Things
of their nature sharply opposed, and yet that are, doubtless,
somehow and somewhere, united and composed and reconciled. It is at
this sad point that many men and most artists stop short. They see
what they love and desire; they emphasise this and rest upon it;
and when the surge of suffering buffets them away, they drown,
bewildered, struggling for breath, complaining.
But for the true man it is otherwise. He is penetrated with the
desire that all should share his joy and be emboldened by it. It
casts a cold shadow over the sunshine, it mars the scent of the
roses, it wails across the cooing of the doves--the sense that
others suffer and toil unhelped; and still more grievous to him is
the thought that, were these duller natures set free from the
galling yoke, their mirth would be evil and hideous, they would
have no inkling of the sweeter and the purer joy. And then, if he
be wise, he tries his hardest, in slow and wearied hours, to
comfort, to interpret, to explain; in much heaviness and dejection
he labours, while all the time, though he knows it not, the sweet
ripple of his thoughts spreads across the stagnant pool.
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