may be dragged through the streets in chains,
and yet retain the quiet soul of a philosopher,
as was well seen in the person of Epictetus. A
man may have every worldly prize in his possession,
and stand absolute master of his
personal fate, to all appearance, and yet he
knows no peace, no certainty, because he is
shaken within himself by every tide of thought
that he touches on. And these changing tides
do not merely sweep the man bodily hither
and thither like drift-wood on the water; that
would be nothing. They enter into the gate-ways
of his soul, and wash over that soul and
make it blind and blank and void of all permanent
intelligence so that passing impressions
affect it.

To make my meaning plainer I will use an
illustration. Take an author at his writing, a
painter at his canvas, a composer listening to
the melodies that dawn upon his glad imagination;
let any one of these workers pass his daily
hours by a wide window looking on a busy
street. The power of the animating life blinds
sight and hearing alike, and the great traffic of
the city goes by like nothing but a passing
pageant. But a man whose mind is empty,
whose day is objectless, sitting at that same
window, notes the passers-by and remembers
the faces that chance to please or interest him.