what lies between his boundary line and the farthest regions of infinite space, count

for less than the humming of the teakettle or the cackle of the hens. All attempts by Science or Philosophy to shift the central point of his universe to some part of the Milky Way, or to the Absolute, must fail. And yet it is upon the healthy man, upon the reports of his senses, upon the processes of his reason, that science builds its truths, and philosophy its hypotheses.

The business of a healthy man is to live his life; and in order to live it well, he must make himself, so far as he can, a creature of instinct, if possible an automaton. He adores the god of action, because health is, in its manifestations, a mere bundle of activities. Love of action is the patriotism of health. This attitude toward life gives a comfortable sense of snugness, of familiarity, of home, and protects such as adopt it against the vast outer universe that serves, it seems, but to confuse and dismay them. It holds a man's attention fast to the region where he fills his belly, chooses his wife, digs, hoes, drives his cows afield and calls them back to the milking. This attitude is natural, human; it proclaims man's origin. But in the opinion of those who care for unrestricted liberty of speculation and imagining, it deprives the human mind of its noblest birthright. For them it is high