e clear (for is not perfect
clearness most often the sign of decrepitude in the idea?), shall also
go forth, and disturb from its slumber another obscure idea, but
loftier, lovelier far than it had been itself in its sleep; and thus,
it may be, treading gently, one after the other, and never
disheartened, in the midst of those silent ranks--some day, by mere
chance, a small hand, scarce visible yet, shall touch a great truth.

33. Clear ideas and obscure ideas; heart, intellect, will, and reason,
and soul--truly these words that we use do but mean more or less the
same thing: the spiritual riches of man. The soul may well be no more
than the most beautiful desire of our brain, and God Himself be only
the most beautiful desire of our soul. So great is the darkness here
that we can but seek to divide it; and the lines that we trace must be
blacker still than the sections they traverse. Of all the ideals that
are left to us, there is perhaps only one that we still can accept; and
that one is to gain full self-knowledge; but to how great an extent
does this knowledge truly depend on our reason--this knowledge that at
first would appear to depend on our reason alone? Surely he who at last
had succeeded in realising, to the fullest extent, the place that he
filled in the universe--surely he should be better than others, be
wiser and truer, more upright; in a word, be more moral? But can any
man claim, in good faith, to have grasped this relation; and do not the
roots of the most positive morals lie hidden beneath some kind of
mystic unconsciousness? Our most beautiful thought does no more than
pass through our intelligence; and none would imagine that the harvest
must have been reaped in the road because it is seen passing by. When
reason, however precise, sets forth to explore her domain, every step
that she takes is over the border. And yet is it the intellect that
lends the first touches of beauty to thought; the rest lies not wholly
with us; but this rest will not stir into motion until intellect
touches the spring. Reason, the well-beloved daughter of intellect,
must go take her stand on the threshold of our spiritual life, having
first flung open the gates of the prison beneath, where the living,
instinctive forces of being lie captive, asleep. She must wait, with
the lamp in her hand; and her presence alone shall suffice to ward off
from the threshold all that does not yet conform with the nature of
light. Beyond, in t