Dissatisfied with his emotions he desires a deeper waking, longs for a
greater beauty, is troubled with the stirring in his bosom of an unknown
ideal of Nature. Nor is it an ideal of Nature alone that is forming
within him. A far more precious thing, a human ideal namely, is in his
soul, gathering to itself shape and consistency. The wind that at night
fills him with sadness--he cannot tell why, in the daytime haunts him
like a wild consciousness of strength which has neither difficulty nor
danger enough to spend itself upon. He would be a champion of the weak,
a friend to the great; for both he would fight--a merciless foe to every
oppressor of his kind. He would be rich that he might help, strong that
he might rescue, brave--that he counts himself already, for he has not
proved his own weakness. In the first encounter he fails, and the bitter
cup of shame and confusion of face, wholesome and saving, is handed him
from the well of life. He is not yet capable of understanding that one
such as he, filled with the glory and not the duty of victory, could not
but fail, and therefore ought to fail; but his dismay and chagrin are
soothed by the forgetfulness the days and nights bring, gently wiping
out the sins that are past, that the young life may have a fresh chance,
as we say, and begin again unburdened by the weight of a too much
present failure.
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