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 from the darkness. But little by little his eyes
grew accustomed to his new abode. He wandered through room after
room, and rejoiced as profoundly at all that his torch left in