“So the truth of the matter is that a beetle did once get there--right up beyond the stars, but he never carried a man there. Aristophanes said he did, but that was an ætiological myth. He made up the story to account for a prevalent belief that man could rise to higher things.” “That was what the Dear Friend always said,” murmured Mary reflectively. “Cows, and pigs, and men, and fowls can never get up there--only beetles. It’s all kept for them.” “And it’s not what I say,” retorted Thomas sharply. “I’ve got better things to do in my last moments than to waste them in agreeing with anybody. The mistake the man made was not in supposing that he could rise. All beasts can rise, as much as we can. His mistake was in rejecting the supernatural, and thinking that he could be raised only by a beetle. We may have more spirituality than men. That is quite possible: they are a lower organism. We may perhaps find it easier to soar than they do. But I am sure that all are going there, just as we are, beyond the stars.” “That may be true,” said Mary, plucking up a little spirit; “but it certainly was not the opinion of the Dear Friend. Only beetles can rise.” “Do you prefer the opinions of the Dear Friend to absolute truth?” “I do,” said Mary proudly. “Oh, blind and fat of temperament!” [This does not read quite right, but it is a fairly literal translation. There are no polite English words that exactly express the silence which Thomas used on this occasion.] “A few days ago I was down in the grass by the river. It looks sweet and green from here. It grows long, and it makes a pleasant shade above one; but at the roots it’s all mud and muck. That is the way of the world; instead of grumbling at the mud we might just as well be thankful for the grass; however, that’s not my point. The cows came down to drink while I was there. They are nasty, lumpy animals; you can see their slobbering mouths and great yellow teeth as they bend over one to crop the grass. Some beetles get nervous, but I don’t fancy there’s any danger. As one of those brutes stooped down, I looked up and saw right into its eyes. It was like looking into immeasurable distance. They were sad, humble, trustful eyes; but there was something in them which signified the consciousness of a purpose in being. That is my point. A poor devil of a cow! it couldn’t have told any one why it existed, it could not even have put the reason clearly in its own mind; but it _knew_. I am much like the beast. I know, but I cannot say, not even to myself, the reason for my existence. Sometimes I think that if all sounds were in my power, I could get the whole thing out in music. It is a thing which defies ordinary processes and all logical connexion. I see the fading sunlight writing something on the under edge of a cloud; the intellectual part of me cannot read that language, but something else in me reads it, and understands it, and answers it almost piteously. ‘Oh that I might fly away and be at rest!’