Oh yet we trust that somehow good To pangs of nature, sins of will, That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not a worm is cloven in vain; Behold, we know not anything. I can but trust that good shall fall So runs my dream: but what am I? LV. The wish, that of the living whole Are God and Nature then at strife, That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, THE LVI. "So careful of the type?" but no. "Thou makest thine appeal to me: I bring to life, I bring to death: Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Who trusted God was love indeed, Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, No more? A monster then, a dream, O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless! TENNYSON, In Memoriam. (By kind permission of LORD TENNYSON.) HESE noble and solemn lines of a great poet sum up in a few words what may be called "the Gospel of Modern Thought." They describe what is the real attitude of most of the thinking and earnest minds of the present generation. On the one hand, the discoveries of science have so far established the universality of law, as to make it impossible for sincere men to retain the faith of their ancestors in dogmas and miracles. On the other, larger views of man and of history have shown that religious sentiment is an essential element of human nature, and that many of our best feelings, such as |