Only the cold spiritual firmament, unlit by any
guiding stars, unbrightened by the flood of human day, and unshadowed
by the veils of human night, still bends above his head in awful
changelessness, and still his weary feet draw closer to the portals of
the West.
It is very sad and wrong, but it is not altogether his fault; it is
rather a fault of the age, of over-education, of over-striving to be
wise. Cultivate the searching spirit and it will grow and rend you. The
spirit would soar, it would see, but the flesh weighs it down, and
in all flesh there is little light. Yet, at times, brooding on some
unnatural height of Thought, its eyes seem to be opened, and it catches
gleams of terrifying days to come, or perchance, discerns the hopeless
gates of an immeasurable night.
Oh, for that simpler faith which ever recedes farther from the ken of
the cultivated, questioning mind! There alone can peace be found, and
for the foolish who discard it, setting up man's wisdom at a sign, soon
the human lot will be one long fear. Grown scientific and weary with
the weight of knowledge, they will reject their ancient Gods, and no
smug-faced Positivism will bring them consolation.
Pages:
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301