alue, for the light
they throw differs far from the radiance triumphant virtue suffuses;
and thus may we see many things in their differing aspect. There were
surely much joy in the thought that love must invariably triumph; but
greater joy is there still in tearing aside this illusion, am marching
straight on to the truth. "Man has been but too prone," said a
philosopher, whom death carried off too soon--"man has been but too
prone, through all the course of his history, to lodge his dignity
within his errors, and to look upon truth as a thing that depreciated
himself. It may sometimes seem less glorious than illusion, but it has
the advantage of being true. In the whole domain of thought there is
nothing loftier than truth." And there is no bitterness herein, for
indeed to the sage truth can never be bitter. He, too, has had his
longings in the past, has conceived that truth might move mountains,
that a loving act might for ever soften the hearts of men; but to-day
he has learned to prefer that this should not be so. Nor is it
overweening pride that thus has changed him; he does not think himself
more virtuous than the universe; it is his insignificance in the
universe that has been made clear to him. It is no longer for the
spiritual fruit it bears that he tends the love of justice he has found
implanted in his soul, but for the living flowers that spring up within
him, and because of his deep respect for all created things. He has no
curses for the ungrateful friend, nor even for ingratitude itself. He
does not say, "I am better than that man," or "I shall not fall into
that vice." But he is taught by ingratitude that benevolence contains
joys that are greater than those that gratitude can bestow; joys that
are less personal, but more in harmony with life as a whole. He finds
more pleasure in the attempt to understand that which is, than in the
struggle to believe that which he desires. For a long time he has been
like the beggar who was suddenly borne away from his hut and lodged in
a magnificent palace. He awoke and threw uneasy glances about him,
seeking, in that immense hall, for the squalid things he remembered to
have had in his tiny room. Where were the hearth, the bed, the table,
stool, and basin? The humble torch of his vigils still trembled by his
side, but its light could not reach the lofty ceiling. The little wings
of flame threw their feeble flicker on to a pillar close by, which was
all that stood out