The strain of pessimism in this is even more marked than in Thompson's "Anthem"; and indeed it is hard to deny that the resolute silence of the "Veiled Being," the "Invisible King," and all the Gods and godlings ever propounded to mortal piety, is one of their most suspicious characteristics. Yet it may be that this reproach, however natural, does the Veiled Being--or the Younger Power of our alternative myth--a measure of injustice. It may be that the great Dramaturge keeps his plot to himself precisely in order that the interest may be maintained up to the fall of the curtain. It may be that its disclosure would upset the conditions of some vast experiment which he is working out. Where would be the interest of a race if its result were a foregone conclusion? Where the passion of a battle if its issue were foreknown? What if we should prove to be somnambulists treading some dizzy edge between two abysses, and able to reach the goal only on condition that we are unconscious of the process? Perhaps the sanest view of the problem is that presented in Bliss Carman's haunting poem THE JUGGLER Look how he throws them up and up, The beautiful golden balls! They hang aloft in the purple air, And there never is one that falls. He sends them hot from his steady hand, He teaches them all their curves; And whether the reach be little or long, There never is one that swerves. Some, like the tiny red one there, He never lets go far; And some he has sent to the roof of the tent To swim without a jar. So white and still they seem to hang, You wonder if he forgot To reckon the time of their return And measure their golden lot. Can it be that, hurried or tired out, The hand of the juggler shook? O never you fear, his eye is clear, He knows them all like a book. And they will home to his hand at last, For he pulls them by a cord Finer than silk and strong as fate, That is just the bid of his word. Was ever there such a sight in the world? Like a wonderful winding skein,-- The way he tangles them up together And ravels them out again! * * * * * If I could have him at the inn All by myself some night,-- Inquire his country, and where in the world He came by that cunning sleight! Where do you guess he learned the trick To hold us gaping here, Till our minds in the spell of his maze almost Have forgotten the time of year? One never could have the least idea. Yet why he disposed to twit A fellow who does such wonderful things With the merest lack of wit? Likely enough, when the show is done And the balls all back in his hand, He'll tell us why he is smiling so, And we shall understand. I am not, perhaps, very firmly assured of this consummation. Yet I am much more hopeful of one day understanding the Juggler and the Balls than of ever getting into confidential relations with Mr. Wells's Invisible King.