In art, then, a man does his best if, like Goethe, he works his own situation into art for the consolation of gods and men.  His own situation is the only thing he can come near to perceiving; and if he draws it faithfully and beautifully, he consoles and he encourages.  That is the best and noblest thing he can do, if he can express or depict anything which may make other men feel that they are not alone, that others are treading the same path, in sunshine or cloud; anything which may help others to persevere, to desire, to perceive.  The worst sorrows in life are not its losses and misfortunes, but its fears.  And when Goethe said that it was for the consolation of gods as well as of men, he said a sublime thing, for if we believe that God made and loved us, may we not sympathise with Him for our blindness and hopelessness, for all the sad sense of injustice and perplexity that we feel as we stumble on our way; all the accusing cries, all the despairing groans?  Do not such things wound the heart of God?  And if a man can be brave and patient, and trust Him utterly, and bid others trust Him, is He not thereby consoled?

In these dark months, in which I have suffered much, there rises at times in my heart a strong intuition that it is not for nothing that I suffer.  I cannot divine whom it is to benefit, or how it is to benefit any one.  One thing indeed saddens me, and that is to reflect that I have often allowed the record of old sadnesses to heighten my own sense of luxurious tranquillity and security.  Not so will I err again.  I will rather believe that a mighty price is being paid for a mightier joy, that we are not astray in the wilderness out of the way, but that we are rather a great and loving company, guided onward to some far-off city of God, with infinite tenderness, and a love so great that we cannot even comprehend its depth and its intensity.

I sit, as I write, in my quiet room, the fragrant evening air floating in, surrounded by all the beloved familiar things that have made my life sweet, easy, and delightful—­books and pictures, that have brought me so many messages of beauty.  I hear the voice of Maud overhead—­she is telling the children a story, and I hear their voices break out every now and then into eager questions.  Yet in the midst of all this peace and sweetness, I walk in loneliness and gloom, hardly daring, so faithless and despairing I am, to let my heart go out to the love and goodness round me, for fear of losing it all, for fear that those souls I love may be withdrawn from me or I from them.  In this I know that I am sadly and darkly wrong—­the prudent coldness, the fear of sorrow pulls me back; irresolute, cowardly, base!  Yet even so I must trust the Hand that moulded me, and the Will that bade me be, just so and not otherwise.

June 4, 1889.