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 the regions unlit
by her rays, obscure life continues. This troubles her not; indeed,
she is glad. ... She knows that, in the eyes of the God she desires
all that has not yet crossed her arcade of light--be it dream, be it
thought, even act--can add nothing to, can take nothing from, the
ideal creature she is craving to mould. She watches the flame of her
lamp; needs must it burn brightly, and remain at its post, and be
seen from afar. She listens, untroubled, to the murmur of inferior
instincts out there in the darkness. But the prisoners slowly awake;
there are some who draw nigh to the threshold, and their radiance is
greater than hers. There flows from them a light less material,
softer and purer than that of the bold, hard flame which her hand
protects. They are the inscrutable powers of goodness and love; and
others follow behind, more mysterious still, and more infinite,
seeking admission. What shall she do? If, at the time that she took
her stand there on the threshold, she had still lacked the courage
to learn that she could not exist alone, then will she be troubled,
afraid; she will make fast the gates; and should these be ever
reopened, she would find only quivering cinders at the foot of the
gloomy stairs. But if her strength be unshaken; if from all that she
could not learn she has learned, at least, that in light there can
never be danger, and that reason itself may be freely staked where
greater brightness prevails--then shall ineffable changes take place