f
whom each one is robed in gladness, and wears the garment befitting his
stature. Nor can he desire a happiness more perfect than the happiness
which he possesses, without the desire wherewith he desired at once
bringing fulfilment with it. If I envy with noble envy the happiness of
those who are able to plunge a heavier cup, and more radiant than mine,
there where the great river is brightest, I have, though I know it not,
my excellent share of all that they draw from the river, and my lips
repose by the side of their lips on the rim of the shining cup.

105. It may be remembered perhaps that, before these digressions, we
spoke of a woman whose friend asked her, wonderingly, "Can any man be
worthy of your love?" The same question might have been asked of Emily
Bronte, as indeed of many others; and in this world there are thousands
of souls, of loftiest intention, that do yet forfeit the best years of
love in constant self-interrogation as to the future of their
affections. Nay, more--in the empire of destiny it is to the image of
love that the great mass of complaints and regrets come flocking; the
image of love around which hover sluggish desire, extravagant hope, and
fears engendered of vanity. At root of all this is much pride, and
counterfeit poetry, and falsehood. The soul that is misunderstood is
most often the one that has made the least effort to gain some
knowledge of self. The feeblest ideal, the one that is narrowest,
straitest, most often will thrive on deception and fear, on exaction
and petty contempt. We dread above all lest any should slight, or pass
by unnoticed, the virtues and thoughts, the spiritual beauty, that
exist only in our imagination. It is with merits of this nature as it
is with our material welfare--hope clings most persistently to that
which we probably never shall have the strength to acquire. The cheat
through whose mind some momentary thought of amendment has passed, is
amazed that we offer not instant, surpassing homage to the feeling of
honour that has, for brief space, found shelter within him. But if we
are truly pure, and sincere, and unselfish; if our thoughts soar aloft
of themselves, in all simpleness, high above vanity or instinctive
selfishness, then are we far less concerned than those who are near us
should understand, should approve, or admire. Epictetus, Marcus
Aurelius, Antoninus Pius are not known to have ever complained that men
could not understand them. They hugged