f as if it and it alone were the only
sensitive things in existence.--That is curious. That it wrongs may
have been wrought by itself; that is fate may have been determined in the
reign of Chaos and Old Night, or ere even cosmic nebulae were born, it
does not dream: if Jill is indifferent or Jack morose,--either is enough
to cause Jack or Jill to curse God and die. Is there some archetypal and
arcanal secret in this the extreme, the supernal egoism of the human
heart?

Of all of which, what is the moral?--Humph! Frankly, I do not know what
is the moral. Only this I see: that each little heart creates its own
little universe: the bee's, the that of its hive and the fields; man's,
that of his earth and the stars. What may be above or beyond the stars,
man no more knows than the bee knows what is beyond the fields. The
heart--be it man's or a bee's--is the centre of its self-made sphere.
Some day, perhaps, man's sphere will extend as far beyond the stars as
today it extends beyond the fields. Then--who knows?--perhaps
unlimited senses and an uncircumcised intellect may find themselves
commensurate with this high-aspiring heart, and an emancipated and
ecstatic Jack unite with a congenial Jill.

That there is a Universe, is apparent; that it is one and complete, we
suppose; that there are in it Jacks and Jills, is indubitable; that these
Jacks and Jills crave mutual support, sympathy, love, friendship,
wifehood, sistership, companionship, brotherhood, is also indubitable.
If therefore the whole scheme of the Universe is not a farce, what does
this craving of Love for Lover mean? And yet,

It is quite impossible to conceive of a Universe of Love, in which all
the claims of Heart and Soul and Senses shall be eternally and infinitely
satisfied? Nevertheless, on this little earth, perhaps

Ill betides the heart that leans overmuch on another. For, alas!
Not even the entire immolation of one heart for another will satisfy that
other.--Indeed, indeed,

In this life, would one seek comfort and solace, one must seek it--in
one's own self, or in one's God. For

Only one of two things can comfort: To put the world under one's feet;
or, to keep a God over one's head: only

He who is "captain of his soul", or he who commits his soul to God, can
rise above fate.

There is a vacuum in every human heart. And the human heart abhors it as
much as nature.

What will fill this cardiac void no mortal to this moment has found