him--who could do the cruelest things; who was so bad that he could
not be permitted to go free among others, and yet he loved plants so
much that if they were put near him he would move quietly among them,
touching this one and that; gazing at them, and acting as if he were
in another world. As we said once before about the spring, so we may
say here about love for the beautiful: it may be covered up with every
thing that is able to keep it down, but _it is always there_.

It is always pleasanter to hear about people and their ways than to
heed advice. But people and their ways often set us good examples; and
we were curious, indeed, if we did not look sharply at ourselves to
see just what we are. From all we have been told about the beautiful
we can at least learn this: that it sweetens life; that it makes even
a common life bright; that if we have it in us it may be as golden
sunlight to some poor one who is in the darkness of ignorance, that is
the advantage and the beauty of all good things in our lives, namely,
the good it may be unto others. And the beautiful music we may sing or
play is not to show what we are or what we can do--it will, of course
do these things--but it is to be a blessing to those who listen. And
how are blessings bestowed? _Out of the heart._

Once there was a nobleman[66] with power and riches. He loved
everything. Learning and art and all had he partaken of. But the times
were troubled in his country, and for some reason he lost all he had
and was imprisoned. Then there was scarcely anything in his life. All
he had was the cell, the prison-yard, and, now and again, a word or
two with his keeper. The cell was small and gloomy, the keeper silent,
the yard confined and so closely paved with cobblestones that one
could scarcely see the earth between them.