ason
cannot solve the enigmas with which we are confronted; but it must not
be an irrational intuition either, because then it would be
unattainable by a man of high intellectual gifts; and the peace that I
speak of ought to be consistent with any and every
constitution--physical, moral, mental. It must be consistent with
physical weakness, with liability to strong temptations, with an
incisive and penetrating intellectual quality; its essence would be a
sort of vital faith, a unity of the individual heart with the heart of
the world. It would rise like a rock above the sea, like a lighthouse,
where a guarded flame would burn high and steady, however loudly the
surges thundered below upon the reefs, however fiercely the spray was
dashed against the glasses of the casements.

If it is attainable, then it is worth while to do and to suffer
anything to attain it; if it is not attainable, then the best thing is
simply to be as insensible as possible, not to love, not to admire, not
to desire; for all these emotions are channels along which the bitter
streams of suffering can flow.

Prudence bids one close these channels; meanwhile a fainter and remoter
voice, with sweet and thrilling accents, seems to cry to one not to be
afraid, urges one to fling open every avenue by which impassioned
experiences, uplifting thoughts, noble hopes, unselfish desires, may
flow into the soul.

This peace I have seen, or dream that I have seen, in the faces and
voices of certain gracious spirits whom I have known. It seemed to
consist in an unbounded natural gratitude, a sweet simplicity, a
childlike affectionateness, that recognised in suffering the joy of
which it was the shadow, and in desperate catastrophes the hope that
lay behind them.

Such a peace must not be a surrender of anything, a feeble
acquiescence; it must be a strong and eager energy, a thirst for
experience, a large tolerance, a desire to be convinced, a resolute
patience.

It is this and no less that I ask of God.

June 6, 1891.

I had a beautiful walk to-day. I went a short way by train, and
descending at a wayside station, found a little field-path, that led me
past an old, high-gabled, mullioned farmhouse, with all the pleasant
litter of country life about it. Then I passed along some low-lying
meadows, deep in grass, where the birds sang sweetly, muffled in
leaves. The fields there were all full of orchids, purple as wine, and
the gold of buttercups floate