But is He mindful of us? That is what the sceptic asks. Is He mindful of life here or anywhere in all this boundless space? We have no ground for supposing (so we are told) that life, if it exists at all elsewhere, in the solar system at least, is any better than it is here? 'Analogy compels us to think,' says M. France, one of the most thoughtful of living writers, 'that our entire solar system is a gehenna where the animal is born for suffering. . . . This alone would suffice to disgust me with the universe.' But M. France is too deep a thinker to abide by such a verdict. There must be something 'behind the veil.' 'Je sens que ces immensites ne sont rien, et qu'enfin, s'il y a quelque chose, ce quelque chose n'est pas ce que nous voyons.' That is it. All these immensities are not 'rien,' but they are assuredly not what we take them to be. They are the veil of the Infinite, behind which we are not permitted to see.

It were the seeing Him, no flesh shall dare.

The very greatness proves our impotence to grasp it, proves the futility of our speculations, and should help us best of all though outwardly so appalling, to stand calm while the snake of unbelief writhes beneath our feet. The unutterable insignificance of man and his little world connotes the infinity which leaves his possibilities as limitless as itself.

Spectrology informs us that the chemical elements of matter are everywhere the same; and in a boundless universe where such unity is manifested there must be conditions similar to those which support life here. It is impossible to doubt, on these grounds alone, that life does exist elsewhere. Were we rashly to assume from scientific data that no form of animal life could obtain except under conditions similar to our own, would not reason rebel at such an inference, on the mere ground that to assume that there is no conscious being in the universe save man, is incomparably more unwarrantable, and in itself incredible?

Admitting, then, the hypothesis of the universal distribution of life, has anyone the hardihood to believe that this is either the best or worst of worlds? Must we not suppose that life exists in every stage of progress, in every state of imperfection, and, conversely, of advancement? Have we still the audacity to believe with the ancient Israelites, or as the Church of Rome believed only three centuries ago, that the universe was made for us, and we its centre? Or must we not believe that - infinity given - the stages and degrees of life are infinite as their conditions? And where is this to stop? There is no halting place for imagination till we reach the ANIMA MUNDI, the infinite and eternal Spirit from which all Being emanates.

The materialist and the sceptic have forcible arguments on their side. They appeal to experience and to common sense, and ask pathetically, yet triumphantly, whether aspiration, however fervid, is a pledge for its validity, 'or does being weary prove that he hath where to rest?' They smile at the flights of poetry and imagination, and love to repeat:

Fools! that so often here Happiness mocked our prayer, I think might make us fear A like event elsewhere;

Make us not fly to dreams, but moderate desire.

But then, if the other view is true, the Elsewhere is not the Here, nor is there any conceivable likeness between the two.

It is not mere repugnance to truths, or speculations rather, which we dread, that makes us shrink from a creed so shallow, so palpably inept, as atheism. There are many sides to our nature, and I see not that reason, doubtless our trustiest guide, has one syllable to utter against our loftiest hopes.

Our higher instincts are just as much a part of us as any that we listen to; and reason, to the end, can never dogmatise with what it is not conversant.