is forced by his passions to become the abject slave of his
instincts, whereas the sage's passions will end by illumining much
that was vague in his consciousness. To love madly, perhaps, is not
wise; still, should he love madly, more wisdom will doubtless come
to him than if he had always loved wisely. It is not wisdom, but the
most useless form of pride that can flourish in vacancy and inertia.
It is not enough to know what should be done, not though we can
unerringly declare what saint or hero would do. Such things a book
can teach in a day. It is not enough to intend to live a noble life
and then retire to a cell, there to brood over this intention. No
wisdom thus acquired can truly guide or beautify the soul; it is of
as little avail as the counsels that others can offer. "It is in the
silence that follows the storm," says a Hindu proverb, "and not in
the silence before it, that we should search for the budding
flower."

88. The earnest wayfarer along the paths of life does but become the
more deeply convinced, as his travels extend, of the beauty, the
wisdom, and truth of the simplest and humblest laws of existence.
Their uniformity, the mere fact of their being so general, such
matter of every day, are in themselves enough to compel his
admiration. And little by little he holds the abnormal ever less
highly, and neither seeks nor desires it; for it is soon borne home
to him, as he reflects on the vastness of nature, with her slow,
monotonous movement, that the ridiculous pretensions our ignorance
and vanity put forth are the most truly abnormal of all. He no
longer vexes the hours as they pass with prayer for strange or
marvellous adventure; for these come only to such as have not yet
learned to have faith in life and themselves. He no longer awaits,
with folded arms, the chance for superhuman effort; for he feels