Goethe’s “Contemplation” has created a multitude of little sects aiming at Rest, where is no Rest, falsifying art, the element of which is evolution, not re-production, transformation, not contemplation, and enervating the soul in self-abdicating Brahmanic attempts. For God’s sake let not your Club add one little sect to the fatally existing hundreds! There is nothing to be looked for in life except the uninterrupted fulfilment of Duty, and, not Rest, but consolation and strengthening from Love. There is, not rest, but a promise, a shadowing forth of Rest in Love. Only there must be in Love absolute _trust_; and it is very seldom that this blessing depends on us. The child goes to sleep, a dreamless sleep, with unbounded trust, on the mother’s bosom; but _our_ sleep is a restless one, agitated by sad dreams and alarms. You will smile at my lugubrious turn of mind; but if I was one of _your_ Artists, I would sketch a man on the scaffold going to die for a great Idea, for the cause of Truth, with his eye looking trustfully on a loving woman, whose finger would trustfully and smilingly point out to him the unbounded. Under the sketch I would write, not Rest, but “a Promise of Rest.” Addio: tell me one word about the point of view of your contributors. Ever affectionately yours, JOSEPH MAZZINI. REST. POOR restless heart! still thy lament, Crave not for rest, refusèd still, There is some struggle,—discontent, That stays thy will. Be brave to meet unrest, Nor seek from work release, Clasp struggle close unto thy breast, Until it brings thee peace. Seek not in creed a resting-place From problems that around thee surge, But look doubt bravely in the face, Till truth emerge. Work out the problem of thy life, To no convention chainèd be, Against self-love wage ceaseless strife, And thus be free. Then, if in harmony thou livest, With all that’s in thy nature best, Who “Sleep to his beloved giveth,” Will give thee rest. REST. HIS Mother was a Prince’s child, His Father was a King; There wanted not to that proud lot What power or wealth could bring; Great nobles served him, bending low, Strong captains wrought his will; Fair fortune!—but it wearied him, His spirit thirsted still! For him the glorious music roll’d Of singers, silent long; Grave histories told, in scrolls of old, The strife of right and wrong; For him Philosophy unveil’d Athenian Plato’s lore, Might these not serve to fill a life? Not this! he sigh’d for more!