ption of a superhuman fortitude accords but ill with scientific
truth, for if with one bound every man may become as God, he will
despise that infinitely slow upward progression which is the only real
advance. But, above all, it lives estranged from tenderness, in which
alone at certain hours of torment the distracted mind finds God's face
reflected. It preaches renunciation of all vain aversions and desires;
but it repels sweet impulses that are not vain. By exalting apathy in
regard to personal suffering, it becomes insensible to others' pain
also. In the conviction that appeals for sympathy are avowals of
unworthiness, it will have no part in the love of comrades, and it never
discovered the truth that the strength and the compassion of the Divine
are one perfection.

There is a favourite mediaeval legend depicted in one of the windows of
the cathedral at Bourges, which exposes in a characteristic fashion this
weakness of the Stoic's creed. The Evangelist St John, when at Ephesus,
remarked in the forum the philosopher Cratinus giving a lesson of
abnegation to certain rich young men. At the teacher's bidding the
youths had converted all their wealth into precious stones, and these
they were now bidden crush to dust with a heavy hammer in the presence
of the assembled people, that so they might make public profession of
their contempt for riches. But St John was angered at so wasteful a
renunciation. "It is written," he said, "that whoso would be perfect
should not destroy his possessions, but sell them, and give the proceeds
to the poor." "If your master is the true God," replied Cratinus
scornfully, "restore these gems again to their original form, and then
they shall be bestowed according to your desire." St John prayed, and
the precious stones lay there once more perfect in all their brilliance
and splendour. The moral of the old tale is clear--that all virtue
without charity is nothing worth; and that of virtue without charity,
the Stoic's cold renunciation is the chief type and ensample.

The insight into this higher truth did not come by inspiration, but was
gradually imparted during long summer days, when I wandered from dawn to
dark among the fields and woods. Hoping at first no more than to tire
the mind with the body and so win a whole repose, I became by degrees
receptive of a new learning from nature, which created new sympathies
and kindled fresh ambitions. Naturally I again read Wordsworth, and now
for