sport to do the trick all over again. And here is the vast
inferiority of the things they sell in the shops to the universe: our
great puzzle is never perfectly solved. We come across marvellous
hints, we join line to line and our hearts beat with the rapture of a
great surmise; we follow a certain track and know by sure signs and
signals that we are not mistaken, that we are on the right road; we
are furnished with certain charts which tell us "here there be
water-pools," "here is a waste place," "here a high hill riseth," and
we find as we journey that so it is. But, happily, by the very nature
of the case, we can never put the whole of the picture together, we
can never recover the perfect utterance of the Lost Word, we can
never say "here is the end of all the journey." Man is so made that
all his true delight arises from the contemplation of mystery, and
save by his own frantic and invincible folly, mystery is never taken
from him; it rises within his soul, a well of joy unending.

Hence it is that the consciousness of this mystery, resolved into the
form of art, expresses itself usually (or always) by symbols, by the
part put for the whole. Now and then, as in the case of Dante, as it
was with the great romance-cycle of the Holy Graal, we have a sense
of completeness. With the vision of the Angelic Rose and the sentence
concerning that Love which moves the sun and the other stars there is
the shadow of a catholic survey of all things; and so in a less
degree it is as we read of the translation of Galahad. Still, the
Rose and the Graal are but symbols of the eternal verities, not those
verities themselves in their essences; and in these later days when
we have become clever--with the cleverness of the Performing Pig--it
is a great thing to find the most obscure and broken indications of
the things which really are. There is the true enchantment of true
romance in the Don Quixote--for those who can understand--but it is