coarsely to that root of selfishness which we are none of us anxious to exhibit. The average fustian-clad man is not too good to envy his neighbor's broadcloth, but he is too good to take comfort in his brother's nakedness. The sight of it may quicken his gratitude, but can hardly increase his happiness. Yet what did Mr. Arnold mean in his poem of Consolation—which is very charming, but not in the least consoling—save that the joys and sorrows of each hour balance themselves in a just proportion, and that the lovers' raptures and the blind robber's pain level the eternal scales. It is not a cheering bit of philosophy, whatever might have been the author's intention, for the very existence of suffering darkens the horizon for thoughtful souls. It would be an insult on the part of the lovers—lovers are odious things at best—to offer their arrogant bliss as indemnification to the wretch for his brimming cup of bitterness; but the vision of his seared eyeballs and sin-laden soul might justly moderate their own expansive felicity. Sorrow has a claim on all mankind, and when the utmost that Mr. Arnold could promise for our consolation was that time, the impartial,
