and a
purpose in the secular sweep of destiny; yet knew all the while that
Purpose was as anthropomorphic a conception of the essence of things
as justice or goodness. But the world without God was a beautiful,
heartless woman--cold, irresponsive. He needed the flash of soul. He
had experimented in Nature--as color, form, mystery--what had he not
experimented in? But there was a want, a void. He had loved Nature,
had come very near finding peace in the earth-passion, in the
intoxicating smell of grass and flowers, in the scent and sound of the
sea, in the rapture of striking through the cold, salt waves, tossing
green and white-flecked; ill exchanged for any heaven. But the passion
always faded and the old hunger for God came back.

He had found temporary peace with Spinoza's God: the eternal
infinite-sided Being, of whom all the starry infinities were but one
poor expression, and to love whom did not imply being loved in return.
'Twas magnificent to be lifted up in worship of that supernal
splendor. But the splendor froze, not scorched. He wanted the eternal
Being to be conscious of his existence; nay, to send him a whisper
that He was not a metaphysical figment. Otherwise he found himself
saying what Voltaire has made Spinoza say: "Je crois, entre nous, que
vous n'existez pas." Obedience? Worship? He could have prostrated
himself for hours on the flags, worn out his knees in prayer. O
Luther, O Galileo, enemies of the human race! How wise of the Church
to burn infidels, who would burn down the spirit's home--the home warm
with the love and treasures of the generations--and leave the poor
human soul naked and shivering amid the cold countless worlds. O
Napoleon, arch-fiend, who, opening the Ghettos, where the Jews
crouched in narrow joy over the Sabbath fire, let in upon them the
weight of the universe.

_And an ox came and drank the water, which had extinguished the fire,
which had burnt the staff, which had smitten the dog, which had bitten
the cat, which had devoured the kid, which my father bought for two
zuzim. Chad Gadya! Chad Gadya!_

In Vienna, whence he had come, an Israelite, on whom the modern
universe pressed, yet dreamed the old dream of a Jewish State--a
modern State, incarnation of all the great principles won by the
travail of the ages. The chameleon of races should show a specific
color: a Jewish art, a Jewish architecture would be born, who knew?
But he, who had worked for Mazzini, who had seen hi