ated upon Himself, various thoughts separated themselves
and revolved within the atmosphere of His mind, at first unconscious of
themselves or each other. Presently, desire of separate existence awoke in
these shadowy things, a lust of corporeality grew upon them, and hence at
last the fall into physical life, the realisation in concrete form of
their diaphanous individualities. And that original cause of man's
separation from deity, this desire of subdivision, how it has gone on
operating, more and more! We call it differentiation, but the mystic would
describe it as dividing ourselves more and more from God, the primeval
unity in which alone is blessedness. Blake in one of his prophetic books
sings man's 'fall into Division and his resurrection into Unity.' And when
we look about us and consider but the common use of words, how do we find
the mystic's apparently wild fancy illustrated in every section of our
commonplace lives. What do we mean when we speak of 'division' of
interests, 'division' of families, when we say that 'union' is strength,
or how good it is to dwell together in 'unity,' or speak of lives 'made
one'? Are we not unwittingly expressing the unconscious yearning of the
fractions to merge once more in the sweet kinship of the unit, of the
ninths and the nine-hundred-and-ninety-ninths of humanity to merge their
differences in the mighty generalisation Man, of man to merge his finite
existence in the mysterious infinite, the undivided, indivisible One, to
'be made one,' as theology phrases it, 'with God'? How the complex life of
our time longs to return to its first happy state of simplicity, we feel
on every hand. What is Socialism but a vast throb of man's desire after
unity? We are overbred. The simple old type of manhood is lost long since
in endless orchidaceous variation. Oh to be simple shepherds, simple
sailors, simple delvers of the soil, to be something complete on our own
account, to be relative to nothing save God and His stars!

THE WOMAN'S HALF-PROFITS

_O ma pauvre Muse! est-ce toi?_

Fame in Athens and Florence took the form of laurel; in London it is
represented by 'Romeikes.' Hyacinth Rondel, the very latest new poet, sat
one evening not long ago in his elegant new chambers, with a cloud of
those pleasant witnesses about him, as charmed by 'the rustle' of their
'loved Apollian leaves' as though they had been veritable laurel or
veritable bank-notes. His rooms were provided with