meditation or prayer on the shore of a gloomy sea. In the sorrow
that floods our heart we have, as it were, a synthetic presentment
of all the days that are gone; and as these were, so shall our
sorrow be poignant, or tender and gentle. If there be in my life no
noble or generous deeds that memory can bring back to me, then, at
the inevitable moment when memory melts into tears, must these
tears, too, be bereft of all that is generous or noble. For tears in
themselves have no colour, that they may the better reflect the past
life of our soul; and this reflection becomes our chastisement or
our reward. There is but one thing that never can turn into
suffering, and that is the good we have done. When we lose one we
love, our bitterest tears are called forth by the memory of hours
when we loved not enough. If we always had smiled on the one who is
gone, there would be no despair in our grief; and some sweetness
would cling to our tears, reminiscent of virtues and happiness. For
our recollections of veritable love--which indeed is the act of
virtue containing all others--call from our eyes the same sweet,
tender tears as those most beautiful hours wherein memory was born.
Sorrow is just, above all; and even as the cast stands ready
awaiting the molten bronze, so is our whole life expectant of the
hour of sorrow, for it is then we receive our wage.

45. Here, standing close to the mightiest pillar of destiny's
throne, we may see once again how restricted her power becomes on
such as surpass her in wisdom. For she is barbarian still, and many
men tower above her. The commonplace life still supplies her with
weapons, which today are old-fashioned and crude. Her mode of
attack, in exterior life, is as it always has been, as it was in
Oedipus' days. She shoots like a blear-eyed bow-man, aiming straight
ahead of her; but if the target be raised somewhat higher than